May 2002Café Society's Poetry News Update
Do you have poetry news or comments? Mail me on the link at the bottom of this page. Announce competitions / calls for submissions here free.

An Interview With


Barbara Bales has lived in Southern California all her life. She is 46 years old and is the mother of three sons and one daughter, Bekah, who was tragically murdered on the 19th of July, 2001, at the age of 21. Since then she has only written one poem which was not about her ("Last Call", as discussed in this interview). She has been writing for over 30 years and publishing (primarily online) for about five years.

In this interview Barbara speaks candidly about her poetry and feelings regarding her daughter, and injustice in general.


Poetry L & T:When and why did you first start writing poetry, Barbara?

Barbara:I began writing poems when I was 13 years old. I was just inspired to write one poem, then another, and another, and it soon became a necessity.

Poetry L & T:Who are your favorite poets?

Barbara:Sylvia Plath, Theodore Roethke, William Shakespeare, Robert Lowell, William Wordsworth, who else? ...I read a lot online these days and Caryn Andregg and Janet Buck are two poets whose work I've come across online and loved.

Poetry L & T: I have read some of your very moving poems concerning the murder of your daughter in July 2001. Which have been the hardest emotions to deal with, when writing poetry about this subject?

Barbara:Grief. Sorrow. Disbelief. Hatred. I guess when it comes to writing a poem, the most difficult feelings are those I bear toward the person who killed my daughter. I don't know that those feelings can be made pretty. I wrote a villanelle directed toward Bekah's killer, and all murderers, but haven't shared it yet. The bitterness is too obvious.

Poetry L & T: Do you have any current writing projects which aim to help (or raise awareness) of other parents in similar tragic circumstances?

Barbara:I have my web page, and I am preparing a manuscript of my poems/diary written since Bekah died - hopefully I will be able to publish it. I think it can be helpful for recently bereaved parents, and also for non-bereaved people, who do not understand the unique nature of the grief experienced when one's child is murdererd. I am also planning to read some poems on a local radio station for an organization called "Justice for Murdered Children", which hopefully will happen in the next month or two.

Poetry L & T: Through poetry and other arts we can immortalize the people we love. What would you most like to do to commemorate Bekah's life?

Barbara:For those of us who knew and loved Bekah, I have been, since her death, transcribing all of her writing and sharing it with family and friends. For me personally, I visit her grave at least twice a week and apply myself as honestly and energetically as I can to the task of recovering from the blow of her death. I believe that in order co accomplish that task, my faith must be steadfast so that the love Bekah and I share has not ended with her life. For the world, this is a difficult question... through my writing I hope that her beauty is conveyed. And will be remembered... Bekah was special, and if anything, I would hope that who she was would be committed to posterity.

Poetry L & T:I found your poem "Last Call" moving and intriguing. I would love to know more about it.

Barbara:I hope it's more or less self-explanatory... I was involved in an unhealthy relationship at the time I wrote it.

Poetry L & T:Do you ever write about your spiritual beliefs in your poetry?


Poetry L & T:Is there a famous poem or quote, which you feel is particularly apt for how you feel about justice and the tragic loss of your daughter?

Barbara:Yes, King Solomon:
"Justice will only be achieved when those who are not injured by crime feel as indignant as those who are."
Poetry L & T:What advice would you give to parents who have suffered a bereavement in similar circumstances?

Barbara:Give yourself as much time to grieve as you need. Don't let yourself be judged by non-bereaved people; they cannot understand, so know that. Support groups and grief counseling have been vital for me, and writing has just always been my natural reaction to anything momentous, whether happy or, as in the case of my daughter's murder, unbelievably devastating. I do believe that in a situation like mine, one does not have to be a writer for writing to be therapeutic.

Poetry L & T:About poetry in general: are there any things in modern poetry online which you find annoying?

Barbara:Not that I can think of.

Poetry L & T:Is there a quiet place near you, where you go for inspiration and to remember Bekah in peace?

Barbara:I go to her grave at least two times a week.

