October 1999 Café Society's Poetry News Update
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.



was born in Wales in 1971. She has been published in a few Welsh anthologies and papers and can also be found in the archives of Gravity: Issue 26; and Wired Hearts New publications are also in the August edition of Poetry Life and Times, and Autumn Leaves . When not writing or working Morfydd maintains the APC (alt.arts.poetry.comments) newsgroup site, where Morfydd can be found commenting daily. All her recent postings and works in progress can be found on Deja.

Meet the regulars and read the FAQ

The Cauldron

Poetry L & T: When did you first start writing poetry, Mop?

Mop: I wrote my first poem at five, it was about the sea and a killer shark and a mermaid, what can I say, I was a sick kid with an overactive imagination. I was regularly writing poetry by the age of eight. It was a compulsion thing. I would sit in the playground or classroom or mountains near my home and just write reams of the stuff, of course it is all horrible to read now, but it was pretty standard stuff for a child I suppose. I had a great teacher who really encouraged me in Junior school and he continued to take an interest after I left for High school. I gave up writing at 15 when I left school because I lost my imagination, it was too filled with angst-ridden stuff about love, sex or rather the lack off, not too mention the big bad horrible world in which every teenager resides. I got interested in doing other things, joined a lot of activist movements, a rock band and a dance troupe instead. I would still write occasionally but almost always ripped them up afterwards. Which, judging from the few that have survived, was a wise move. I started writing again at twenty when my daughter was three and just wrote whatever came to mind. I did write a whole series of poems for her about some fairy characters which I read to her at bedtimes, but sadly the collection got left behind at my bedsit when I got married and has since been thrown away. I have written pretty much steadily since then.

Poetry L & T:Who is your favourite classic or contemporary poet?

Mop:Oh dear that is a really difficult question to answer, I grew up on all the classic writers like Tennysson, Eliot, Wordsworth etc. My mother preferred them to nursery rhymes and we used to recite them every Sunday. So I have fond memories of those (and bad ones). I am learning about the craft of writing it now and have found a wonderful guide (Mike Yates whose writing can be found at http://www.alsopreview.com/yates/ )who is showing me a whole world of poetry and poets that I had never heard off so I am reading poets like Roethke and Rilke and Wallace Stevens, and Lorca who I think are wonderful. I can't define a favourite really, I just love all poetry, you know? Quite a few of the poets on AAPC are talented and I look forward to the times when they post. I have also joined some other places to critique work such as the Gazebo list and R.A.P and have noted some talented writers on there also. But I would say that it is the poems that I liked rather than the Poet. I tend to think if a poet is doing his or her craft properly then the poem becomes the memorable thing not the writer.

Poetry L & T:On your Cauldron website, you say The Cauldron is a project that celebrates Welsh Celtic Mythology, also that it will eventually encompass *all 24* of the traditional Welsh forms of poetry. Could you tell me more about a couple of those traditional forms, perhaps with an example?

Mop:Ha! talk about catching me on the hop. Yes I do say that on my web site but that is still largely in concept form at the moment. I posted it up because then it would become an obligation that I would have to complete. Okay, because I am Welsh I wanted to do honour to the Welsh tradition of poetry writing and have hidden them in a folder on my computer that is titled "Urgh why did I start this?" I did complete an Awdl Gywydd called Creiddylad's tears which I have given to you here

© Mop 19/9/99

Creiddylad is a beauty
and she does her duties well.
Every May with her powers
she brings flowers to the dell

Creiddylad though is saddened
as she gladdens this fair May;
though Gwythyr's vow she carries
they will marry judgment day

An argument was started
when the parted lovers tried
to runaway together
and handfast; forever tied.

But Gwyn ap Nudd was jealous
and was zealous in his rage;
so he stole poor Crieddylad
and a maddened war he waged.

Then Gwythyr and Gwynn ap Nudd
and their followers with glee
fought hard with stubborn passion
this old fashioned tragedy.

Each side refused to falter
or to alter their stands
The futile battle ravaged
in a savage clash of lands

Good Arthur then demanded;
No, commanded her return
and each year they fight this duel
as these fools will never learn

So every year at May day
when you play around the pole
Remember poor Creiddylad
In her sad eternal role.

Here is a quick run down on 12 of the forms.

1. Cyhydedd Fer
A rhymed couplet of 8-syllable lines.

2. Englyn Penfyr
A stanza of three lines, of ten, seven, and seven syllables. The main rhyme is followed, in the first line, by one, two, or three syllables, and echoed at the start of the second line by rhyme, alliteration, or assonance.

