August 2000 Cafť Society's Poetry News Update
* NEW * "Perils of Norris" virtual cartoon... Do you have any poetry news or comments for the Readers' Letters section? If so, mail me on the email link at the bottom of this page. Competitions and calls for submissions can be announced here free.

An Interview With

Charlotte with her chow-chow dog, Bossy Bear

Charlotte Gai Mair is one of David Jackson's editors at Artvilla, and has designed and maintained Web pages for Elisha Porat, Charlotte's Web, Shoptillyadrop Virtual Mall, BarNone Coffeehouse.

She is a former singer-musician ; born of Irish decent family named Coughlan , February 14/49, presently residing on the lower mainland of British Columbia, Canada.

Always a fighter and very passionate by nature, she has never allowed her life's circumstances to pull her down. It is in fact lifes journeys and episodes that have inspired this writer not to give up and to make known her love of life through her writing and poetic endeavors.

In a period of three years she has written over 200 poems with almost 100 of them being published in various Antholigies, Newsletters, Newpapers and many websites in Canada, United Kingdom, Ireland and across the United States.

Poetic Voices of America - Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum
W. Virginia, USA - 1999 *ISBN 0-923242-64-3
Crossroads - Iliad Press
Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999
Feelings - Cader Publishing
Sterling Heights - MI, USA - 1999 *ISBN 1-885206-69-0
President's Recognition for Literary
Excellence, MI, USA - 2000
No Love Lost - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999
No Love Lost II - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario CD - 2000
The Open Window - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999 *ISBN 0-9699598-4-2
The Open Window II - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 2000
Illuminations lll - Hidden Brook Press
Toronto, Ontario, CD - 1999
Cherished Poems of the Western World
- Famous Poets
Hollywood, Ca, USA - /99 * ISBN 0-96414989

Wildlife Rescue Association of British
Burnaby, BC, CD - 1999 * ISSN 1188-5106
Poemata - The Canadian Poetry Association
Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * ISSN 1203-6595

Toronto, Ontario - 1999 * 107-3295-11

- Published on multilpe Websites including Canada & United States, Britain & Ireland - 1999 & 2000:
Dublin Writer's Workshop, - Ireland
Deep Underground - Alternative Poetry Site, U.K
Miss Nubean Queen - United States
Lady In The Lake - Los Angelos, U.S.A.
Above Ground Testing - Trenton, Ontario, Canada
Survivor's Poetry Site

The First Fifty Years. Authored and illustrated by Charlotte Gai Mair, Published by Charlotte Mair @ Hidden Brook Press, 412 - 701 King Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada - 1999

The Reflection - The Spring 1998 Iliad Literary Awards Program
Peace - The 1998 Nature Awards Program
Message in the Sand - The 1998 Browning Awards Program
Forget Me Not - The 1998 Longfellow Awards Program
The First Fifty Years - Chapbook Competition 1998

David Ingram - Channel 4 Talk Show Host, Book Reviewer
Ward Kelley - Writer - Indianapolis , USA *2000
People's Poetry Newsletter - Toronto, Canada *2000
Recently-written Book review for Elisha Porat:

Mike McCardell - Newsreporter, BCTV News, Channel 8, Burnaby, BC *1999

Poetry L & T: What first inspired you to start writing poetry, Charlotte?

Charlotte Mair: To be frank, the loss of my best little friend in the world, ignited my pen, so to speak. A little chow dog by name of Taurus Ottabee Silverado, inspired me to place pen in hand for the very first time, on May 26, 1997, the day of his passing. Since that time I have written no less than 200 poems, 7 childrenís stories and am currently working on my autobiography. A painstaking undertaking to say the least to rhyme it too, I say in jest!

Poetry L & T: As a poet of Irish descent, do you ever write poetry about your Irish heritage or ancestry?

Charlotte Mair:I have written several. This is my favourite and very first free verse poem, written specifically for my dear old "Da", as I fondly called him.