Poetry L & T:Finally Barbara, what advice would you give to young poets who seriously wish to improve their writing?

Barbara:Write. Read. Read and write, read more, go to school, study poetry.

Poetry L & T:Thank you for the interview, Barbara.

Barbara:Than you.     :)

CLICK HERE to read poetry by
Barbara Bales


Dear Poets,

Welcome to the May 2002 issue of Poetry Life & Times (For those of you reading this on a mirror site and not, click here).

This issue features an interview with Barbara Bales, a poet whose work appears on Barbara's only daughter, Bekah, was tragically murdered in July 2001.

Featured Poets this month include Deborah P. Kolodji, The Quill, Ian Thorpe, Angela Hadley, Brian Whatcott, Richard Vallance, and Jan Sand.

The Vallance Review this month explores the sonnet "The Laurentians" by Frederick George Scott.

Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page. Announcements are always welcome (brief if possible), you can also promote poetry books here.

Poetry submissions should be in plain text in the body of an email, with a small jpeg author picture attached, also a bio, with the URLs of any ezines mentioned, so that they can be shown as links. This increases the chance of inclusion, especially for late submissions. Pictures are best at a maximum of 520 pixels across, otherwise they take ages to arrive by email, especially in bitmap or TIFF format. Further submission guidelines are available on request.

Best Regards,



Click title below for this month's Vallance Review feature

Richard Vallance reviews sonnets, both classic and modern.

Featured Poets this month include Deborah P. Kolodji, The Quill, Ian Thorpe, Angela Hadley, Brian Whatcott, Richard Vallance, and Jan Sand. Many thanks to all contributors.


Deborah P. Kolodji is a divorced mother of three who uses her career in information technology to fund her poetry habit. Her work has appeared in scores of small press magazines and webzines, including Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Stirring, Red River Review, the Vallance Review (Poetry Life & Times, Nov. '01) and Twilight Times. Two of her poems appeared in the recent anthology, "Envelopes of Time", published by Electric Wine.

Other recent publications include three poems in Keith Allen Daniels landmark science fiction poetry anthology, 2001: A Science Fiction Poetry Anthology, which is available from Anamnesis Press, as well as a true life story in "Charity, True Stories of Giving and Receiving", available from Red Rock Press.

Deborah is currently very interested in the cinquain. She is associate editor of Amaze, the webzine devoted to the cinquain poetry form (2-4-6-8-2 syllables). She also helped run a workshop (with Amaze head-editor, Denis Garrison) on the World Haiku Club Shortverses e-mail list and is the owner/moderator of her own e-mail list, CinquainPoets, devoted to Cinquains.

© Deborah P. Kolodji

in earthly eyes,
sets up his telescope -
counts down the hours to meteor

© Deborah P. Kolodji

wind-blown blossoms
pink driveway confetti -
new clothes tossed aside, now nothing
to wear.

© Deborah P. Kolodji

our mom
prayed hard for peace
when us kids were at war
silly sibling fights before we
grew up

(Published in Autumn Leaves, January 2002)

© Deborah P. Kolodji

old underwear
piled up by the counter
hoping the cute guy in line won't

© Deborah P. Kolodji

always writing
dark words, her thoughts - driving
thoughts - her words, dark writing, always

(Published in Templar Phoenix Literary Review, Spring 2001)


(ROGER C. WORLEY) Published - Stand A Alone, Scroll Artist Magazine .. E_Zine - Twice winner at PoetryDownUnder - Two winner at Point of life - Two winner at Poetic Links - Published around the world on the net. From Alaska to Belgium.

The Quill runs these websites for poets:
The Poets' Porch
Poets Yellow Pages
Alpha Poets
Inclusion on these sites is mostly by invitation, but published poets can ask for an email submission form by emailing The Quill using the email link at the end of his featured poems.

Poet's note - "I am a poet who writes whatever happens to come into the gray matter... I believe in making the reader smile. There is to much pain and suffering in the world. I have been given a Nick name 'The Master Quill guru of the twisted tales.' Once you read my writings you shall know why..."

