(February 2002) Page 2



William F. DeVault

Inventor of the triskadelian canto and 261 (Alishan) poetic forms. Author of "the goldenheart cycles" and the 643-poem "Panther Cycles" Founder and former host of America Online's "Romantic and Erotic Poetry Group" chat. Currently living in California (but not in his beloved Venice Beach).

Birth Place
Greenville, SC USA

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...

Additional Information
A fourth book, "of a forgotten religion" is due this spring. A tour in support of the book is planned, as well as release the release of a CD entitled A M O M A N C E R. Website receives hundreds of visitors daily and contains more than 400 of works. Known for an aversion to slams and most poetry clubs, prefers to read in unusual venues; sports bars, rock concerts, churches. Married to his favorite cover model, Ann-Michelle (from cover of "from an unexpected quarter") Despite the extensive catalog, some of the pieces posted to authorsden will be exclusives (like "shadows in the shade").

Quotes of his you may have heard:
"An honest man cannot be the hero of his memoir."
"The existence of a single atheist does not disprove the existence of God."
"By grief is the shadow granted substance, by pain is the sinner reborn saint."
"A quote is but a tattoo on the tongue."

the taste of jasmine
© William F. DeVault

(for Karla)


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 patchwork skirt of my love
© William F. DeVault

(for Kristina)



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.
and all the bishops seem ignorant of the nature of God
when their ignorance of the crux of creation is displayed,
paraded in the sudden dance of a smiling child by the fire.
and I am lost in the reverent reveries of this revelation.

play for me that melody, the one you tried to teach me,
you tried to reach me with when I despaired of lost love
and the angels and faeries all seemed annoying pinpoints
that pricked and sticked and stole the moment that was mine
and you came for me, barefoot and arrogant, like a poet.

and the fires swam into the sky and I, I was reborn.
torn to pieces and re-assembled like a patchwork skirt
to brush your bare legs in the summer heat and to defeat
the angry winds that would come down from the mountains,
mounting the horses of hoarfrost to charge your charms.

I live now, in more than just abstract recollections of a score
of forgetful lovers who would not give me second thought
were it not for the trinkets of my words they wear as bright badges
as they tell their tales of the pale blue moon of memory.
and they don't wear the patchwork skirt of my love. or play the lute.


A Touch of Heather
© William F. DeVault
(for the nuns at Dundalk)



And tonight
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
from where he wrote the words
and three thousand miles from where he lived them
at the time of their emergence from the stream of thought
into ink to press to paper like lips against flesh.
And they will touch her.

The lights flee
to the touch of the nun marking curfew
and she is left with the pale blue curve of moonlight
as she draws the last syllables across her tongue
like the prayer she recited for her teachers this morning.
And they will touch her.

Eyes to mind.
Mind to heart. Heart to hands that play stand in
for a man she'll never meet face to face, flesh to flesh.
But her hands play second to his absence and she learns,
lessons caught in fingertip expressions of borrowed ardour.
And they touch her.

The night reigns.
And she is lost in the exploration of darkness
that draws her from this place, grey walls on the green land.
Her ragged, hot breaths, played out for an abstract lover
on an island touched not by his feet or hands or eyes.
And he touches her.


cithara song, strummed lightly as the sun leaps the horizon
© William F. DeVault

(for Alisha)



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.


soubrette (my heart blossoms)
© William F. DeVault

(for Ann)



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
in the spectrum of ancient light
caught at the far end of the universe, perceived new
but from the beginning, what always was.

my heart blossoms and all the thorns melt
and run into nothingness, for pain is not regent
in a world where there are the petals and fragrance
of your lips, ripe with emotion and hope.


[email protected]

art by Uzeyir Lokman Cacyci, reduced from actual size of a3
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:
Many thanks to Richard Vallance, who has very kindly given his time in translating Üzeyir's biography and poems from Yakup Yurt's French translations into English, thereby bringing these impressive works to a wider audience online.

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
Des étoiles
Ne s’éteignent pas…
Les joies accumulées
Sont contenues en nous.

A son niveau se répand
La chaleur des relations.
Les fâcheries
Et les introversions
Ne trouvent place dans notre vie.

