VIRGINIA MONSON Virginia Monson worked as a journalist for many years before turning to brand PR and marketing. She has read poetry all her life and began writing creatively in 1999. She is currently an active member of East Grinstead Poets in West Sussex, England.

PINK © Virginia Monson 2001 You were the parcel that day. Alluringly wrapped - pink ribbon tempering erotic, chaotic wild child hair. Your wrapping signalled the mood within. Others saw it too - moths responding to an unexpectedly expressed need. Dyslexically he read an artless message: "Open immediately". He scrambled into the chocolate box, never questioning you were wrapped for him alone. Colour blinded, he gorged, seeing only flesh pink shades of acquiescence -       a fellow ingenue? greedily he snatched at the pink ribbon misjudging the surge of long subdued libido honestly undisguised. Shall you wear a red dress next time ? MY BEACH © Virginia Monson 2001 An exercise in concrete Poetry How dare they expect to share My bay, My sea, this rock, me? with anyone today, when I want to be free. How could you revel in My elemental joy, My solitude, these eddying tides, as I, in My idyl would. Free to enjoy an unheld sea- weed fingered hand, sand-trod through squiggly toes. Languorous. Lusting on icy beer smashed, dashed cool in limpid pools of limpet- dressed rocks. How could you gatecrash my solitude.

I am a father, rather 
I am an engineer, well
I was a father and an engineer.
I was successful, I was middle class
She loved me; we loved the child.
We were middle class then.
I shared an easy chore or two. 
She ironed a shirt or four;
walked the dog, shopped, shared
a neighbours' news, shirking
a humdrum comfortable life
of boring chores and wifely strife.

Back then,  I caught the train;
       she took the strain.

She is a part time mother now.
I am a full time father. 
A husband of none.  I am nothing
now they've had to "let me go".  
I am an outcast at the gate.
They walk their dogs, shop and stop
exchanging secrets, grumbling of 
the boys they love or bore. We love 
no more. She seldom calls to speak
to me - there's little to say
to a humdrum pinny exchanged 
for a hasty mobile phone .

Now she rides the train 
I take the strain.

I am a parent  - juggler.
Professional wife - so Envy 
thought - and first class mother.
Success depends on a tricky throne
of au pair strops and mobile phone. 
I hid from all those nightly bouts, 
I learned disguising arts and how 
to make up lies to mask the blue 
of blackened eyes. Career on hold. 
Avoiding sneers,  his Svengali 
thrall engulfed us all.
I was one of the girls at the school gate .

In spite he caused the pain 
     then rode the train.

"She is the woman . . well, 
She earns the money now" - 
A wife of none does not belong. 
Faces smirked in cruel derision 
mark us outcasts at the gate.
They walk their talk at leisured teas, 
their loosened tongues devout 
in cruel mob convention. As the wounded 
try to heal old scars and scores,
tots recoil from the ricochet 
of playground taunts parroting
the bigots at the gate.
 
Now I ride the train
our children take the strain.

ROBIN HISLOP OUZMAN A great deal of my life has been spent out of England, where I was born and spent my childhood in Lyme Regis. I lived in Scotland, which was my mother's side, and take the name Hislop, as writer's name from her family. Two years ago, I returned from Spain where I had lived as an EFL Teacher and translator, and prior to that I had travelled extensively in the East and spent years in Scandinavia. In Spain I participated in the organisation of bi-lingual poetry readings and have worked on the translation of a number of Spanish and South American poets into English as well as collaborated renditions of English to Spanish, Margaret Atwood for example. I have been to Spain several times since my arrival to the British Isles. Fortunate enough to receive small bursaries which have enabled me to develop a project of translating a contemporary poetry anthology written by Spanish female poets in 1985, that is just after the transition to the so called democracy, the work is entitled Las Diosas Blancas. Some of these translations I submitted earlier this year to the British Literary Translator's Award East Anglia University. Hopefully I will start on a project in collaboration of compiling and translating an anthology of James Stephens, contemporary of Joyce and Yeats better known for his Irish Celtic Fairy Tales and The Land of Youth. Perhaps it will inform to say that the most important influences of his work apart from his Celtic heritage were Blake and Madame Blavatsky's Theosophist movement, which Yeats introduced him to, that makes him particularly interesting to me, in the tradition of Gaelic revivalism, in which he was an important protagonist. At the moment I can't think what else to say about my life as a poet, except that I am influenced by ancient symbolism and contemporary forms alike and write quite prolifically but mostly only poetry, also to confess that when I do write short narrative forms I am tempted to the absurd, I suppose because variety and the personal take over and the need to look on the funny side of things no matter how tragic becomes adamant, whether one likes it or not.