Irish Man
© Charlotte Mair

"You can do anything if youíve a mind to"
Came the soft voice
speaking out from a tethered, sunken, sofa
through smoke screens
and hot toddied, long Johnny Walkers

Words of such stature
from a frailing, paling, half-forgotten
wearied lost man
not much older than my own mirrored image

In time Ive searched my mind for truths
There was never a moment for you
I can still hear your harp wailin Saint Louis Blues
in my mind

Only fifty-seven years then gone
weary drifter on lifeís path artist, musician, solitary man
Here I say to you

You are the lighthouse who still guides me
through the craggy rocks and fog
The evergreen of hope in my night
How you shinekeeper of my proud heart

The very reason I stand tall
and carry on in this crowd
has everything to do with you
Gone but not forgotten Irish Man

Published by Toronto Newspaper in 1999 "CHOICES"

Poetry L & T:Who is your favourite classical poet?

Charlotte Mair:My favourite classical poet of all is and will always be Elizabeth Barret Browning. In my opinion, no pen could have been placed in better hand than that of this lady. She was the Picasso of word, backed up with the power of creative emotional impact. Her words always strike me deeply.

Poetry L & T:How did you first become involved with Artvilla?

Charlotte Mair: It was as simple as surfing the net and trying to find a place to air my poetry. David Jackson, the main editor-publisher of Artvilla, was amongst the first to take the time to publish my work on the internet and for this I am very grateful. Mr. Jackson is a poet of substance also. His kindness at giving my poetry a home has in turn supplied much inspiration for many of the poems I write. Not too many people compare with his heart of gold.

Paul Gilbert of Above Ground Testing Ezine is another kind soul which need be mentioned and was the very first person to publish my poems on the internet. In fact he is publishing an interview with me in this month of August also. Bukowskis birthday month August 16th and I am proud to say, my granddaughters birthday too.

Poetry L & T:As the editor of Charlotte's Web Chronicle , what do you see as being suitable poetry for your pages?

Charlotte Mair: I publish poetry that is well written. Poetry that holds the power of thought and meaning. I enjoy all types or writing, from free verse, to rhyme, to the avant-garde.

Poetry L & T: You write poetry and have musical flair too. Do you ever find that some popular song lyrics are so awful that if the music was taken away, they would fall flat?

Charlotte Mair:Well, being a girl from the sixties and all, I could not really comment on this question in depth. During my time", there were some pretty strange lyrics that hit number one position on the charts. Although the "oops girl", B S, does sort of lack on word creativity. But hey sheís number one and Iím not.

Poetry L & T:You have been published in many anthologies and websites, I notice also, from your bio, that you were interviewed on TV last year. Was that an interview about your poetry?

Charlotte Mair:Yes, this interview was in regard to my poetry book THE FIRST FIFTY YEARS. Channel 8 News did this little interview with me. It took three hours of taping, for a five minute spoof about me, ThE CaMbIe RoAd PoEt [nom de plume] and my writing inspirations.

Poetry L & T:In future generations, which of your own poems would you mostly like to have quoted in high schools?

Charlotte Mair:My second ever free verse poem SHE TRIED is one I would like for the young to remember because it shows strength in nature and how one should follow their heart and do their best to etch their own epitaph and show enough courage in life and say "I tried".

She Tried
© Charlotte Mair

Isnít it funny
how we hold no intention
of portraying our parents
and that
a look to the mirror
its there
that familiar feature of mom or dad
back a look a smile

Isnít it a gas
how we follow the path
of our forefathers
a legacy
good or bad
is bestowed upon us
an inbred notion of life

To climb the heights of Everest
is it inbred?
To travel fields and forests
Yearning to leave a legacy behind oneself
to build and pursue a dream
tell me is this inbred?

I stand at my temple my church
asking the waves for the answers
at this crux in life

Half a century is past
Did I venture out
in too many leagues of unknown seas
at the heights of the gales?
Have I weathered the storm well
in honesty
given it my all?

Dear forefathers:
I surely chose a rocky path
to trod along these weary feet
yet could not lay my head in rest
in honesty
if I had not

Poetry L & T:How would you define good poetry?

Charlotte Mair: Well crafted writing that conveys deep seated meaning.

Poetry L & T: In what ways do you think the Internet can help poets?

