(February 2002) Page 2
More than 7,000 poetic works cataloged.
"A Master. The future of the digital renaissance." - Poetry Now!
"William F. DeVault, known as the "amomancer" is a living legend who will live beyond time, as his words are forever captured by his prolific pen." - Lupi Basil, 'Emotions' Magazine
"Sensuous and intoxicating...William DeVault's poetry burns with romance, mystique and passion. His readers find themselves ablaze with the same insatiable fire found within his creations." - Robin C. Travis, Poetic Voices "The cock's crow of the future of literature." - Richard Russell, The Blue Review
"He leads the cyberspace coffehouses with the virtual reality of his verse." - Bruce Autrey, Poetry Heaven
Twice named "Poet of the Month" by the Incognito Cafe, once each by the Poetry Webring and Fattlands Over 300 publication credits, but doesn't collect clippings...
Quotes of his you may have heard:
the taste of jasmine|
© William F. DeVault
I trace my desire in racing heart and parted lips,
pressed to kiss high hemline of your skirt to flirt
with madness and the scent of warm jasmine,
blooming in your garden to pardon me my hunger
to draw the nectar of the sweetly damned to serve
as a draught of communion wine from a vessel
soft and luxurious with lips that answer back
as I lap the honeyed dew off petals that infiltrate
my soul and cleanse my doubts of purity of purpose.
for in the pleasure I grant you, I am proven
worthy suitor to the surrender already given,
but requiring eternal confirmation in my deeds,
needs alone not proving this ardent beau's duty.
I will drink until you, who holds the chalice
encased in form warm and wondrous, calls stop
and bids me enter into heaven with her blessing.
the sound of soft fingertips across the strings of a lute.
strumming the memories. humming the melody of life.
and I am lost in the possibilities of your presence,
pleasant, peasant prayers that lead to the summit
of the mountain in the distance, where legends reign.
kings cannot know this brandywine. princes pass perplexed.
play for me that melody, the one you tried to teach me,
and the fires swam into the sky and I, I was reborn.
I live now, in more than just abstract recollections of a score
a young woman
on the cusp of the silence of yesterday
and the variations of tears and joy to come
will read a dog eared copy of her favorite poet
and he will touch her.
Six thousand miles
The lights flee
Eyes to mind.
The night reigns.
the dream came again last night. silence begging sound
like hunger or thirst begs ambrosia in cup or bowl or mug.
and music swam in like a barefoot Mexican dancer, bound
to the light like the smoke of fires faded as shadows hug
the corners of the stonework spires that pierce the skies
with hard intentions to a softened grace, placed aloft
on legs of granite and marble and brick. the echo dies
and I am left to ponder another feline dancing, soft
and silent. a smile of curious wonder woven in jaws
that already hold me in their web of kiss and word,
culled from the senses sent soaring by your lavender claws
as they approach, the cool stone by warm feet obscured.
and, as always, you charm the night like an eager lover
to your bidding, your laugh catching on the stars that hover.
my heart blossoms and the petals are fragrant
like the wrists of a mistress,
stained and ordained with a perfume prepared
to meet the expectations of a lover.
my heart blossoms and the colours explode
my heart blossoms and all the thorns melt
Original art by Üzeyir
WHO IS ÜZEYIR LOKMAN ÇAYCI?
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI was born in 1949 in Bor, Turkey. He is an interior architect and industrial designer. He has been writing novels and poetry since the age of 14. Many of these have been pubished in various magazines and newspapers, including the National newspaper, "Anatolians". His works have found popular acclaim in the press, in reviews and anthologies. Ümit Yasar OGUZCAN has aroused such interest that he has found himself the centre of attention in key social circles. He published his first Collection of Poetry, "When The Evening Came to its End at Last", in 1975, as well as his own biography, in 1989, both in Turkish.
Yakup YURT, a noteworthy translator-interpreter and author in his own right, hails from Brussels, Belgium. He has devoted his life to the pursuit of the arts and has translated these lovely poems into French. His translations have in turn aroused the attention of the French press, as well as of noteworthy associations. In addition, these same translations have ensured that Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI has been able to pursue his studies in France, what with Yakup Yurt’s support.
The Turkish poet married Neziha in 1995. He has since held several posts, but has been working for the Association for the Continuing Professional Education of Adults, or in French, l'AFPA (l’Association pour la Formation Professionnelle des Adultes).