Due to a large amount of Virus HOAXES, The Poet's Porch now list in Poet Resource center three locations to check the facts. SO, in doubt..check Poet Resource center.

List your site
Poets Yellow

© The Quill 2002

The Scott brothers give birth
to an idea created by
the power of absolute

But marketing it became
a tormenting question.
For months on end they

over the presentation.
Then it occurred .
it was a simple

They would give samples
away for free!
Then sell it to the

Who would have believed
that perforated tissue
would turn them into

And that their invention
would become a compulsory

© The Quill 2002

Like volcanic lava,
molten gray cascades,
etching new pathways ...

photons and electrons
Produce magnetic fields,
Energizing cellular membranes ...

flesh pulsates wildly,
humps form erratically,
reacting to impute ...

saccharine levels collapse,
terminating future activity ...
the concept expires.

© The Quill 2002

She awoke me...
in such a rage
my whole body
was in shock.

Never have I
seen her display
such mental abandonment.

As she took
a stand in the
middle of the room.

The thought...
flashed throw my mind
it must be P.M.S.?

Her demands were
very clear I
had no choice.

I unlocked the
front door....
and she exited
in a blurring flash.

Taking the FedEX
delivery man , who
was parked in
the drive, totally
by surprise.

One would have
thought that such
a chute was
not capable of
such furiousness .

Upon seeing her
he departed in
a cloud of dust.
never have I
seen such speed.

I shall not
forget the look
on his face.
As she chased
him down the block.

And his screaming
"Your package is in---
the--- truck!"

© The Quill 2002

There once existed
a small Taco Shoppe
down in La Grande,

a wee bit south of
the legendary Rodeo Drive.
It's business was stunning:

at noon time its
drive-thru was backed
up for five miles.

Burrito Grande was the
only item on the menu,
at twenty-five hundred

dollars a piece, to go.
like flies to honey
Movie Stars and Producers

hurried there daily
until the D.E.A closed
the Burrito Grande down.


When Ian Thorpe used to perform in pubs, clubs and occasionally what he calls respectable venues around the North West of England he realised that there was an audience for verse beyond the libraries and literature faculties of Universities. as a computer systems specialist he was able to link his ideas about what needed to be done to present poetry in a form the non - academic audience would respond to with the buzz in the Information Technology industry about personal computers and the potential for putting a multi media centre in every home. Reality takes a while to catch up with ideas of course and there were many years and a few major obstacles in the way before the idea became attainable.

Now, with a multi media studio in the spare bedroom and with the aid of musicians from the band Realistic Hair, actors from an amateur drama group and students from the local college media department he is developing a collection of multi media pieces themed on the symbolism of the Tarot deck Major Arcana and provisionally called Arcane Encounters. Ian says he is not an adept with the Tarot and has never even had a personal reading done for him but is interested in the things the Arcana represent, their links to the single source of all mythologies and the way they interact in our lives. Arcane Encounters will be published by Kedco Artist Profile Press later in the year. Alternatively visit Ian's homepage to keep up with progress on the project and learn about the misadventures that will inevitably befall the team.

© Ian Thorpe, 2002

Born in a hovel while Britannia ruled the waves,
She played on cobblestones and dreamed of rocking
horses, but loved her rag dolls as if they were made
from the finest china. Grew like a weed between
walls of poor streets, snatching any love or learning
that came her way. Flowered into womanhood
pretty and proud, her menses began just as war
guns fell silent and eight million graves made
a mausoleum for the war that would end all wars

Clouds of poverty rained on her youth, she
worked her fingers raw when there was work, and
wages to be earned. She stood between fading
father, childworn mother and humiliation, tried
to find carefree hours in a time heavy with care,
Bleached her hair with lemons, reddened lips with
bourgeois rouge, fell in love at end of summer ,
when hunger marched. Danced to the beat of a
different drummer but was never quite in step

Legs raised in slings she cursed and pushed her first
child into a world where bullets flew, heralding
another conflict, another rich man's ruse to
fill deep pockets and drain a generation's lives.
In the first year her husband fell; Lizzie loosed hold
On the little happiness she had, Pushed up
her sleeves and set to the task of making for her
children a key to better things than she had known,
and for her King-and-country's war, bullets and bombs.