Charlotte Mair:By exposing the poet to the world, making known their work on a broader perspective.

Poetry L & T:Do you have any special places you visit, for inspiration?

Charlotte Mair:If I read poetry on the internet, generally I visit sites containing work of the great poets such as: Elizabeth Barret Browning, Alfred Tennyson, Charles Bukowski, Edgar Allan Poe, Jack Kerouac and Arthur Rimbaud. I love and admire the work of the beautiful lady, Maya Angelou very much also, especially in her inspirational writings like "Again I Rise". I love the spirit in her nature.

Poetry L & T:Finally Charlotte, what advice would you give to young poets who wish to improve their work and/or find a publisher?

Charlotte Mair:Just keep plugging away, writing and sending in your efforts. Poetry is like music, art, drama in that the beauty is in the eye of the beholder and is a creative means of putting forth ideas, your ideas and emotions; of striking a keynote to reach even one heart, albeit your own. In truth, once you pour words from the heart they never stop flowing. A true poet writes because he has the need ... not the craving for fame and fortune.

Hereís a little ditty for ya. Just a wee poem to show we all get discouraged at times of rejection but that we must keep on tickiní like "Big Ben".

Another Composition
© Charlotte Mair

by Charlie and Pal
from the rainy boonies
in the far off land of Hongcouver
Whooshwhoosh goes the traffic
on oil slick, rain-drenched asphalt
as the writer bleeds on paper
to the literary world
wondering what remarks and snickers
will be tossed back and forth
only to see
the shiny new stamp
placed so neatly by nimble fingers
thirty wishful days ago
returned on old # 10
with words to stab
NO Thanks!

More of Charlotte's Poems

Charlotte with granddaugher Grace
© Charlotte Mair

nights pervade my wish
for smooth and silken sails
to carry me upon those wanton ships
to shores of latent discovery

if I canít melt into a whisper
or a hint to ease this wounded
then surely I may
not be able to fit jigsaw together
with only the flicker of flame to light my way

king checks queen
yet fails to see her strength
in knights, rooks pawns
how pride and strength still hold
within the ashen corridors
that fifty years have worked upon

see there in the clearing
on the long and trodden path
barefooted, bedraggled, wayfarer
still clears rocks, the fungi and the witches' broom
from ancient oaks that fail to block her steadfast trail

foul winds blow
tawny, tiny, craggy, hopes
still bend and fold within the torn and tattered sails
of her tall ships of grandeur and of creaking masts
that threaten with a hairline crack
to end Kon-Tiki expeditions

so every now and then a bailing
must take place
to save the sinking ship
but there remains a need for aid
as this titanic heart still holds a yearning
for the ride on torrent seas
with water babes and mermaids
and prays lifeís ecstasies might shield her from a wake
she has endured

sheís smooth on waves of mettle
always steady as she goes girl
sleep will come in time oh wura wura wura wart
skip along the new fandango girl
and never let the worries be your guide

© Charlotte Mair

Iím tired of black
I wanna wear red,
to live as a flame burning bright

Iím tired of being an ember
afraid to bother another
that I might even try to ignite

Iím tired of side-stepping thoughts
to please every entity but me

Its my turn to shine!

Time oh time
where does time go half-century?

The mirror cracked today,
and cannot tell a lie
Oh look the reflection has the audacity to try
to spruce up the little girl that still lurks within!
Guess humor lives on before
melting into oblivion,
will she dwindle with not a scratch, an etch in time
Can you
colour, this person,
... this me,
this real who I am ?

There is no outer crust
I am open face
You know me as you see me
speaking in earnest
I receive opinion with open mind
I call it as I see it
and get burned at the stake sometimes
for doing so,
and take notice the wolves who nip and pull at my heels,
when a fault should appear and sure enough will for I am human

But I will always and never be stilled
to give freely from my bowl
holding no ill thoughts so
Take some
Overlook any lemon or sour grapes
I havenít fully cleared the fridge of these thoughts
Suppose there will always be some fruit to rot
and never sweeten to taste
But I wont let my life go to waste
with ill creeds.

The above poem is being published in hard copy by a site known as "Survivors Poetry" with a anthology of the same name.