3. Englyn Milwr DD
A stanza of three lines, on one rhyme, seven syllables to each line.

4. Englyn Unodl Union
A four line stanza, ten, six, seven and seven syllables respectively. One, two or three syllables after the main rhyme on the first line, echoed at the beginning of the second.

5. Englyn Unodl Crwca
Four line stanza, like Englyn unodl union but the syllable count of the lines goes seven, seven, ten, six. There is the same echoing of the syllables from the first line after the main rhyme.

6. Englyn Cyrch
Stanza of four lines, seven syllables each. Lines on, two, and four rhyme; line three rhymes into the middle of line four.

7. Englyn Proest Dalgron
Four lines, seven syllable per line, off-rhyming on vowels or diphthongs. The rhymed syllables must be all short or all long.

8. Englyn Lledfbroest
Four lines, seven syllables each. In Welsh, the rhymes must be the four diphthongs ae, oe, wy, ei. In English, cheat.

9. Englyn Proest Gadwynog
Four lines, seven syllables each. Lines one and three rhyme; lines two and four off-rhyme with one and three, and with each other.

10. Awdl Gywydd
Four seven-syllable lines; lines two and four rhyme; lines one and three rhyme into the third, fourth, or fifth syllables of lines two and four.

11. Cywydd Deuair Hirion
Couplets, of seven-syllable lines, rhyming a stressed with an unstressed syllable.

12. Cywydd Deuair Fyrion
Rhymed four-syllable couplets.

As you can see it is a daunting task. Especially as I am hoping to do it about the wonderful rich and diverse mythology of Wales. The opening poem of The Cauldron is called The Invocation of Cerridwen who is my namesake and according to Welsh myth the Goddess of Inspiration and Poetry, the mother of Taliesin who in turn is the of Bard of all Bards. This is not in a Welsh form as it is an invocation more in the easier nursery rhyme style of the bardic tradition, and also uses the power of the spoken name commonly used in chanting. In Welsh Wicca Cerridwen is the crone and I wrote this at the time of the eclipse. It combines both passions of mine which are Celtic mythology and obviously pagan and/or non-Christian cultures. Which brings us rather nicely on to your next question :0)

Poetry L & T: I am interested in your Wiccan beliefs, as my sister Beth is a Wiccan witch. You have probably written many poems on this theme, do you have a special one to share here?

Mop:I have studied Wicca and I am indeed a hedge witch or solitary practitioner, although because I am living in the city at the moment quite a lapse one I describe myself as Pagan though not Wiccan. There is quite a large difference - Wicca is something taught or learned, and in America is a recognised religion, being pagan is what you are born with or evolve into, it is as natural as breathing. It is, if you like, a mind set, a knowledge, a feeling, a faith. Every poem I write is written as a pagan, including the ones as a youngster.

I do not have any particular poems that I have written about that, the essence of it though is in everything I write because it affects the way I look at life. On my website there is a page called spellbook which are some chants I have written, not in their entirety but extracts of them. When I was in my early teens I tried to make sense of it and compare it against Christianity and I wrote many poems then trying to understand the differences between the faiths. The Watcher is one of them and Naivete, though they are appalling examples of poetry concentrating on message rather than sound.

I do not wonder now, because as an adult I do not make such comparisons I am simply me...

Poetry L & T:How did you first come to take on the upkeep of the AAPC website?

Mop:Well Mike and Heidi Stephens set up the site, It started out as a place to hold the FAQ which the regulars got together and drew up and was hosted on Tripod. I held the mirror site on my servers because one of us was normally on the group Mike or Heidi at night and me during the day and it is always advisable to have a mirror site. Well Mike started working and didn't have time to maintain it and as I do that for a living it was easier for me to take over. So periodically I update it and add photos and profiles to it. Oh actually this is a good place to say this, many people have asked how they can be put up on the site, some have even accused us of being a closed group, the only criteria to get on the site is by participation. I ask people who spend a large proportion of their time giving advice or criticism to the works of others. You do not have to be part of the "In-Crowd" or particularly well liked, or even a good poet but if you do participate regularly with critiquing then I may well ask, failing that you can always ask me.

I think we have set the larger time limit of non-participation of three months for being removed from the site gallery.

Poetry L & T:What first attracted you to the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments?

