(November 2001) Page 2

Christopher Mulrooney by artist Heather Lowe CHRISTOPHER MULROONEY Christopher Mulrooney has poetry, fiction and translations in Fire, Frank, The East Village, Brooklyn Review, The Third Half, Elimae, Shampoo, The Burning Bush, Zine Zone, Breakfast All Day, Poetry and Audience, etc. Click HERE for his website.

song of the iguana © Christopher Mulrooney I learned all my alphabet from watching a black and white TV set now I shake my tambourine in a wayside poetry magazine waiting for some happy nurse to exhibit her purple purse splitting like a cantaloupe to put at stand the antelope filling all the lion's nose with the scent of yellow rose Chansons pour Elle, X by Paul Verlaine translated by Christopher Mulrooney Horrible night of sleeplessness! -- Without the blessed presence Of your dear body near me, Without your lips so often kissed, Although cunning I wist In all insincerity, Without your lips all lies, But when I think of them, so blithe, And knowing how to console me Under the aspect and under the mien Of strawberries -- and, good scene! -- Of a quite plausible parley, And above all without the pentacle Of your senses and the miracle Manifold and single, flower and fruit, Of your hard witching eyes, Hard and gentle after your wise... True God! terrible night! London Bridge © Christopher Mulrooney London Bridge is broken down Dance over the Lady It must be builded up again With a gay ladee How shall we fashion it again? Dance over the Lady Fashion it with iron and steel With a gay ladee Iron and steel will wry and snap Dance over the Lady Make it up with wood and stone With a gay ladee Wood and stone will tumble off Dance over the Lady Shore it up with silver and gold With a gay ladee Silver and gold can’t be made sure Dance over the Lady So we must have a man to watch With a gay ladee An if he should fall asleep? Dance over the Lady Light a pipe fit to his mouth With a gay ladee Suppose the pipe went out and fell? Dance over the Lady Give him nuts that he might crack With a gay ladee What if the nuts were all gone bad? Dance over the Lady He shall have horses to gallop upon With a gay ladee And if he fall asleep again? Dance over the Lady Give him a barking dog all night With a gay ladee What if the dog should find a bone? Dance over the Lady Set him a cock to crow all night With a gay ladee Yet the cock might meet a hen Dance over the Lady Here comes my Lord so all may pass With a gay ladee Except for he who comes the last © Christopher Mulrooney: Roye des Ribauldez courtage what is the agio on this Capitano? two and a kick I reckon says the Governor well then says this I this incompetent swap meet layabout this dirty straying gone a-maying fiddle dee rover-o letter from home amphoraphobe bless my boldlings I have spawned them all of a truckling mickle I bless ye all wee bairns and lawned them for a pretty pickle I [email protected]

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. Severe alcoholism forced Richard to retire on long-term disability, nine 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's just mind-boggling! Oh well, there are always late bloomers in life. I guess I'm one of them." Since then he has lived a "passionate, sometimes a 'tempest in a teapot' - but almost always reasonably happy life". He lives in 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 A New Millenium Anthology [also in CD] and in another journal, which I am not yet at liberty to disclose. Yahoo Groups: Describe Adonis le jeune matelot Poetry Lynx Links 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)