Biography ranslated from French into English by Richard Vallance, © February 1st, 2002
NOTE from the Editor:
LE JOUR COMMENCE DE NUIT|
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Translated from Turkish to French by Yakup Yurt
(followed by English translation by Richard Vallance)
Aux endroits fréquentés par les crocodiles
Vivent également des paons…
Les coquelicots sont parsemés
Sur les sentiers…
Le soleil naît
Dans nos rêves…
Les reflets poétiques
Ne s’éteignent pas…
Les joies accumulées
Sont contenues en nous.
A son niveau se répand
Les droits ne s’emmêlent pas
A été publié dans :
In the same places crocodiles frequent
Peacocks are also found to live.
Red poppies are strewn
About the forest paths.
The sun is born
in our dreams.
Never flare out.
All our accumulated joys
always stay with us, within sustained.
At its own inimitable level
Every place is distinct, and
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Richard Vallance, Jan 16th, 2002
Les vieux enfants
Au bout de l’insensibilité
Sont ton œuvre …
Ils se tiennent aux crochets
Une génération disparaît
En descendant sans cesse plus bas…
A chaque mouvement de bord
Les évènements à ta droite,
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
A été publié dans :
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
English translation by Richard Vallance)
At the tether of insensitivity,
These are your work -
Born of selfishness,
Each generation slips away
Further and further.
From every sideways glance
Originally published in:
Comments and enquiries (in French if possible) to:
Richard Vallance was born in Guelph, southern Ontario, Canada, on March 11th., 1945, and currently resides in Ottawa, the nations capital. A graduate of Sir Wilfred Laurier University, Waterloon, Ontario (H.B.A. 1968) and the University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario (M.L.S., 1975), Richard is a professional University librarian, now on disability pension. Richards career as a librarian reached its zenith in October, 1983, when he won the prestigious Data Courier Award for Excellence in Online Papers ($1,000 U.S.), in Chicago, Illinois.
However, progressively aggravated alcoholism eventually forced him to retire prematurely, in September, 1991. Fortunately, Richard ceased drinking altogether in 1992, and has been sober now for a decade. While he did write some poetry during his "wet years", alcoholism severely blunted his inspiration. Creativity only truly blossomed in 1995. Since that time, he has written over 1,500 poems, most of them Sonnets, though he also specializes in both Haiku and the stricter, more traditional Japanese Hokku verse form. He has also composed numerous so-called "free verse" poems, and has published one book of poetry:
A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-7-x. [National Library of Canada]
Richard has been published on numerous occasions on some of the worlds best known poetry E-Zines, including, Poetry Life and Times (UK) and Autumn Leaves (USA). He also maintains his own bilingual international E-Zine,
and will soon be the editor of a new international Sonnet E-Zine, Sonnetto Poesia.
Richard is the Poetry Reviewer for Poetry Life and Times. Anyone, who writes poetry for Poetry and Life and Times, is cordially invited to submit any poem of 20 lines or LESS for consideration for review to:
Richard also moderates numerous Poetry Discussion Groups, the most notable of which are: 1. Describe Adonis [Shakespeares Sonnet 53] 120 members. Yahoos largest Sonnet poetry group by far. Here are posted historical sonnets, commentaries on sonnet writing, and sonnets by members:
2. Kawasaki Zen Haiku 90 members. Yahoos 3rd. Largest Haiku-Hokku poetry group, featuring links to historical Haiku Web Sites, examples of historical Haiku by such illustrious composers as Basho, Buson and Issa, and Haiku/Hokku posted by members, in any language they like:
3. Iliassia [Homers Iliad]. 61 members. Discussion group focussing on Homers Iliad, both in the original "Epic" Greek and in translation. Includes a repertoire archive of pictures, paintings, archaeological sites and cartographic information + maps:
My Carousel Home Page is: Poesie's laissez-faire Foire
© Richard Vallance
January 18th., (revised, January 26th.), 2002
Now Botticellis Venus from her shell,
Michelanges hands her laurelled locks quest for.
No legerdemain or Myth, our Eidos ,
 "and I". This is a direct quote from One of my all-time favourite Sonnets, by William Lisle Bowles, "On Hearing Handels Messiah Performed in Gloucester Cathedral" which you may read on the Sonnet Board at:
Or at POST 1881 at Describe Adonis:
Moreover, I have placed these two words, although not in the same verse, in exactly the same position as Lisle Bowles, namely; at the end of the verse, where the phrases effect is at its most striking.
 "Matthew Arnolds shore". The reference is,
of course, to Matthew Arnolds marevellous,
but distessingly sad masterpiece, Dover Beach,
which I shall post as the second post after my new Sonnet.
It seemed a long, lost way before, behind.