To read more of Charlotte's poetry Click here

To contact her, email: [email protected]


Dear Poets,

This issue features an interview with Artvilla editor and award-winning poet Charlotte Mair, who has appeared several times in the Featured Poets section.

There is also the start of the ongoing cartoon "The Perils of Norris", the virtual poet, whose misadventures and uniquely brave efforts at poetry will appear in most issues, when time allows.

Featured poets this month include Duane Locke, Paul Gilbert, Richard Van De Draaij, Neil Ray and Jan Sand, with a special announcement about Jan Sand following his poems.

Announcement For September Issue: I would like to request that all contributions for the September issue be sent much earlier than usual, ideally, the first two weeks of August, rather than near the end of August. The reason for this is that I will be in hospital on the 8th of August and recovering from an operation for the following 2 weeks. When I go home it will not be difficult to sit and work on the computer, but it would help me a lot to have all submissions in by the 24th of August, including announcements and poetry submissions. In return, I promise not to write any depressing poems about hospitals or operations.

Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Please indicate whether you would like such comments to be included in the Letters section. Announcements are always welcome, you can also promote poetry books here but include links to web pages with price details, rather than giving the price.

Any poetry submissions should be in plain text in the body of an email, with a small jpeg picture attached, also a bio, preferably with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links. This will increase chances of inclusion, especially if a submission is sent late in the month, as it saves me time to get a picture and bio at the same time. Further submission guidelines are available on request.

Best Regards,


Featured poets this month include Duane Locke, Paul Gilbert, Richard Van De Draaij, Neil Ray and Jan Sand.

Many thanks to all contributors.

Duane Locke with one of
his paintings

Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in Renaissance Literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, Poet in Residence at University of Tampa for over twenty years, he has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander, is author of 14 books of poems, his latest being WATCHING WISTERIA (to order write Vida Publishing, P. O. Box 12665, Lake Park, FL 33405-0665, or see or call Small Press Distribution-1-800-869-7553), as a cyber-poet, since Sept 1, 1999 has had 1006 acceptances of his poems by online e zines, photographer, listed in PSA's WHO'S WHO as one of the top twenty nature photographers, currently has 112 of his Alley photos accepted on line (These are pictures made of discards and trash in alleys. He moves in close to find a design that speaks beauty from what people have thrown away), painter, currently having a one-man show of over 30 painting at the Pyramid gallery in Tampa, winner for poetry of the Edna St. Vincent Millay, Charles Agnoff, and Walt Whitman awards, now lives alone and isolated in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives estranged and as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language, some form of postmodern English, of his surroundings. The egregious ugliness of his neighborhood has been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police who put up bright orange and yellow posters on each post to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.

© Duane Locke

He, the sculptor, who wore white sandals
Carved his Satyr
Out of Paros marble.
Everything about this Satyr was absolute,
No transient tints,
This Satyr was permanent,
Immobile, still
While the other Satyrs
And their hooves
Had ran into
The dark quivers of the dark forest..

© Duane Locke

Socrates, the ground around me
Is scattered with
The shattered glass of broken searchlights,
The bedrooms
Wear cracked eyeglasses.
What I held in my arms was a skeleton.
I tried to touch skin,
But was blocked by regiments of pulpits and posters.
The bars are advertising showcases of pinned butterflies.
There are no choices,
No frontiers with fireflies.

© Duane Locke

The laurel oaks' limbs move in wind
As if Javanese dancer's braceleted arms,
A frog in a puddle beats a drum
By puffing his throat in and out.
I notice the laurel's eyelids
Have been painted purple by weather.
Javanese dancers' eyes are fixed,
Immobile, inanimate, but not
The flickering oak eyes.
Javanese dancers seem spectral,
These oaks have human flesh.

© Duane Locke

Rains on night sea chase
Away the ghosts who reclined
On elbows when the sea was calm.

Now, the water, a field of fireflies,
As if the water were land with corn
Shaking greens among fires in storms.

Tonight, the water talks
A language never before heard by human ears,
Not the old, daily language of ghosts.

© Duane Locke

A stranger shouted over my fence
That it was a holiday.