Mop:I had always avoided newsgroups before because they seemed so chaotic and disorganised; licensed shouting matches really. But out of necessity when I had to look for something work related in January/February this year, someone suggested looking in the newsgroups for it. Anyway I downloaded the list and browsed the groups and then I just idly wondered if there were any poetry related ones it brought up a list of a few and I lurked on them for a few days to see what they were like and picked AAPC because they actually told people what they thought of the poems. I have never been one to be humoured in anything so I jumped on in with Woman's Lot. It was really nerve racking waiting for a reaction, and when I did finally get one I don't think it was that favourable. That pretty much decided it for me, I was there to stay. I knew my poetry was not good enough for me to read and enjoy after a few reads so that meant it wasn't very good and I do want to write good poetry. In AAPC I have found friends, teachers and an audience, it is great. What more could a rookie writer need?

Poetry L & T:In what ways do you think that poetry newsgroups like AAPC help and inspire a poet?

Mop:All poets, good or bad, need an audience, poetry is about communication and as such craves attention. In newsgroups such as these you have a chance to interact with your audience, and to learn where you may fail or disappoint the reader. It is a harsh place to learn, but I think the best place. In this environment you are presenting your work to peers, and lovers of poetry who have no loyalty or obligation to humour you with shallow praise or well meant but ultimately damaging kindness. It is a common myth that the verse that pleased Aunt Edna is good enough to hold it's weight in the market place. Next time you get praise from friends and relations ask them when they last bought or read poetry. It is more often than not writers or serious lovers of poetry who buy the books or CD's. In a newsgroup you will get a large cross section of people and this will tell you if your poem has a wide sense of appeal The main help that you find groups like these is the large collection of knowledge that is concentrated in the group.

Poetry L & T:Are there any sentimental or sad poem themes that you think should be avoided by new poets?

Mop:I don't think any theme needs to be avoided, but it is the language and form of the theme that new poets need to be careful of. Many new writers seem to think that it is essential to talk about their souls, or their bleeding hearts when describing the very commonplace breaking up of relationships. If they are going to write about love or the lack of then they need to make us feel and see what they felt or saw, surprise us, make us laugh, make us cry, but don't describe to us in trite overused phrases what we have undoubtedly been through in our lives. Poems are supposed to be visual, musical and inspiring. My advice to new poets is to practice writing about something they can see, something they can touch and when I feel that I can also see and touch it, though I am thousands of miles away then they have succeeded in creating a palatable image. The other mistakes new writers make is not picking a suitable form in which to convey their message. A bouncy, happy, rhyming rhythm rarely fits poems that talk of death or suicide, rape or abuse. In many ways it is the equivalent of appearing in a clown suit at a funeral. It will make people laugh, so if that is their intent then great but if they want to be serious then perhaps they should think of another form.

Poetry L & T:Do you prefer rhyme/meter or free verse?

Mop:I find it easier to write in rhyme. But it really depends what I am trying to say, or show. I have read some wonderful free verse that is really very inspiring, and strident in voice Free verse is a brilliant way to convey your message and image build but I also like to be stretched and constrained by structured rhyme. I like to hide my intent in metaphors and allusions you know? It is great composing a piece that way. I have though, of late, been practising free verse because I am weaker in that than rhyme and I need to work on my image frames.

Poetry L & T:Which well-known poets would you recommend aspiring poets to read?

Mop:Oh good grief anyone and everyone. Seriously though, you cannot read enough poetry, there are all the classic writers, like Tennysson, Eliot, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Pope, Blake, Burns, once you have absorbed these and dismantled them for rhyme and structure. There are poets like Rilke, and Roethke, Wallace Stevens, Lorca, for the subtlety of language and the beauty of the internal music that is built into their work. In Roethke's In a Dark time the mystery and tension is palatable and the tight formal music enchanting. In The Far Field Final, although the music is more complicated it is audible, when I first read that I felt like I was drowning. Wallace Stevens again has a subtlety of language and a grasp of image framing that is quite frankly awesome. Every aspiring poet should learn these, absorb them.

Poetry L & T:Finally Mop, do you have any advice for Internet poets who would like to be published in books and on websites (other than their own sites)?

Mop: Yes, don't rush it. Learn your craft. Armour your poetry with revision and maturity before you send it out. There is nothing worse than seeing clunkers published that you may hate, after the euphoria of success has gone. If you are still adamant about publishing take the time to judge the quality of the site you intend to publish in. Read a couple of issues and be sure that this is a suitable venue for your work and visa versa. There are many magazines, ezines and poetry journals that advise about good reputable venues. There are also a lot of scams out there, so try and check on sites or anthologies before you send your work to them. If in doubt ask about. Heh now there's a rhyme for you

Poetry L & T:Thanks for the interview, Mop.