HINTERLAND © Robin Hislop Ouzman 2002 Part I. 1.) i.* Aquinas. Man is a political animal Enter now the executioner Honest to honest Pesadilla de los padres With whatever is next The diatribe of the fall. Sheer the drop Pesadilla de los ninos. Harlot of Babylon & man with one Brain more, sordid Like the sawdust On the stained floor Sad like a bad child A lust beheaded bust & now his tongue lolls Out but I am material girl & I'm living in a material World* in sheer Summun Bonum Pesadilla de las madres. * Madonna. ii. Hinterland. Children of the New Forest, save the trees, save the pigs, cast them not to the pit for they can spit & swaddle better than any human & cud the shrubs & like the acorn & the cubs can keep the sow through the winter. Swineherd, tattooed Cyclopean, beat your tin & suffer the little children unto the feast: Foetus in dolmen's womb, eye of Horus in horned Isis. Gathered at the water is the herd germ bringing in the rain, a pink & white cloud mattress washed to pillows of bleached stone. iii.* You know as well as I Mac the everything & nothing makes the day & the pool ain't far though it can take an earthtime: on the pavement shadows wait for sunset. * After Estanque. A. Fisher iv.* Cartoons of our heritage laid on us as handouts: off the cuff, Batman & Robin chant their lullabyes, through a glass darkly Billy the Kid gallops off the midnight express, they are changing guards with Alice, guns at the palace, taxi on the waterfront. * almost R. McGough. v.* Sitting Still. Sitting still waiting for love to come. Sitting still waiting Manna from heaven. Sitting still now that love has blown Waiting for Manna to drop down Waiting cessation of cosmic invasion Waiting to get off the band going round. Sitting still to let be & find the ground. Sitting still like the fool on the hill Underneath your Mona Lisa smile. * After T.S.Elliot. The Cocktail Party. Part 2. Ecologues of Disaster. 1.) i. This lantern masque as though streets were up for lots, as bodies in the rain chaos flesh growing with the gloom of damp germ as flames of city light myth the black hill, a masque without a beacon, yet lantern to the booty we share all. ii. It's the day of the March hare, What matter, mad as a hatter, Willow moon in the window Waxes an instant in white glow That was quick as I was slow To perceive it only disappear In the black black rainfall fall. iii. You know as well as I do Mac We are just a flash in infinity, An afflicted affect in conflict & the spring stream burbles Where the cascade babbles. iv. Yeild to me flesh of tomorrow Today wearies of its poetic lie This image of before & after Yeild yourself soft & tender Like a ripe bowl of fruit There might I repose & repast Yeild your flesh & come down For who am I to live forever Mine is not a love of anyone & tomorrow you have left me here To each helpless day an absurdity Yeild your flesh tomorrow & come down That love might begin with a meaning. Part 3. Black Cretan 1.) i. Thought I'd try the human touch, See how far it went, It didn't seem so much, When I found that it was bent. ii. Mad Woman. She's that, no doubt about that, running in the rain naked through the forest at night, told me to go, told me to stay, always had to have the last word, madness, yes that's her way. She wouldn't let the tour driver turn round to collect, thought he was abandoning them, ran after the coach, he went white as a sheet. When the kid bolted on his bike, she went running down hill after him & knocked him over but she would let him go, another time she called in the firebrigade because she found a bug in the bed that was going to start a plague. Last time she called she said she was going away but mad in the beginning, mad in the end, I just get in the way, even here on the Hinterland Styx.. iii.* Isolation of Goya. Was it their hunger & poverty you painted with your pain, a camaflouge etched in the blood of the bull? Not worse than the gore of hunger Toreador!