Whoso Squeals or Grunts * © Richard Vallance October 28th., 2001 Whoso squeals or grunts, I know where is a boar, But as for me, I'll hunt, and hit his hind. His vain travail to even up the score Does not avail to cut him from the grind. Yet may I, by all means, pursue the blind beast, lay him low, and as he blurts off before Taunting I follow. I'll pourchasse therefore, Since in a net I know I'll hold his wind. When he is spent, I ken I've got him pinned, As well as done, for he's a poor roughneck. For snorting with bristles that puff his neck He is cornered, and makes a puling sound, "Noli me frangere, for rabid I am, And musky as hell, though I am ham." *Author’s Note: I recently composed this little ditty, as a parody of Sir Thomas Wyatt's, Whoso List to Hunt. Rest his soul, this sonnet is in nowise aimed at his lofty genius. It is simply intended as a jibe against so-called pundits, who prize themselves as being literary and poetry critics, when "malheuresement", they fall somewhat short of the mark. The World Trade Center © Richard Vallance, 2001 Across the bay, Manhattan's Towers soar reflectively as calmly Tuesday dawns on you aboard where on Deck B eyes pour down high gain stocks as if to snap up pawns with power plays until you'd yell, "Checkmate!" and wave your bid, as you speculate at other's losses (you've known when to sell). Clang! Stare at your watch. "Ferry's late... oh hell." "No! It's dj vu!" someone screams she sees. Stare again... a horror flick? "Smoke! Fire sears my eyes, spewing tons of ash on Hudson's breeze! Most of my friends are..." You'ved gasped, eyes in tears... (Reports explode so loud they've hammered waves.) "... pulverized in our World Trade Center's graves!" Afghanistan (October, 2001) © Richard Vallance October 24th, 20019 Aghanistan, some parched and acrid land. No water there. Each passive mountain range obstructs the view, no matter where you stand. The roads are bowls of dust, clouds some strange if cirrus lewd against a thin hued sky, where, Allah's Mercy save us, pallor reigns and rains incessant suns on fields so dry it kills the seed germane before it grains. If you just live on grass, have you a prayer? "We'll drop you supplies." Our children die, starve of meagre fares, while hidden mothers gawk at space, where eyes, tear-dry, drains of love carve out desperation's petroglyphic glare. Bin Laden is the Wolf; and you are a Hawk. Au Seuil © Richard Vallance le 30 décembre 1999, Tu me permettras, si, neige tant miroitée, j'arrive aux ailes du soir, tranquil appel au séjour inespérée à la famille, d'où je fus le premier cygne, toujours sans voix, dans les glaçons nets autour des lacs fragiles que j'ai entouré plus de cent mille fois, avant ton arrivée au même séjour, dont ma conception nourissait les bois. Qui sait que tu m'entends, les bras ouverts au ciel au seuil saupoudré de trois heureux espoirs? -- soit de me régaler, soit de te recevoir à l'aube crispée par les givres clairs, où je t'appelle, voix douce, hérault d'hivers, à mille printemps d'éclairs? dédié à la famille Genest Linear translation into English prose - On the Threshold © Richard Vallance 30th December, 1999 Will you allow me, if as snows shivering reflections, I arrive on the wings of an evening's, as if I were making a quiet appeal for stay, though uninvited, with your family, from whom I once arose a swan[1], whose voice was always stilled, trapped in the frosty ice all over fragile lakes lakes which I alone had encircled over 100,000 times, before you ever even arrived at the same resting place, that place, where my birth gave the forests their nourishment. Who knows whether you can hear me,[2] your arms outstretched skywards, as you stand alone on the threshold sprinkled with three hopes for happiness? -- whether it be to entertain me royally, whether it be for me to entertain you as dawn comes on, crisp with shiny hoarfrost, herald[3] of winters, for every 1,000 springs where lightning strikes? Written 30th December 1999 dedicated to the Genest family (prose transliteration by Richard Vallance, November, 2001) NOTES on the subtleties of the French sonnet: The text reads, "cygne", meaning, "swan", but when the sonnet is read aloud, it is almost certain that a French-speaking (francophone) audience would hear, "signe", the same thing as would any English listener. The pun is, of course, deliberate and key to the symbolic meaning of the sonnet. Here (hear?) again, the French text is a double-entendre, since in poetic French, the verb, "entendre", which normally means, simply enough, "to hear", here (sorry, I just can't resist it) it also distinctly means, "to understand". Once again, we are faced with the same "phénomène" or poetic device. The sonnet reads, "herald", but again, anyone actually listening to a live reading of the poem would almost certainly hear, "héros", meaning, "hero" - as indeed I have justly intended. [email protected]

