(February 2002) Page 2
(February 2002) Page 2
Birth Place 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
Quotes of his you may have heard: |
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 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
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
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
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 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:
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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
Les amitiés
Les droits ne s’emmêlent pas
On sait
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. Poetic reflections Of stars Never flare out. All our accumulated joys always stay with us, within sustained.
At its own inimitable level
Friendships,
Every place is distinct, and
© Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI
ADVISORY: Richard Vallance, Jan 16th, 2002
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
Mon professeur
Approche-toi
Je sais
Les évènements à ta droite,
Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI A été publié dans :
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
Originally published in:
Comments and enquiries (in French if possible) to: [email protected]
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 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: 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
Moderator:
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
INTERNET:
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Hands © 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 [3],
[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.
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 [1] al lado de la orilla, inflamando la marea con música que la conduce.
Tres trinos [2] más del ruiseñor
Quisiera saber, voluble [5] 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?
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 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,
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.
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 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.
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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 Devours sunsets, 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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