* You who went gay in bright arrayed plumes, who loved & worshipped a Madonna, to whom you were only a friend, as more divine than your passion & who was suddenly a crone, infirm, old & decayed, when still young. Your stroke must flourish his finger on the gun, a white shashed, gashed sheet of defiance, of despair, a never & ever in time on the canvas congealing, devoured by a terrified beast. As Oedipus blind & deafened by wrath you stagger the cities through, a Homeric bard with a placard like a millstone around your neck, I am still learning, it said. * Lo cornea el hambre es peor que el Toro The gore of hunger is worse than the bull's. Old Spanish Proverb. iv. Bang bang bang goes the drum war is on the run gladiator emporiums in arenas of lions & lambs with priests dressed as businessmen & businessmen dressed as priests crusading with religion selling it as nationalism on the battlefield of bedlam a dance of mayhem neo barbarian to the tune of your maker's making but consider it all a game killing's part of the fun can't help loving can't help hating we come we go & we're gone heaven & hell's for anyone in the song of the swan & the human rat race son of a gun. v. Lying fallow two rooks bird The grey cold sky, the barking Dark day, blue bird on silver moon To nest on high in wind whipped Skeleton branches' naked music, Hovering over their bracken bush Blazing through the sweeping spray, They break the day's silhouettes. Part 4. Lady Night. 1) i. You are there in the hallway. You are there in the hallway. How elegant the hallway Down the corridors of time. How silent is the door. You are there elegant in the hallway Down silent corridors of time. A veil of mysteries, silent, Whilst I am here waiting, waiting, Watching the black iris of your gaze Before the silent door, Down the corridors of time. Naked is the night, elegant, A veil of mysteries in the dark Iris of your gaze, where I wait, Where I wait, before the silent door Down the corridors of time. ii. Harlequin. The game is done, my race is run, you've won, you've won. Throw the dice once again into the myriad of harlequin, for which so ever of anyone I touch will on me turn with a disappearing grin, where I stand as nothing In the ellipse of a dancing harlequin. I abandoned to a dream sublime or the nightmare of the abysm. Both are one, both are none in the harlequin of illusion, the game is done, you've won. 2. i. Daffodils. Daffodil yellow horns Herald out the winter, Herald in the spring. O sun's lovely daughters Who only stay to sing, Spending a few brief hours While we go on a haymaking & you play truant with our day Capturing the heart on wing With many a ditty & elegy, as we cling on as badger to shin Still you adorn our cemetery. No truant for us in this prison Except listen to grass grow & you sing. ii. Billy the Kid. 'Hey Dad I'm Billy the Kid. I shot twenty one people down By the time I was twenty one'. 'Sure you did but now you've got Your dental plates, your brace, Your shaved head & pretty face. Did Billy the Kid kill his father? Did he ever want a lovely bride?' 'All he wanted was independence Dad But they left him with nowhere Left to hide & then he got shot dead & died, so now I'm Billy the Kid & I sleep with one I open as I slumber.'* 'Sure, I understand, I know the feeling, lad'. * Pat Garret & Billy the Kid. B.Dylan. iii. Street signs, Peaceful Funerals past New Life: myth connotes an ideology of nature, paradox is matrix to illusion's symbols, in the breach, on the threshold, to believe anything is hypnotic. We are rich enough to write any requiem as our powers pass beyond our controle, as we translate the inhuman laws: who was to tell us how life would be, the flight of the butterfly is elusive in a field of flowers. 3. i. Nevermore. Once each day was long, he believed its posture to be a borne message. The world was tall. Every place held magic & mystery that revealed itself as a destiny. Love bore no weariness. It was begotten, never forgotten. & beyond was excelsior. Impatient was his zeal, impetuous & daring. Majestic was his bearing. And then he came to the place of Nevermore, where all his days had fled To dwell like bats in caves scattering invisibly in night's unseen as plankton into the jaws of oblivion. ii. To the place of Nevermore the hunter returns to lay Lady Night down. The blood on his hands have stabbed in the snow, here at the place of Nevermore. Stains follow his tracks, black is the colour of his true loves hair. Red is the moon following the hunter to the place of Nevermore. iii* Ditto, Dittily. O, to be as free As a bird in a tree With Thee, O, Ditt 'O Dittily. What has become of our melody? In pollen & musk of dawn & twight we have known every hue, every note sung so sweet, yet so fleet. What is to become of you & me once so free? What's done's done & can't be undone, they say. Now here I am in a cage with clipped wings, such is my stage on which I rage at age To strut & fret & frown until I am no more. I am a Cockattoo clown & I want to be free Like a bird in a tree.* * Elvis Presly. Fin. Copyright Robin Hislop Ouzman 2002. All rights reserved.

