(January 2002) Page 2
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.
UK Smart Groups:
The Aztec Shawl|
© Richard Vallance 1974
on which our thoughts as threads
are spun, in a pattern interwoven
to form an Aztec frieze,
whose meaning almost
hallowed in this image
drawn deftly to the eye.
The woof of love is on a distaff wound
The woof of love is on a distaff wound,
À n'écouter que le ruissellement des neiges astrales,
Si la nuit le péril m'énerve? - qu'est-ce, je
Entends-tu à l'éveil la fuite des passereaux
Eux, les anciens aux toujours verts, s'élèvent aux cimes
If I long for a chance to listen to star snows trickle, trickling
You'd say such nights scare me off?  That's it?
Awaken! Do you hear the swallows taking flight
Oh they, the Ancient Grey Ones to Evergreens, rise up onto
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!
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,
But for the best,
A woman has no need to guess
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 --
I feel a furtive brush
It's exploitation, one of many:
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,
He'll go out on a high --
He's home early;
I sense his mounting pleasure,
His throat is crushed,
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.
© 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
We are soon bereft of hair,
Our muscles get much weaker
Let us hope the end is calm
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
And then, aboard, we must be fed
Finally, at dawn we see
With creaking joints and bleary eyes
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.
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