I with wine under a cedar
Did not what holiday.

The jasmine flowers in white dances
Were dancing as if at a festival.

Orange blossoms clapped their hands.
A weed with multicolored leaves became fireworks.

None of these festive things around me
Knew it was a holiday..

[email protected]

has been writing poetry for a number of years and since Spring '97 has started to be published, first in print magazines such as 'Still magazine' of the U.K., and 'Famous Reporter' in Australia, among others. More recently has seen poems appear on the internet in various poetry zines and poetry- related sites. Motto: "Poetry is Passion!"

Two sites for some of his poetry: and

*Note - see below the Dutch versions, for translations

© Richard James van de Draaij

Toen ik eens, na een lange dag, Wilde gaan slapen, Bleef ik aan jou, de wereld, aan alles denken, Hoe dingen soms zo moeilijk lijken, Toch zo simpel zijn in zichzelf, Het gordijn was nog open, Gaf me zicht op een verre planeet, Of een schaduwster, En iets in mij werd wakker, Iets ouds, of iets van ver, Het was een sterk verlangen, Dichtbij te zijn, Dicht bij jou, jouw wereld, jouw alles, En samen te gaan slapen, Eenvoudig, zacht en stil, In die droom werd ik gewaar: Jij bent wat ik wil. Translation: Shadowstar © Richard James van de Draaij
Once, when after a long, long day, I wanted to go to sleep, I kept thinking of you, the world, everything, How things may sometimes appear complicated, Yet are so simple in themselves, The curtains were still open, Gave me a view of a distant planet, Or a shadowy star, And something in me was awakened, Something old, or from afar, It was a strong desire, To be close, Close to you, your world, your everything, And to fall asleep together, Simple, soft and quietly, In this dream I realised, You are what I want. Die Woorden © Richard James van de Draaij
Die woorden hoorden niet bij jou, Ik had je nog nooit zo boos gezien, En toch vond ik je nog lief, Je vurige ogen nog vriendelijk, Je handen bewogen met stijl, Ik sprak "Het spijt me", en toen je lach, Je ogen, opnieuw sprankelend en aardig, Er was weer liefde. Translation: Those Words © Richard James van de Draaij
Those words did not belong to you, I'd never seen you so cross, And I still thought you were sweet, Your fiery eyes still kind-natured, Your moving hands, they moved with style, I spoke "I'm sorry", and then your laugh, Your eyes, once again, sparkling and kind, And love once again. [email protected]

was born, raised and educated in Windsor, Ontario Canada. Since adulthood, Paul has lived in various parts of Central and Western Canada. Now he resides in the city of Niagara Falls Ontario (the place with the waterfall).

Paul's published work has appeared in "Enlightenment", "Melange" and "Cjacks". On the internet work has appeared in Artvilla and a couple of times in rec.arts.poems.

When not working, doing things around the house and raising the children, Paul is the publisher, editor and keeper of the espresso machine of the ezine "Above Ground Testing", this is a monthly poetry and literary ezine. He has also developed a couple of quarterly ezines, "Avant Garde Times" and "Exit522 on the Cosmic Highway".

© Paul Gilbert

I want my life
to be above ground
visable and transparent
to the one I love.
No longer
locked away
in a place of
but sharing
and being shared
by those
who want
to love

© Paul Gilbert

maybe I need
to be filled with angst
to write with the rage
then the words would come easy.

Words that would express
my misery and loathing
at those around
who dare not try
to understand my tortured soul.

maybe I need to drink
some more coffee
and pretend to have the culture
I see lacking in others.

then again,
I think I'll go home
and watch something on tv.

© Paul Gilbert

should you need me
I'll be here tomorrow
right now, I'm busy
wrapped up in myself.

leave a message at the beep
I'll get back
when I come out of my shell.

© Paul Gilbert

fog rolls in
to soften the colour and shapes
of the landscape
with a gentle hue of grey.