War birds migrated east, class and privilege were
set aside, the common people invited to
the feast. Though the guns were idle nation spoke
fear to nation. With knuckles swollen, gnawed by pain
Lizzie worked, work was all she had known, Always quick
to show compassion, ever tardy to complain,
she was said to be a lake of goodness but few
offered her a comforting hand. Though many a
generous spirit broke, hope still lit her eyes

And when peace came to Lizzie's life it brought her
solitude. Children grown and gone away, her man
three decades dead she faced an unknown future
and began again. A world of unfamiliar
voices promised the future to the young and Lizzie
for the first time had no one but herself to please.
She smiled as the girls with bodies liberated,
boys with flowing hair, defied the high and mighty.
All her tribulations had served some purpose.

Feeding birds, arranging flowers, watching seasons
flow enjoying the time she had earned as hers
to waste or employ as she wished, Lizzie
outlived her friends and all but one distant child.
Slipped away in a home where the forgotten
go to die, and in a sun bright graveyard, under
bursting, bright green buds only one man who never
knew her stood to eulogise a life punctuated
by promises but defined by their betrayal.

Let Lizzie Blackburn's requiem be written
clearly in the future of this wounded world

Author note: On April 9, 2002 the national grief in the UK (inspired largely by the media) reached the required level of hysteria as Elizabeth, mother of the reigning monarch Queen Elizabeth the second and widow of King George VI was buried after lying in state as thousands of people whose lives she had never touched filed past the coffin to make their obsequiences. The world loves to watch such displays of pomp and circumstance by the British, it is what we do best. We do not do quite so well however in caring for the millions of old people who have lived good but unremarkable lives.

© Ian Thorpe, 2002

People gathered at my birth filled with goodwill and hope,
That the post - war generation could advance with scope,
To end age old distinctions of privilege and class,
Build a world of opportunity and justice for the mass;
But somehow as the decades passed it seemed to go awry,
My life, A New World Order, sacrificed to justify
An idea that undid the progress of a thousand years
And conspired to lose the wisdom of the prophets and fakirs.
So on with the Motley, I'll wear the costume of a fool
And sacrifice my dignity to play the Lord of Ridicule

Education taught me nothing except how to ask for more
Ignoring all the lessons learned by those who passed before
The Welfare system failed to nurture from the cradle to the grave
And debt peddlers speak enticingly but their promises enslave
Now somewhat prematurely I have come back to the cross
And balance what might lie ahead with what's already lost
With neither work nor wealth I must contrive to make my way
And see the world more clearly though the world perceives me fey.
So on with the Motley, I'll wear the costume of a fool
And sacrifice my dignity to play the Lord of Ridicule

The tyrant fears the madman more than the idiot fears the gun
And the joker will reclaim the stone when the philosopher is done
With satire as my currency and punning rhyme my coin
I use my wit and wordplay to distract as I purloin
The cloak of self - importance that the powerful must wear
And expose their perfidy while finer wordsmiths sneer.
They build ivory towers of sophism and casually disrespect
My simple - minded clowning and lack of intellect
But I deal in irony and badinage, buffoonery and farce
Because laughter is a precious thing where sagacity is sparse.
So on with the Motley, I'll wear the costume of a fool
And sacrifice my dignity to play the Lord of Ridicule

In Cathedrals of commerce and corridors of power
From the temple of Venus to the top of Mammon's tower
A thousand glib deceptions are used to conceal the truth
While masters of illusion spin substance into spoof,
And create an environment where nothing's as it seems
Propaganda is perverter of innocence's dreams
Conditioning to consumption has become systemic
And addiction to material things is becoming epidemic
But in my multi - coloured garb I make myself immune
And lead my audience in dancing to a different tune.
So on with the Motley, I'll wear the costume of a fool
And sacrifice my dignity to play the Lord of Ridicule

Author Note: From my forthcoming Tarot - themed collection Arcane Encounters. This is a poem to be performed with music in a rather sophisticated rap style.