JIM DUNLAP (Rhyme Master) Jim has just been notified by the Marquis, Who's Who In America that he will definitely be in the 2002 edition, which was originally scheduled to come out in September of this year, but has been postponed until the end of November. He has also recently had a poem accepted by "The Acorn", which brings his list of magazines to 67 (over half of which are no longer being published). His list of publications include "Candelabrum", "Plainsongs" and the "Paris/ Atlantic"; and he is now (or has been) online at "Die Niderngasse", "Midnight Edition", he is a resident poet, and an Alpha poet at the Poet's Porch, is usually on Poetry Down Under and has had about six hundred poems published to date. He has been in the Writer's Digest top 100 three times, although he no longer enters their contests as the entry fees have gone out of sight. He is currently the newsletter editor for the Des Moines Area Writers' Network. Jim's website includes a lot of favorite poems by other writers, as well as his own. His work appears online at: http://www.thepoetsporch.com http://www.aceonline.com.au/~db/ http://www.valmagnuson.com/ on Describe_Adonis in the Yahoo groups, and on his own poetry page is presently http://sites.netscape.net/rhymer01 (which may be changed as Netscape is doing away with sites.netscape, and who knows what the replacement program will be?)

from Jim's book, "Entwined In Wonder", which he has just had reprinted: OCCAM'S RAZOR...OR WHO SHAVED THE BARBER? © Jim Dunlap We think our civilization Is a wonder, without peer -- Sandwiched between ice ages, We're lucky to be here. In all the world's long history, There've not been many times When the race of man could have evolved In such beneficial climes. Do you think it was an accident That things worked out this way; And luck that man did not appear When dinosaurs held sway? I'd like to think that there's a point, Or some thing accomplished here -- But we truly just despoil and burn... My, how the Gods must leer! And when the ice age comes again, Will we be here to see it; Or will we simply self-destruct In a misanthropic fit? Published in MOBIUS, Fall/Winter, 1994 L'AMOUR EN REVE / REVERIES OF LOVE © Jim Dunlap I toss in strangely troubled dreams Of rolling hills and woodland streams -- Of soft, pale skin, so smooth and fair, And moonlight glancing off her hair. What can I say? What can I do? Sad to say, she's just not you. True love calls..."Come, please be mine... We'll drink to good Saint Valentine." And if, perchance, you choose to stay, We'll leave her there and go away: To roam the world, to wander far ... Beneath fair Venus, morning's star. For fate could never put asunder Bonds of love, entwined in wonder ... Though our souls should dare to brave A bright new land beyond the grave. Why waste one day, one minute more? Let's bite the apple to the core; And while the years and seasons fly, Our love will grow ... and never die. The Politics of Verisimilitude © Jim Dunlap With thanks to Dennis Greene for the use of his phrase: "What you say at breakfast can eat you for lunch." An ill-thought-out statement can pack quite a punch So its best to be careful while speaking: What you say at breakfast ... can eat you for lunch. A knuckle sandwich might be what you munch If your words cause inordinate freaking: An ill-thought-out statement can pack quite a punch. Unwelcome visitors might join you for brunch If bad thoughts from your mouth exit streaking: What you say at breakfast ... can eat you for lunch. The state of the world, at last forced to the crunch, Throws a stench thats quite powerfully reeking: What you eat for breakfast may inconvenience your lunch. Of the species on earth, were the worst of the bunch, And well likely not find what were seeking: Mother Nature could just simply CANCEL our lunch. No bang and no whimper can make just such a scrunch As the blast where the fuel line was leaking. An ill-thought-out statement can pack quite a punch: What you missaid at breakfast ... can eat you for lunch. Entwined In Wonder, Cedar Bay Press, LLC, Beaverton, Oregon, by Jim Dunlap REVERSE SERENDIPITY © Jim Dunlap A giant crater was discovered Off the coast of Yucatan And the meteor that caused it May have given birth ... to man. One hundred fifteen miles wide ... The impact must have seen A catastrophe unparalleled To this planet, lush and green. A tremendous cloud of dust Must have nearly blocked the sun. Dinosaurs by millions found Their reign on Earth was done. Nine-tenths of all Earths species Destroyed in one fell blow: The time of mammals had arrived With the reptile race brought low. Was it a cosmic accident? Did luck give us the nod? Or was it evidence, in fact, Of the puissant hand of God? PABLO LENNIS, Sept., 1994 SYMBIOTIC EMPIRE-BUILDING © Jim Dunlap Many brash, young English lads Went to fight for fame and glory. All too many met an end Ignominious and gory. Then many lovely English girls Found never men to wed ... Their futures void of promise, Just like each lonely bed. Old maids proliferated And most kept several cats. These scoured field and forest Devouring mice ... and rats. Bumblebees grew common With no mice to wreck their nests; And their pollinating clover fields Made hay ... the land was blessed. There was beef to feed the armies, Since cattle ate the hay And Englands mighty Empire Kept expanding ... in this way. MIND IN MOTION, issue #29, Spring, 1993 AN AMERICAN REPLY TO OSAMA BIN LADEN © Jim Dunlap Theres a star-spangled banner waving daily In 300 million hearts throughout our land. It floats across the clear blue skies of freedom And that, Osama, no terrorist could understand. On September 11th of Two Thousand and One, A naive myth was totally debunked. If we thought America invincible, In reality's school, we flunked. America is not those fallen towers, No landmark, town, or other place ... Nothing in the worlds invincible today: Theres no safety on earth ... or out, in space. What terrorists can't comprehend, (They destroy, but don't create), Is that America is above all an idea: Its that idea that makes us great [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.