[email protected]

Neil Ray

is 44 years old, and lives in Fayetteville, North Carolina. He is married and has two children. He currently works in the floral industry, as a floral wholesaler. He graduated from Terry Sanford Senior High School in 1974. He attended Richmond Technical Institute, for one year, and then joined the US Air Force. He left the Air Force in 1979, and has recently worked at several jobs, until his current position, which he has held for the last seven years.

Neil has a member of the Writer's Ink Guild since 1994, and is the editor of the Guild's newsletter, The Ink Pad. The newsletter has been in publication for the last three years, and is currently up to 750 copies, per issue.

Neil Ray has been published in numerous anthologies: Meditations (Iliad Press, 1994), A Tapestry of Thoughts (Watermark Press, 1995), Homecoming (Old Mountain Press, 1999) and the local newspaper, Fayetteville Observer-Times. He currently has a chapbook out, "QuestÖof the Plebeians" (FlamingHeart Productions, 1999). He has conducted workshops for the North Carolina Poetry Society, Poetry to the People, and several workshops at Hoke County Senior High, (Mrs. Timmins, Senior English), and at West Hoke Middle School, (Ms. Fazzio, Ms. Phillips, Ms. Curtis, Ms. Cannon, 8th grade English), Ms. Archambeau (7th grade English), and Ms. Byrd (6th grade English).

He is the host of two open mike events in Fayetteville. "Java Jams" every Sunday night at the Coffee Scene, and "Poetic Expressions" every first Friday of the month, at Artistic X-pressions. Both located in Westwood Shopping Center. He will be hosting a new children's open mike event at Barnes and Noble, on the first Thursday of each month, and was requested by the North Carolina Poetry Society, to assist in the Awards Day presentations in May. He is the champion of the Fayetteville 2000 Poetry Slam Season. Neil is also the in coming chairman of The Membership Development and Projects Committee for the North Carolina Poetry Society.

Says Neil: "...Although, I have no teaching background or certificates to say such. All of my school workshops have come at the request of the teachers themselves, after witnessing my performances at the open mikes, or some other literary event. I truly enjoy working with the kids, because, I can see something special burning in their eyes, during the presentation of the workshop, but it is the poetry writing at the end, that gives them the greatest pleasure. That makes it all worthwhile."

Neil D. Ray  Copyright 1997 

Peppermint A smell of peppermint was on her breath. Especially.... when she spoke of Jesus and his goodness. My head held tight against her breast listening to her heart beat its gentle lullaby. Long, silver gray, hair, soft upon my cheek, with a hint of lilac. Love Was two wrinkled hands caressing a fragile bulb containing a spirit waiting to bloom. And she whispered love and prayers into tiny ears with the smell of peppermint in the air. When she was here.

The Girl Behind The Counter
Neil D. Ray Copyright 2000

The girl behind the counter has a maiden's beauty.
Her image graces the door of the little store.
She is a whisper shy of innocence.
The anticipate breath of romance
Her essence a presence consumed in mystery.

The girl behind the counter moves in majestic air.
She submits her service with style and a smile.
All the young men come around preaching their jive.
All the old men have another reason for being alive.
And sweet are the receipts that come from her

The girl behind the counter is another's dream come true.
She is the decoration that receives all the admiration.
The beloved portrait hanging on the wall.
The crystal chandelier suspended in the hall.
A floral garden sprayed with morning dew.

The girl behind the counter is a princess anticipating her throne.
Her eyes present no place for alibis.
She is an angel fettered to this antagonistic earth
But she knows her heart and what it is worth.
And she will keep that sanctum as her own.

The Rose of Charleston
Neil D. Ray Copyright 1999

and I went
down to where
the whispering river
flows within sculptured shores
hastening the specters of yesteryears.
a redolent aroma scandalizes the air.
romance is a sermon of passionate sighs.
and I know
she blooms beneath
the winged boughs
of the eternal tree.

Neil D. Ray  Copyright 1999 

To say it... compliments the mouth with whispers a calm upon the waters a lull in the air comforting as a prayer. Say it... its mystique a raging fever embellish the folding mystery informal invitation laden in this voluptuous mold Say it again... comprehend its dazing demur supplement its transcending nature a kiss before it passes sticky sweet upon the lips Just say it...

[email protected]

Self-portrait by Jan Sand

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.

