(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.


  • 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

    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
    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,


    whose meaning almost

    escapes one,

    intricate almost

    hallowed in this image

    drawn deftly to the eye.

    Vallance, Richard. A Quilt of Sonnets: Forty Four Familiar Poems.
    Ottawa: Providence Road Press, 1998. 54 pp.
    ISBN 1-896243-07-x pg. 49


    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]


    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

    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,
    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.

    © 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.

    © 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.

    © 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!

    © 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]

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