And then I heard thee, whistler in the wood,
coming down dusk’s chiaroscuro blind
my vision failed to see, until when I
saw, real or imagined, out of one eye
your face where you momentarily stood.
Or had we trekked alone our fall’s stone trail
in silence lost on silence where ascends
one’s secret hill, no prattling aspens would
have heard of us, you hear? The heart suspends
a beat, and sets to fluid press a sail
against a forest’s bizarrely green sea.
Now, at winter’s frosts, I by fresh air sense
La luna cubana reluce 
al lado de la orilla,
inflamando la marea
con música que la conduce.
Tres trinos  más del ruiseñor
Quisiera saber, voluble  amante,
No quiero más que este silencio
The moon of Cuba’s shores
Brilliantly in laps
Inflames the tides it scores
With music it conducts.
The nightingale, she trills,
Are you so inconstant
All my hopes have fled and I
Who is this keen & grey eyed wolf?
– Who stalks the crusted night?
Whose teeth are polished out of bones
He’s plucked clear out of flight?
Who’s he? You’d ask?… of me, hired guide?
Who knows if you’ll a’ guess his intentions?
Space? “Whose Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” You?
Also available at Ian's personal web site http://ianthorpe.airtime.co.uk is a free download of this book, some reviews and readers comments showing it is not the heavy, schmaltzy memoir one might expect but a funny, irreverent and entertaining piece of writing.
Winter Solstice Poem|
© Ian Thorpe
The sun's year - journey over
It falls towards its nadir,
In silent darkness a mother waits
For the birth of another year.
A new cycle beginning,
While Tabernacle voices join
For all the pious sermons
The children are still hungry
Days grow longer, warmer,
From Beltane to Samhuinn
And the old Gods raise their voices
So at this winter solstice,
The pool was almost empty. His lean body
cut through the water with easy grace; mine,
stronger, heavier, bulldozed the fluid. We did
not speak or smile on passing, but each
watched covertly, drawn by the difference.
He finished first, hoisted his body easily
to the edge and walked, beautiful, from
my sight, flowing muscles, slightly heaving
chest drawing my gaze. I followed soon,
but not so soon as to appear that I
was led by his departure, or wanted
to be near. In the changing room he stood,
dark skinned, intense face framed in wet curls,
the sculpted muscles of his slim body
contrasting with the whiteness of a towel
as he slowly caressed drops of water
from dark olive skin. Our eyes met, leaped
away, embarrassed but involuntarily
returned to stare as each, with voluptuous
movements performed our private ritual for
another's pleasure, a peacock display,
the prelude to an act of love. Then noise,
footsteps, talk, more swimmers came
to pry and leer; no longer alone we returned
self - conscious to the business of our own
bodies. Pulling clothes on hurriedly
he left, not hesitating, not looking at me,
nothing was said but as he passed,
his fingers brushed my naked shoulder.
Jan Sand in New York
Recently Jan was published by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press, on their latest CD ROM e-book, "A Way With Words (Poetry Real and Surreal), which also includes complete books by Dale Houstman, Sara L. Russell and Keith Gabriel Hendricks. Jan's illustrated book on the CD is called "Wild Figments And Odd Conjectures", which is also sold separately, in a limited-edition "single" CD.
To see an illustrated article about Jan's poems, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.
THAT OLD MAN|
© Jan Sand
He meets me in my morning mirror
Where we orchestrate our shaves.
I wonder why he dogs my day.
He keeps his distance, comes no nearer.
Why doesn't he go away?
Store windows show his pace behind me.
How the Hell did he find me?
I see his face - does it remind me
Of someone that I should know?
In Wintertime I spot his footprints
Back of me in the snow.
I hear him stalking down the halls
Where his coat can brush the walls.
The thought of him simply appalls.
I'm still young, life hardly started.
Will I ever look like that?
Not in years. He looks so thwarted.
Maybe I should stop and chat.
The bird of night
Regurgitates the Sun at dawn
To feed the sky
With bloody light.
Then is gone.
The serpent sea
The stars and Moon, surreptitious,
Mountains lie with hips and shoulders
Will I have a love this year
When candy boxes, flowers,
Trinkets out of hearts appear
Enwrapped by all commercial powers
In papers pink, ribbons red
To persuade reluctant swains
To hopeful smiles, perhaps to bed?
I doubt it. All those hormone pains
Reside in a domain now past.
The chemicals that spur my soul
Are fading very fast.
I anticipate a calmer goal.
Morning coffee, The New York Times,
A brace of buttered toast.
Delight in gossip, the daily crimes.
Of this least, to make the most.
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