© Jan Sand

Know that what the universe purveys
Is beauty.
What is, is beautiful.
What comes is beautiful.
What has been is beautiful.
Beauty rips continents like old rags.
When the black shoulder of the Earth
Shrugs away the Sun's light
And the fist of night opens
To hurl in our face the stars
And the insult of infinity,
This is beauty.
Our planet explodes with beauty
To bleed fire and smoke
To choke everything that breathes.
It scrubs the earth with floods
To reduce the intricate to simplicities.
Fear beauty, for it is fierce.
It has been worshipped as a god.
But beauty has no love, no hate,
Nor the slightest interest in us.

© Jan Sand

As a brick in a wall, so am I fixed
Where time and circumstance entrained
Describe each point, indivisible in my mixed
And piebald life. My wife, incorporated and ingrained
Into my textures can no more be washed away
By the random rain of accident and tragedy
Than can clicks of common seconds of a clock be held at bay.
Whatever distance imposed by geography,
We are, in this common wall, firmly inserted.
Side by side, our surfaces interact
Through time and space and love in our contract.

© Jan Sand

The residuals of life transmute
When immediacy has worked its stratagems
To add, subtract, multiply and divide -
In all ways interact and compute
So that the final form of thought stems
Out of small practicalities, in end abide
In broad patterns, integrated shapes
Bound up in unremitted debts
Burdening sad phantoms that traipse
In solemn formation of dark regrets.

© Jan Sand

Come with me
Out of town
Where there is no up
And there is no down,
Where the stars shine
Between your toes.
Night's at your back
And the sun's on your nose.
We'll stop at Mars
And kick up dust,
Sail to the stars
And pick up a gust
Of the cosmic wind
To blow us away
Where Time is pinned
Past the speed of light.
And we'll come back
Before tonight.

© Jan Sand

I stand here on polished malachite,
My stubby feet encased in gold.
Candles circle me alight,
My arms crossed in eternal fold.
My eyes are diamond, my teeth are pearl.
Bright paints highlight my face.
My lips, permanent in curl.
The adulants kneel down before my base.
They mumble nonsense down into the floor.
Sometimes , in blood, they sacrifice each other.
It excites them. To me it is a bore,
A silly action, meaningless, a bother.
Long ago, I grew towards light, a tree.
I sucked the earth for water and for food.
Mostly, pure air manufactured me.
They chopped me down, just to use my wood.
In one side they cut an ugly face.
As a tree I possessed some beauty.
What they did to me was a disgrace.
They rubbed me glossy, black and sooty,
Conducted ceremonies most odd.
It seems it takes a tree to make a god.

P Ode
© Jan Sand

There are people I have yet to meet.
So many places yet I have to see.
There are things to do, so many things,
And this body that I have, or has me
Is wearing out, is breaking down.
My eyes no longer work that well,
My lacks so often make me frown.
Ideas! I have ideas to realize.
I know my time is running out.
Each minute comes to emphasize
There are not many more for me.
I have spent my miserable two cents
And death is such a God damned nuisance.

[email protected]

Charlotte Mair has put up a new menu of Jan Sand's work on her Charlotte's Web pages at Artvilla. Click Jan's self-portrait to visit the page and see the collection.

Charlotte Mair recently won first prize for Internet Arts, from Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press. She is pictured left with the award.

2000 has been a good year so far for Jan Sand. He was recently published on Kedco's new CD ROM "A Way With Words" with three other poets. His poetry collection on the CD is entitled "Wild Figments and Odd Conjectures", which includes some charming poems about animals, some humorous poems and some very moving work about his life.


Another good reason to visit Artvilla - to download the recent addition
of Elisha Porat's new MP3 recital.

Also find his menu on:

New... THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon. Spot Reginald the Rat,
say where he is and the first correct email wins a prize...

I will be back. Love your work. Inspired me to work harder. Your circle of influence has expanded again.


Richard Emerson
[email protected]

September 1998

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Mail me on: [email protected] with any poems, comments for the letters page, news about your poetry site, or forthcoming poetry events. The September deadline is slightly early - 24th August.

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