(January 2002) Page 2

RICHARD VALLANCE was born on March 11, 1945 in Guelph, Ontario Canada. He was raised on the Naval Base, H.M.C.S. Cornwallis, on the Western shore of the Province of Nova Scotia in the Maritimes. After traversing the beautiful Bay of Fundy many times during his childhood, he became addicted to the sea. When Richard was 10 his family moved to Stratford-upon-Avon, in southern Ontario, sister city to her namesake in both England and in the United States. The new Shakespearian Theatre was constructed there in 1953. He then went on to high school and graduated from Grade 13 with flying colours, taking the Ontario Scholarship Award for his school. Then he went on to earn an Honours B.A. at Sir Wilfred Laurier University (1968), and a Master of Library Science degree at the University of Western Ontario, London (1975). After that he worked for several years as a Reference Librarian, first at Sudbury Public Library, then Alqonquin College of Arts and Technology (Ottawa), and finally, the University of Ottawa. Alcoholism forced Richard to retire on long-term disability, ten years ago, at the age of 47. He says this is the best thing that could have happened: "I stopped drinking cold turkey on March 25th., 1992, and have never looked back since.... Before age 47, I might have composed about 200 poems. Since that age, I have written at least another 1,500, of which about 1,000 are sonnets. It seems I just don't know when to stop! Oh well, there are always late bloomers in life. I guess I'm one of them." He now enjoys a happy, long-term relationship with his boyfriend, Louis-Dominique Genest, who was born in Sherbrooke, Quebec, on April 11, 1950. They have been together for four years. 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 [also in CD] and in another journal, which I am not yet at liberty to disclose. Yahoo Groups: Describe Adonis le jeune matelot Kawasaki_Zen_Haiku and co-moderator, along with Scotty Snow at: Narcissus Reflects UK Smart Groups: Wil Shakespeare and Pierre de Ronsard - Across la Manche Illiassia - Homer's Iliad - Smart Groups (UK)

The Aztec Shawl © Richard Vallance 1974 There's a certain magnificence on which our thoughts as threads are spun, in a pattern interwoven to form an Aztec frieze, ancient, whose meaning almost escapes one, intricate almost hallowed in this image drawn deftly to the eye. FROM: Vallance, Richard. A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems. Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 54 pp. ISBN 1-896243-07-x pg. 49 XLIII The woof of love is on a distaff wound © Richard Vallance The woof of love is on a distaff wound, on which your hands spin roundly sable round this glittered spindles whizzing, lyre-like sound that sings in Eleusynians to my soul psalms whose lyrics go playing out so low that I, observant how you deftly weave with eyes seem to sense too with eyes you grieve with Earth's best shades a once unspun spun woe. And if I listen closer still, my eyes discern - whats left unseen in tracery on one skein - a certain hesitation cries out for rapt attention, and's sure to find a sympathetic smile where I meet yours, positioned by this presence patterns bind. les Neiges astrales © Richard Vallance le 18 et le 21 décembre, 2001 À n'écouter que le ruissellement des neiges astrales, je n'ai qu'à reposer si près de la vitrine qui donne sur les sapins d'où s'élancent mille rafales à hurler leurs échos aux louves vers ma cabine. Si la nuit le péril m'énerve? - qu'est-ce, je n'en sais plus! Va! - les hiboux vairs qui ce pendant mugissent aux funérailles, me cherchent noise d'autant peu que la meute sauvage m'émeut de cris d'autant. Entends-tu à l'éveil la fuite des passereaux vers l'aube aux neiges lunaires, qui ne te laissent rêver que d'orages glacés, alors qu'ils soient trépassés? Eux, les anciens aux toujours verts, s'élèvent aux cimes d'où leur montagnard, l'aigle chauve sauvage, flambeau enrayonné à l'ermitage survole l'abîme. Translation into English linear prose: Star Snows © Richard Vallance December 18th. & 21st., 2001 If I long for a chance to listen to star snows trickle, trickling by my window panes, I've only to remain calmly pressed against them, looking out towards the firs, from which a thousand gusts burst, howling, out, echoing like she-wolves towards my cabin. You'd say such nights scare me off? [1] That's it? Well, don't ask me! To heck with cool eyed owls, who through all of this moon funeral arrangements, trying to drive me nuts. Well, they upset me no where near as much as the wolfpack does with its savage howls. Awaken! Do you hear the swallows taking flight towards a dawn whose light is of moonlit snows that somehow find you dreams of icy storms, although they've gone their way? Oh they, the Ancient Grey Ones to Evergreens, rise up onto the very summits, whence their mountain companion, the wild Bald Eagle, a flame in the rays of the sun, soars over the abyss, being the hermit he is. [email protected]