(For Pauline Armstrong)
© Ian Thorpe, 2002

Grey mist drifted from the Celtic Sea
Through streets heavy with visible sorrows.
Morning sighed awake to the sound
Of tyres slapping on a wet road surface.
In rooms where sleep has been a refuge
Through the dying hours, thoughts stir,
Angers and resentments reawaken.
And are not soothed by breakfast chaos
or the rattle of Cheerful cups.
In one house an alarm rang unheeded,
No kitchen chorus hailed the dawn.
A woman sleeps on, a fearless sleep,
her dark, heavy lashes resting
like butterfly wings upon her cheeks.

Breathless traffic sweated exhauted toxins
Into the tired air; factoies coughed into life,
Spitting their poisonous sputum
at a soiled sky. In one workshop
an empty bench screamed alarms
at fellow workers, but nobody heard.
Across town the woman slept on.
Beside her small yellow pills danced
across a tabletop, and a bottle,
half empty, kept a lonely vigil
beside a note. "Goodbye, I'm sorry
I could not bear to stay. The burden might
have seemed lighter if just for once
somebody could have said they loved me.

I heard of her lonely death much later,
Remembering at once the dark eyes,
Jetstones cut cabochon and set in soft cheeks,
Clasped by heavy butterfly lashes.
Quick laughter, too loud as if let loose
only infrequently. Her pleasure of me
urgent too, as if the dead - march
Of some rough hand upon my door
Might steal the moment from her.
Long gentle fingers stroking my skin,
The strength in slender arms that bound
Like an enchantment. And her body, supple
as a wand and hungry as the North Wind,
blowing from a cold place, demanding me.
Always at the end her stiletto qustion:
Do you love me just a little, not to keep
But for now, can you say you love me?

But I was young and did not understand
The dice she cast were not for me.
Nor did I see sadness touch her face
As my evasions, like blows of a brutal fist
bruised and hurt her at the moment
she had to leave where she would cling.
Slipping on her jailor ring she left,
retreating to her loveless bed
before dawn brought home the beast.
I was not wise enough to lie and so
When time shifted my orbit I never
Wondered why she had to ask "please
will you - can you - say you love me
just a bit, just for the hours we have.

Finding the grave behind an ugly church
I knelt and with a finger traced the letters
Of her half forgotten name. Time freed me
To feel again her warmth and taste
the sweet gifts in her kiss.It was too late
But still I laid a rose upon the ground
And beside it placed a note that read
"After all these selfish years I promise
I still love you - More than a little."

Author Note: This is a true story told with the two licences that go with poetry and time. My third "grown up" lover (when I swapped notches on the bedpost for relationships) was a bisexual woman some years older than me. The girl I write of was soon leading me into many love games and opening my eyes to the delights of experience. As the English Aristocrat Lord Chesterfield once said "There is nothing sets up a young man quite so well as having an older mistress." I'll dedicate this one to Veronica.

© Ian Thorpe, 2002

Even now, I wonder at possibilities
that unfold each year in a garden
with the sowing of new seeds to grow,
nourished by the food of past experience.
Memories of our season are still fresh
as I prepare for each new planting.

I would never have found my own garden
or learned of the pleasures it held
had you not opened the gate for me.
Loving you was an epiphany
for someone taught to never leave
the street where he was born.
When you led me to the ways of senses,
showed me the mysteries of Circe
and the dark, narcotic secrets of Nephtis,
I could not go back to a drab place where
rats race and hungry dogs gnaw
on their own young. Nor could I live
among highrise people, for whom each day
is a staircase in their unending climb.

You taught me well, flowers grow in
tended ground, they need warmth and
gentle care but can withstand the
strongest wind, survive the hardest rain.