LOCAL TREASURES © Jan Sand I am rather fond of up And equally of down. East and West go endlessly When going out of town. North, of course, is limited, For when you're northest North, If you keep going straight, Moving, not to hesitate, With grim grin on your mouth, You'll find that you Can only view That you are going South. These features of your movement are Particular to planets, The habitat of you and me And bats and cats and gannets. For if you wander in the stars Or even venture out towards Mars Very far from all boudoirs You'll find no trace of up, And down is just as scarce. You cannot use a glass or cup, All liquids float in wobbly spheres To end up on the walls as smears, Realizing your worst fears That you must then mop up. ME © Jan Sand I am an instrument erected Mostly by myself. Although I have much suspected I am off the shelf Of a bio-engineer Who fumbled with his chemicals, It becomes very clear He must possess clever pals If they could construct me. I walk alone, I talk alone, I think you must agree I am a most unique machine That works completely free. I write, I eat, I love, I run - I have all sorts of active fun But mostly what delights me most Is not to be a gassy ghost. It's my solidity. FROLIC © Jan Sand Frogs dance the tango in Durango With the twistings of a snake. They rise up on their pointy toes, Twisting hips with grinning lips And snuffling with their nose, Then whooping, swooping, swinging, looping, Wiggling, waggling with a shake, They gracefully dip their head, Kneel on their heels with fingers spread Become sinuous and plastic. Their movements smooth To calm and soothe, Nothing strange or drastic. Then, as the yellow moon dips down, They cry a bit, then they frown, They tremble, then they bark, Wish each other a goodnight And fade into the dark. AFGHANISTAN © Jan Sand The girls are pale behind the veil In Afghanistan. They may not sing , they may not dance, Bells do not ring, there's no romance They may not swing their sexy tail In Afghanistan. For men do fear to lend an ear To happy songs or big brass gongs, There's no joy, that's very clear In Afghanistan. Men drape their girls in black cloth swirls, They're scared of legs and scared of curls And never give out rings or pearls In Afghanistan. It's so sad no one is glad. There's no TV to be had. No girls schools - the men are fools All they want is nasty rules In Afghanistan They spend their day to go to pray Knowing not another way While birds can sing and squirrels play The men cannot understand That time has but one command. Live life now, enjoy today For death will soon have his way In Afghanistan. [email protected]