Les amitiés
Travaillées comme un diamant
Transpercent les pays…
Les beautés respirent
La valeur de l’époque augmente…
On ne parle pas de l’incompréhensibilité
Des hypothèses…

Les droits ne s’emmêlent pas
Les uns dans les autres
On surmonte la nuance des différences…
Et nous courons
En éliminant les doutes
Par nos pensées…

On sait
Que c’est un plaisir
De vivre ainsi …

A été publié dans :
00.10.2001 http://www.multimania.com/pring/caycipoeme6.html


The Day is Born of Night
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Translated from Turkish to French by Yakup Yurt
English translation by Richard Vallance



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.
Poetic reflections
Of stars
Never flare out.
All our accumulated joys
always stay with us, within sustained.

At its own inimitable level
The warmth of our relationships spreads out.
Tiffs arising out of introversion
Have no place in our lives.

Friendships,
Multifaceted like diamonds,
Shine over the Nations' borders.
All that is beautiful breathes.
Our own Age's worth is on the mend.
Let's not waste our time talking in
Hypothetical riddles

Every place is distinct, and
we should not confuse it with another.
We can overcome the nuances of differences.
We run the race
By effacing doubts
In our thoughts.

© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Translation from the French Translation
of the original Turkish free verse
into English free verse **

ADVISORY:
** Readers of Poetry Life and Times, please take careful note of the fact that I do NOT understand Turkish. I can only vouchsame that the English translation I have made is faithful to the spirit and intent of the French text, insofar as this is possible, while at the same time aiming to reassert the marvelous imagery and fluidity of the French verse in the English poems.

Richard Vallance, Jan 16th, 2002


MON PROFESSEUR
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Translated from Turkish to French by Yakup Yurt
English translation by Richard Vallance
)



Les vieux enfants
Au bout de l’insensibilité
Sont ton œuvre …
Ils se tiennent aux crochets
De l’égoïsme
Une génération disparaît
En descendant sans cesse plus bas…

A chaque mouvement de bord
Des vues qui produisent la révolte
Les puces accouchent des dragons
Sous un établi à peine couvert
Le mois de septembre dans leurs yeux
Est un amoncellement de haines
Un foyer pour opportunistes
Un abri anéantissant l’amour
Et …
Un appui
De confiance
Dont l’arrière est un ravin…

Mon professeur
Avant que ne sèche
La source des valeurs…
Approche-toi des vaisseaux capillaires
De la jeunesse…

Approche-toi
Avant qu’une sensibilité éteinte
Ne soit dispersée par le temps.

Je sais
Il y a deux mains à ton col…
Tu n’es pas libre dans ton for intérieur
Pendant que demain souffrant tombe devant toi…

Les évènements à ta droite,
Les secrets qui t’ébranlent à ta gauche
La source des soucis
Ce sont les lendemains
Qui grandissent en toi…
Tes oeuvres, mon professeur
Ne voient pas que toi
Ils ne se voient pas
Eux-mêmes !..

Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Paris – Le 30.04.2001
Traduit par Yakup YURT

A été publié dans :

  1. 00.11.2001 ÇORUMLU 2000 DERGÝSÝ N°32 (TURQUIE)

  2. 00.10.2001 http://www.multimania.com/pring/caycipoeme6.html

My Teacher
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
English translation by Richard Vallance
)


Superannuated children
At the tether of insensitivity,
These are your work -
Born of selfishness,
Each generation slips away
Further and further.

From every sideways glance
Aimed at revolt
Fleas give birth to dragons
And they do it from the underside
Of workbenches only partially covered with tablecloths.
The month of September in their eyes
Piles their up their hatreds day in and day out,
An anteroom for opportunists
A shelter annihilating love
And -
A prop
For confidence,
Whose opposite face falls into a ravine.
My teacher,
Before the wellspring
of your values dries up...
Draw near, and you'll see the capillary vessles
Of youth.
Draw near,
Before the last vestiges of your sensibilities
Are snuffed out, scattered by the winds of Time.
Oh, I know,
No matter what you plea,
Your inner Tribunal doesn't leave you free
So long as tomorrow drops suffering into your lap.
Events fall out on your right,
Secrets shake you up on your left
The source of worrying
Is in every tomorrow
Looming inside you...
Your accomplishments, my dear teacher,
Only see you
They can't see themselves!...


© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
Paris - Le 30.04.2001
Traduit par Yakup YURT en français
French free verse translated into English free verse
by Richard Vallance, 2002
January 16th., 2002

Originally published in:

  1. The Turkish Poetry Journal, ORUMLU 2000 DERGS N32 (TURQUIE. November, 2002
  2. and at this web site, http://www.multimania.com/pring/caycipoeme6.html

Comments and enquiries (in French if possible) to:
[email protected]



RICHARD VALLANCE

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,

Poetry in Emotion la posie smouvoir

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:

[email protected]

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:

Describe_Adonis

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:

Kawasaki_Zen_Haiku

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:

iliassia

My Carousel Home Page is: Poesie's laissez-faire Foire

Moderator:
Describe_Adonis
Kawasaki_Zen_Haiku
and
Jeune_Matelot

PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  • 1. A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, (c) 1998 56 pp. ISBN 1-896243-07-x
  • 2. "À la belle inconnue (Robert Schumann)", in: Arts and Literature Review. Lakehead University. Vol. 1 (3), 1972
  • 3. "Chanson d'Auverge", in: A Ray of Hope. (c) 2000. 257 pp. pg. 129 ISBN 1-58235-559-2
  • 4. "Pow Wow", in: An Hour at Sunrise. (c) 2000. 313 pp. pg. 167 ISBN 1-58253-539-8

    INTERNET:
    Autumn Leaves [May/June, 2001] - and several of his poems will soon appear in Kedco's Millennium Dawn Anthology

  • Hands
    © Richard Vallance
    January 18th., (revised, January 26th.), 2002



    Where Muses graced his hands, blind Homer plays
    on his Danaan lyre, or was this War?
    The strains hes limned have echoed Mans forays
    On seas aflame with rampant Tales of Lore.

    Now Botticellis Venus from her shell,
    One rose, is born to lenify bold waves.
    Shes graced our purblind eyes, her Love shall quell
    Rage as fioritures on architraves

    Michelanges hands her laurelled locks quest for.
    You hear new lyrics, Handels Airs? And I [1]
    Too, who echo you, Matthew Arnolds shore [2],
    no seer am I, though here I hear you sigh.

    No legerdemain or Myth, our Eidos [3],
    Paen pacifies. Was this Heavens loss?


    NOTES:

    [1] "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:

    http://www.sonnets.org/bowles.htm#420

    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.

    [2] "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.
    [3] "Eidos". Ancient Greek poetic and philosophical word, Meaning, to eiyedos (neuter) = that which is seen; the form, shape, figure; a particular sort or kind; a particular state or plan of action, from the verb: eido = (active) to see; to know, behold eidomai = (middle & passive voices) to be seen; appear, seem


    Listeners
    © Richard Vallance



    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
    How your brisk hair had caught this forests’ scents!


    La Luna Cubana
    © el 10 de noviembre, 1997 por Richard Vallance



    La luna cubana reluce [1]
    al lado de la orilla,
    inflamando la marea
    con música que la conduce.

    Tres trinos [2] más del ruiseñor
    se cuelan [3] por altos declives [4]
    de las montañas tranquilas, alrededor
    de la senda que en silencio sigues.

    Quisiera saber, voluble [5] amante,
    como pudiste renunciarme
    sin espera y jadeante!
    No creí que pudieras dejarme!

    No quiero más que este silencio
    entre los álamos temblones [6]
    en la cima del precipicio
    llorando de tristes canciones.


    Vocabulario/ Vocabulary:

    [1] reluce = shines, glows
    [2] “trinos” = warbles, warblings
    [3] “se cuelan” = filter, trickle
    [4] “declives” = declivities, descents
    [5] “voluble” = inconstant
    [6] “álamos temblones” = trembling aspens

    The Moon of Cuba’s Shores
    Translation into English by Richard Vallance
    Jan 26th 2002



    The moon of Cuba’s shores
    Brilliantly in laps
    Inflames the tides it scores
    With music it conducts.

    The nightingale, she trills,
    Where three of them descend
    Our quiet, trickling hills
    As your path maps to mine.

    Are you so inconstant
    You’d take flight of me?
    Believe it? No, I can’t.
    I see you’ve sped over sea.

    All my hopes have fled and I
    Know silence merely on
    A cliff’s face never dry
    Of rains as I of tears.