Then when all our blooms had died
you sent me on to use what you had taught,
lead others to a garden, show them
how every stem, each leaf and all the lives
that share our earth must be equally cherished
and none, no matter how its beauty
shines out brighter than the rest,
should be placed above any other.

I wonder who is in your garden now;
or are we both alone trying to resist
the weeds and deadheading our memories?

Author's Note: (Chapter in "Arcane Encounters" - "The Empress and the Knight of Wands") The Knight of Wands, one of the significators of the collection's narrative voice, has evolved from the callow and rather fey Page of Cups into early manhood. The spirit of mature womanhood in the shape of a series of older and much wiser lovers help him to leave adolescence behind.


Angela Hadley's writings are inspired by her love of the weird and surreal, especially if these are buried just below the surface of everyday reality. She's not prepared to accept limits on the scope of her imagination, tending to follow it wherever it goes. Occasionally she finds herself in some unfamiliar but exciting places. Angela's off-beat short stories have been published in various places on the web, including DeathGrip, Ascent Magazine and the Electronic Writers' Group's EWG Presents. Her poetry continues to permeate the web like a kind of subversive virus.

Visit Angela's Fortress of Fantasy

You can also find Angela's work at these sites:
Dream Forge
Shadow Voices

Solo Performance
© Angela Hadley

Like a virtuoso soloist
She knows her instrument;
Knows what music
She should play, and when.

Her every move is orchestrated
To one aim:
To win him.
And she will.

He's putty in her hands;
She reads him like a book.
And all the while,
He thinks he's the one in charge.

Poor deluded fellow,
Smug in his belief of conquest.
But he's been suckered.

He sees the bait,
Goes for it --
Hook, line and cliché?
And he's hers,
Like all the others.

Just another of her ever-growing
Line of trophies.
A plaything, to be snared with fancy,
Added to the list,
And tossed away.

Freedom's Price
© Angela Hadley

At last!
I do hope it's today!
For too long I've been cooped up here,
Among my bitching sisters.

Today's the sale --
I go on show.
With luck I'll leave this place forever.

She calls.
Our house-mother, stern and anxious,
Shepherds us toward the stage.

I'm with the first --
Not good.
The punters might prefer
To see who else is here.

But I step out,
and keep my head held high.
I hardly see the men --
Their eager faces just a blur.

I hear a bid,
And Mother signals me.
One step up front
And I'm the one he wants.

Another sign from her and I obey:
Undo the waist-cord,
Let the robe descend.

The murmurs rise --
I hear a gasp or two.
(I'd hoped my naked form
Would cause such stir.)
The man, at Mother's wave,
Jumps briskly on the stage.

He's close to me,
His gaze enveloping my skin.
He reaches out --
I feel his palm against my cheek.
I look into his eyes.
He smiles. The faintest nod.

"Sold!" cries Mother.
At last, I shall be free.

The Abyss
© Angela Hadley

Remorseless rats slink silently around
Hate's hollow pit,
Consuming festered sorrow,
Digesting incompletely,
And regurgitating all my undiminished worry.

I can't resolve,
Or satisfy, or banish
Or forget
What trouble has decided to impinge
Forever on my soul.

I had a carefree life,
Until this head-shock stunner
Knocked me low.

Now I must stagger under grief's cruel blow,
Afraid to grasp the merest shred of comfort
Lest it snap and catapult me
Far away,
And down
To the

I've been there.
And though I crawled
Along the mud-caked road,
Across the blood-soaked ground,
By dint of fingernails
And superhuman effort,
I think I am there still.

I never left,
Nor will I.

Click here for May 2002 Featured Poets page 2 --> link for second half of featured poets....

Poetry Life & Times is a nominating site for The Poet's Hall of Fame. Nominations are according to poetic merit and sometimes also for services to poetry in general.

Nomination from the April 2002 issue:

Jan Sand*


*Jan Sand has been Resident Poet of Poetry Life and Times almost since it first began in September 1998. He is also an accomplished cartoonist, illustrator, inventor and sculptor. It is high time he was given an accolade for his achievements.