David Durham DAVID DURHAM My name is David Durham. I'm 32 and live in Phoenix Arizona. I'm currently self employed and have been writing poetry since the age of 13. I have a love for all thing artistic and greatly enjoy sharing my creativity with others.

RESPONDENT © David Durham, 2001 Hello friend my type; I long to talk to you away from glowing screens, In flowing dreams. The clouds transcend here for me to share, Within the blue me, on coffee tabletops; Minus the windows. There is too much fresh air. In any given circumstance I might not be, Tell her for me. Too many tears fall From somewhere that you cannot always see; Sometimes in ringlets that drop in corners, Up for auction. I enjoyed the confusion of the auctioneer; The yelling got out of hand. There was a cocktail waitress in Bangladesh, She left her name in lipstick on a greasy napkin. She talked of the cheapness in the sordid grind. I pulled the tubes out of my arms, Stopped spinning records In some assumed, jabbing conversation. I like the echoes in a click, a solid noise. Blonde goes better on satin than velvet, It's precious either way; I'm told to thrive on senses. Try telling that to a moody Steinway Through nervous fingertips. When blood drips it's like blurry water-balloons. See these like milky pools of plasma, In some plastic cup. The eyes were shielded by a crash helmet, Nobody could visit that day. Next I brought a canvas, I asked her to be playful; She felt bad. We tried to speak and just fell silent In the outside. It must have showed later on. It always happens, High heels skitter then get lost. The visiting hours ended vividly. Tomorrow came and the mass of large expression Faded away, dispensed somewhere timely. Hello friend my type, The clouds transcend each other. Hear, for me to share. Sweet Dreams © David Durham, 2002 I thought of you last night, As I held off the cold. I noticed the emptiness it brought, Yet we were at one with this chill. All fear was possible, Yet easily laughed off As I knew at once The warmth of your touch. I smiled, walking, Then laughing. If not for thoughts of you I would be consumed Within the horrors of me. If not for the touch you give, I would die, My whole life malnourished, Staving off all healthy thought. There was when I was a youth A time to practice mindless ecstasy Though I was never mindful Of true happiness. I knew not what I had and now As many born with no recognition, Seek that very thing. Within my words My most precious thoughts crept Unseen. Within my mind My most precious words crept Unheard. Arcadia © David Durham, 2001 CD players in the shiny arcades on Monte street, A crossing of time with twists of wings, Carnivorous carnival of elemental things; This existence. Each wears a muffled face of unknown desire, Travelers amiss; Faces reflected as cauldron fire In this battlezone time warp Of reconnaissance. Held in palms Reverberated qualms, Fairways give midnight chance; Tables fill, scepter bearers dance. From espresso making Never waking, Porcelain dreams of pathos rise. I from my corner peer Behind this obscene compilation. The tender at his counter sighs With laughter's sheen and murderous eyes. Unswayed, still the ghost draws near. I within this masque take leave To sit not alone, But arise to grieve.

Click here for April 2002 Featured Poets page 2 -->

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Poetry Life & Times is a nominating site for The Poet's Hall of Fame.

Nomination from the MARCH 2002 issue:

Richard Vallance.

Congratulations!

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*NEW* Competition from the Poets' Porch:

Click logo for details...

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New book coming soon from Lyn Lifshin:

ANOTHER WOMAN WHO LOOKS LIKE ME

published by Black Sparrow Press. Title poem:

Another Woman Who Looks Like Me

gets on Amtrak, leaves
her suitcase on the
platform. Nobody she
leaves behind has a clue.
She isn't a terrorist,
there's no Anthrax or
fertilizer in it, only 
a few explosive
words to someone
dead. She could have
just made a fire,
curled near the etched
glass as if nothing
had happened
yet or revised the past.
But instead, she's coiled
what no one is left
to understand in the
lingerie pockets of a
shattered blue suitcase.
You might think
she's reckless 
or lost, in a daze but
first imagine she 
sees it as a child too
much for her that
she can't bear to keep 
or know will grow
up with strangers
so before it can
belong to anybody
else, she wraps the
words in lambs wool
like someone 
putting a new born 
in thick wool,
leaving it in a
dumpster with a
diamond anklet to
let whoever takes it
know how much
it mattered