    WOLF!
    © Richard Vallance 1998 Revised Jan 27th 2002



    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?
    No, as you peer back weakly into snows,
    drifters in silence between angling spruce,
    Don’t ask me again? I’ll snap back, “Who knows?”

    Who knows if you’ll a’ guess his intentions?
    Who knows if we’d a figure ‘im out? Who
    hoots down down out of snowspruce boughs?
    Who wildly calls whose wild name out of blue

    Space? “Whose Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” You?
    “Never Cry Wolf!” He’ll gobble you too. Ooouuuu.


    [email protected]



    IAN THORPE

    Ian Thorpe was born in Manchester, England in 1948 but brought up from an early age in the rural county, Shropshire. He opted not to go into further education in the conventional style but eventually finished up with a qualification in Sociology, which he says he has never found any use for, and a rather varied career including spells working in the construction industry, as a clerk, salesman, truck driver, house - painter, a market trader and having a couple of spells travelling in the USA and Europe before the responsibilities of marriage manoeuvred him into a career in Information Technology. Ian had always cherished an ambition to be an author and when a serious brain haemorrhage ended his career at the age of 49 and the consequent paralysis inhibited his ability to "rush around like an idiot" (at the time of the illness he was commuting weekly to a contract in Stockholm) it seemed an opportunity to pick up his writing which had been pushed aside due to career and family demands for over ten years. Things started well when there was almost immediate interest in his first novel Schlock's but he now finds himself involved in a Sherlock - Holmes style mystery "The Case of the Disappearing Literary Agent." The memoir of recovery Ian swore he would never write, "A Stroke of Luck" will now be published by Kedco Artists Profiles in a forthcoming anthology and Ian has recently put a humour e-zine online at

    www.geocities.com/headbuttmag/index1.html

    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,
    The old gods foreknow.
    Deep - cold in earth seeds sleep
    But feel the energy flow

    While Tabernacle voices join
    To proselytise hypocrisy,
    Sing of betrayed salvations,
    Hopes reborn in deceit,

    For all the pious sermons
    Only preserve the status - quo
    And mysteries mask the meaning
    Of myths nailed to a cross

    The children are still hungry
    The despairing still alone
    Peacemakers work with guns and bombs
    While the meek inherit pain

    Days grow longer, warmer,
    In the path of the eightfold - year
    Timeless rhythms weave the colours
    That joyful summer will wear.

    From Beltane to Samhuinn
    Seasons whirl in their dance
    Timeless rhythms of the cosmos
    Hypnotize and enchant.

    And the old Gods raise their voices
    As the cycle nears its end
    Unless we acknowledge mistakes
    It may not be born again.

    So at this winter solstice,
    Join hands and hearts in love,
    Let temples remain dark, empty
    and cold, look within for truth.


    ABERRATION
    © Ian Thorpe



    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

    JAN SAND, poet and illustrator from New York, is a regular contributor to Poetry Life & Times and the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments. A great deal of his work is about animals, or science fiction.

    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.


    ANAMISTIC PARANOIA
    © Jan Sand



    The bird of night
    Devours sunsets,
    Regurgitates the Sun at dawn
    To feed the sky
    With bloody light.
    Then is gone.

    The serpent sea
    Roils its scales,
    Spits flying fish,
    Dolphins and whales,
    Waltzes in to polish beaches
    Catching clouds, the blue of sky
    Wherever foaming wetness reaches,
    Then retreats as if it fails,
    An endless tireless busyness
    With patience of a Sisyphus.

    The stars and Moon, surreptitious,
    Peer down at us
    From blackest space.
    We're a puzzle, they're suspicious.
    A most confusing human race.
    We fight, we love, we manufacture,
    Fill the Earth with clacking widgets.
    Then, in fury, flail and fracture
    With motives out of mental midgets.
    Are we worthwhile, or a disgrace?

    Mountains lie with hips and shoulders
    Breaking up the line of sky
    Outlined in bushes, trees and boulders,
    Sleeping now, complete, quiescent.
    To them we are evanescent,
    Fragile as a passing fly.
    But when they waken from their dream,
    Scream with fiery rocks and steam,
    Lava vomiting like Hell
    Arising in a molten stream
    No human force could change or quell,
    The fury of the Earth released
    Reveals the liberated Beast.


    UNFRENETIC FEBRUARY
    © Jan Sand February 2002



    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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