ANGELA HADLEY Surrounded by other people's writings at her work as a librarian in Hampshire, England, Angela felt compelled to produce some words of her own. She now writes whatever takes her fancy, or wherever her fantasy takes her -- a questing whisper in the uproar. A mixture of written genre constitutes the pre-biotic soup that informs Angela's own writing, along with an imagination that defies analysis. Angela's quirky stories have appeared in various places on the Web, as has her poetry. Visit Angela's Fortress of Fantasy - Recently updated! You can also find Angela's work at these sites: Dream Forge Shadow Voices Ascent

A Woman Knows © Angela Hadley Some men are good; They do their best To give a woman pleasure. And though their skill is dubiously learned, It's never quite the thing. Men's hands are large, Their fingers thick, And apt to miss the point, And when you're almost at the edge A man can lose his way. But for the best, The highest high: Ecstatic ultimo, A woman's hands -- Her slender touch, her delicate embrace -- Will chase you up to heaven's gate, To pleasure far beyond. A woman has no need to guess What wonders are derived From touches here Or pressure there, Because... A woman knows. Forbidden Dance © Angela Hadley Here I am, displayed for you, Cavorting my bare body for your pleasure. I don't know your name, Though I've seen you before (I think -- I've no head for faces). But your money's familiar enough -- Crisp notes slipped quickly Behind my frilly garter. I feel a furtive brush Of your nails against my thigh, But you and I know: That stolen touch Is all the management allows. It's exploitation, one of many: I dance, you pay. But even as my flesh Quivers only inches from your eyes, You know the rules, That I'm in charge. And furthermore... You can't have me. Satisfaction © Angela Hadley The bruises have gone now, Though I've still a scar or two. His violent passion Doesn't appear that often, But when it does I am in fear of my life. He's not a bad guy as such, Just sometimes a bad-tempered one. But I know it can't go on And I must finish it. He'll go out on a high -- I'll make sure of that; I owe him that at least. I've rigged the bed: The bucketful of bricks Is out of sight behind it. He's home early; I'm dressed to kill (But not for long -- The outfit works a charm) And soon he's stretched below me as I ride. I sense his mounting pleasure, And judge the moment right: He comes precisely as I slip the rope Beneath his chin, release the bucket... His throat is crushed, His eyes bulge out, His tongue protrudes, And at the last, the very last, He satisfies me. ahadley[email protected]

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.

DEMISE © Jan Sand It is quite conventional And not at all contentional To rage against the age when we decay. For the progress of the regress Generates the anger to express Our grief and our powerful dismay. One by one all the incisors Succumb to the advisors That excision is the desired way. Then the molars follow suit For a lot of dental loot To finish us as toothless as a jay. We are soon bereft of hair, Fallen out, I can't say where To give our tops the surface of a ball. We retain our brows and lashes While our shaving still leaves gashes So Our hairlessness is not complete at all. Our muscles get much weaker And our macho very meeker While our memories are never very sound. We totter and we twitter 'Til we need a senior sitter And finally we tumble to the ground. Let us hope the end is calm Not a quirk, not a qualm When we slip into our final dreamless sleep. Let's be blessed with no recall, No memory at all And no problems with counting endless sheep. T'WAS THE FLIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS - © Jan Sand I ride the wind at Christmas time Across a black and wintry sea Strapped to a chair High in the air Deep in the dark, no Moon to see. Before I am allowed this trip Officialdom X-rays my grip. I must be closely scrutinized, My pockets scanned, routinized While my heartbeats do a flip. And then, aboard, we must be fed With mini-portions, snips of bread. We sit and wait and drowse with strain Squashed into this aeroplane Emitting groans for home and bed. Finally, at dawn we see The snowy hills of Helsinki, The land where Santa Claus resides (so the Christmas ad confides) But we just pray to land safely. With creaking joints and bleary eyes We greet the cold Finnish sunrise, We hug the wife, the family And stagger to the Christmas tree. "I made it, kids!". Big surprise! FUGITIVE © Jan Sand My muse, these days, Is fugitive and flighty. Her ample ways, When in her nighty, She wrote upon the midnight air Glowing phrases to inspire, Are, of late, awfully rare. Her ideas, once, writ with fire That sprang me from my bed at night To scribble madly wonder words That integrate in morning's light No more stampede my mental herds. These days I hammer out my lines Carpentered with common care. A clause, idea, somtimes combines Precisely in a way to bear A sentiment that's mostly right. But I miss my muse at night. [email protected]