*NEW* Competition from the Poets' Porch:

Click logo for details...

New book coming soon from Lyn Lifshin:


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


Lisez le numéro spécial de l'e-zine, la poésie à s'émouvoir (vol. 1, No. 3), où plusiers poètes canadiens sont en vedette, chez: Poetry in Emotion - la poésie à s'émouvoir


À lire aussi, le premier numéro du noveau E-zine canadien trimestriel d'envergure internationale, Sonnetto Poesia (vol. 1, No. 1).

Remco van der Zwaag, qui est hollandais, est le premier écrivain en vedette.
Cliquer ici: Sonnetto Poesia


The special Spring issue of: Poetry In Emotion (Vol. 1, No. 3), featuring Canadian poets, is now online at: Poetry In Emotion - la poésie à s'émouvoir


The maiden issue of the new Canadian Sonnet E-zine: Sonnetto Poesia (Vol. 1, No. 1, Spring / le printemps, 2002) is now online on the World Wide Web. This quarterly E-zine is international in scope.

Our first ever sonneteer is Remco van der Zwaag, who hails from the Netherlands.

NEW UPDATE to our Dutch page here at

Dutch-speaking readers and poets, Click here to read new work by Richard van der Draaij and an article by Jan Theunick (ORC\'b01954).

IETS NIEWS op ons website hier
in, voor gedichten in het Nederlands...

Even hier klicken voor Richard van der Draaij z'n niewe gedichten, en ook Jan Theunick (ORC\'b01954) z'n niewe artikel.

CALYX, A Journal of Art and Literature by Women, announces the inaugural Lois Cranston Memorial Poetry Prize sponsored by CALYX.

Final judge: Eleanor Wilner, MacArthur Fellow and author of Reversing the Spell: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press)

Submission dates: May 1, 2002 through July 1, 2002. (These are inclusive postmark dates.)

Prize: Winner will receive $250 cash award, publication in CALYX Journal, and a one-volume subscription. Finalists will receive a one-volume subscription and will be noted on CALYX's website.

Reading fee: $15 per entry, checks payable to CALYX

Details: Open to all themes and styles. Please send up to three (3) unpublished poems, no more than six (6) manuscript pages total, per entry. Do not include your name on the same page as a poem; instead, include a separate cover letter with your name, address, phone, e-mail, and titles of poem/s. No manuscripts will be returned. Please send unpublished work and please don't send simultaneous submissions. Please include a stamped, self-addressed envelope or (preferred) an e-mail address for contest results notification. The judge's decisions are final.

The contest winner and finalists will be notified by September 30 and will be announced on CALYX's website. The winning poem will be published in CALYX Journal Vol. 21, no. 1 (Winter 2003) and on CALYX's website.

Send submissions to:

Lois Cranston Poetry Prize
PO Box B
Corvallis OR 97339

For complete guidelines, e-mail: [email protected] or visit our website: Or see address and tel. details below:
PO Box B
Corvallis OR 97339
TEL: 541/753/9384
FAX 541/753/0515

The Poet's Porch Anthology July 2002

Dreamland             200 pages

Poets of The Poet's Porch, Guest Poets and Resident poets

Order NOW !
$16.00 with Shipping

Make check or postal money order payable to Poets Porch - Address below.

Dept PA
Poets Porch
P.O.Box 806 Civic Center
Fresno, CA. 93712-0806

Val Magnuson Galactic Poet Award



anthology, by Kedco Studios Artist Profile Press.

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

Enquiries to Elaine Davis at [email protected]

Also - Contributors Wanted for: CRYSTAL DAWN

... A new forthcoming anthology from Kedco.

Click Here for details.

THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #22. Reginald Rat has escaped from the cartoon completely! He could be anywhere on this page, doing anything. If you can find him, you win a prize!
Email [email protected] and say where he is and what he is doing. First correct answer wins prizes such as Poetry Life & Times pens and notebooks.

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.

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

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