Click here for more details and reader review

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April 7th and 11th
Poets for Peace Events in San Francisco Bay Area
In Honor of National Poetry Month:

APRIL 7th in BERKELEY, CA
Sunday April 7th, 2-5pm
Poets for Peace:
held in the Gorgeous Rooftop Gardens Solarium,
7th floor of THE GAIA BUILDING
in Downtown Berkeley (Downtown Berkeley BART)
2116 Allston Way
between Shattuck & Oxford Sts
Tel 510 848-4242

Mission 911:
Bay Area Poets for Peace presents 11 poets reading 11
minutes each for 9/11 relief. Poets will donate portions of book sales
to relief organizations of their choice. Free.
510. 848-GAIA (4242).
Scheduled poets are: J. P. Dancing Bear, Rafael Jesus Gonzalez,
Q. R. Hand, Genny Lim, Reginald Lockett, Jessica Loos, Clive Matson,
Janelle Moon, C. J. Sage, Richard Silberg, Truong Tran, plus Melody
Ermachild Chavis reading work in translation for RAWA. free event For
further information on the poets visit

http://www.poets4peace.com/berkeley_apr02.htm

AND

SAN FRANCISCO Main LIBRARY, Hispanic Room, 100 Larkin St.
Civic Center BART,
April 11th, 5:30-7:30 PM
hosts these Poets for Peace readers:
Dana Gioia,
Jack and Adelle Foley,
Robert Sward,
Toni Mirosevech.
For more information on the poets see:
http://www.poets4peace.com/sfbay.htm

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22nd Annual Fields of Earth Poetry Contest
Sponsored by The Writers' Ink Guild and The Arts Council of Fayetteville

There is still time to enter... Closing date is 22nd April 2002.

For details contact:
J A Samuelson, President, at 910-868-5066
or Jo Weyant, Secretary, 910-488-9105

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Est-ce que ça vous pique de composer des sonnets de temps en temps? Alors, allons-y! Faites-moi parvenir jusqu'à un maximum de trois (3) de vos sonnets, afin que je puisse les évaluer en but d'en éditer quelques-uns, s'il y a lieu, dans le prochain numéro du nouveau E-Zine canadien bilingue, Sonnetto Poesia qui fait sous peu son entrée sur la scène littéraire internationale. Veuillez me les envoyer par le courriel chez : [email protected] - ou, alternativement, chez : [email protected] Si vous avez des questions à me poser, s'il vous plaît, n'hésitez pas à me les communiquer! Merci. Bien à vous, Richard Vallance

Do you write sonnets every now and then? Then you're in the right place! The international bilingual Canadian E-Zine: Sonnetto Poesia which has just made its début on the international stage, is now accepting submissions for its second issue, Vol. 1, no. 2, Summer, 2002. You may submit up to three (3) Sonnets to Richard Vallance at: [email protected] or [email protected] The deadline for submissions is May 1st., 2002. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. Thanks. Sincerely yours, Richard Vallance

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Val Magnuson Galactic Poet Award

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OUT NOW

MILLENNIUM DAWN

anthology, by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press.

An exciting collection of award-winning poetry and short stories.

Enquiries to Elaine Davis at [email protected]

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THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #21. Spot Reginald The Rat and win a prize!
Email [email protected] and say where he is and what he is doing. First correct answer wins prizes such as bespoke CD rom with full Norris cartoons plus my other cartoons, also Poetry Life & Times pens and notebooks.

* Note: As you all probably know already, this is a quote from Oscar Wilde's poem The Sphinx, which has an almost frighteningly-clever rhyming pattern. The rhymes are arranged in a way that almost fools you into thinking it has a pattern without rhyme.

The Perils of Norris started in August 2000. To catch up on past episodes, click the links below, then your browser's Back button to return.

#1  #2  #3  #4  #5  #6  #7  #8  #9 #10 #11 #12 #13 #14 #15 #16 #17 #18 #19 #20

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Click here for BACK ISSUES page

Mail me on: [email protected] with poems, letters or poetry news,
by 22nd April (latest) for the May issue.

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