The Invocation of Cerridwen
© Mop 13/08/99

I am Cerridwen,
the mother of the grain;
Of mighty Taliesin.
Hear the Credo speak my name

I am Cerridwen
and Gwion stole of me
three magic drops from Awen
on the land beneath the sea

I am Cerridwen,
the Mother, Maiden, Crone
who bore inside my cauldron
All wisdom you have known

I am Cerridwen
the goddess of rebirth
come back to teach my nations;
the seven on this earth

I am Cerridwen
and all have felt my might;
That chill that left you frozen
when day was turned to night.

To a friend...
© Mop 10/08/99

There will be time again, my friend,
to creep whisperfoot through courtyards
silent with midnight etiquette;
stifling laughter from secret signals
neck tensed, each breath measured.

Time enough to talk of summer days
where mischief rose with restless mercury
creeping in subtle ascent
unnoticed, in cool kitchens;
or dares spoken in hushed circles
amongst the whispering grasses,
where plots blossomed like rosebuds
and days were measured by secrets
stolen at sunset.

But this time, this now,
we will spend in silence;
and those scars
carved on a rainy day,
will touch memories which speak
of all we cannot.

The last supper
© Mop

I think of you,
laughing and impatient
waiting at our gate
teasing my slowness;
my belly full of baby
and my fathers t-shirt;
a little too tight.

You were like a humming bird
constantly moving.
We talked of names,
you felt the baby kick
and started crying;
then we sat, just sat
watching flowers moving
in the slight breeze,
and thinking, just thinking;
chewing grass and memories,
a feast of nostalgia,
our very own last supper



Dear Poets,

This issue features an Interview with Welsh poet Mop (Morfydd Ceridwen Jauregui), who runs the alt.arts.poetry.comments website and her own website, The Cauldron.

The October theme for the poetry section is Mythology and Folklore. Thank you to all contributors.

Please note that the competition announced last month for POEM KINGDOM is still open for entries, the closing date is not until the 31st of October. Click the URL to go straight to the site: http://poemkingdom.8m.com

Any comments on this issue or back issues can be emailed to me on the link at the bottom of the page.

Best Regards,


The October poetry theme touches on ancient lore and myths. I enjoyed reading through all of the poems, thank you everyone who sent work in.

Joy Yourcenar

JOY YOURCENAR lives and writes in Halifax, Nova Scotia with her life partner, the photographer Eric Boutilier-Brown, and her daughter, Zoë-Genevieve. She has two personal websites: Mythologies(her own site) and icon/graphy (a collaborative visual poetry site with Eric). Her first collection of poetry, Nattering on the Sublime, with an introduction by the American folk singer, raconteur and labor activist Utah Phillips, will be published by Newton’s Baby in Spring, 2000.

Moonmist & Shadow
© Joy Yourcenar

Dreams are prophecy
to those who rarely frequent
Morpheus' adamantine halls.
Wandering alone,
I stopped to stare
at tapestries and masques of love
But then a darkman came
luminescent, dividing my night
into moonmist and shadow
Diana, sheath your silver arrow.
I am already pierced.
Does it matter
whether it is yours or Eros'?
Sceptical of virgin birth,
your soulson offers
the sensuality you fear.
Drenched in jasmine,
he strews rose petals in my path
and I stop, afraid;
you are never kind to those
who love your chosen.
No chaste priestess,
I would lie down with him
by self-reflecting pools,
take him on a verdant caress of moss
with my siren's watermagic
streaming over the darkman,
consciousness overflowing.
taking down first his hair,
intertwining my alabaster hands
with the onyx of his mane,
as I let him unbraid mine.
Baring passion's breast
to draw my own bow,
you are not the only
huntress in the woods.
Diana, his words are ambrosia
for a starving soul too long
hungered for the kindred honey,
spirit of affection
Bees do not resist nectar;
why must I
when a darkman comes,
luminescent, dividing my night
into moonmist and shadow?

Cursing Pomegranates
© Joy Yourcenar

When you descend into Hades
hellbound by ancient promises,
look up through root and rock
and picture me, a lonely goddess,
duty bound to move through green and gold,
dance through to harvest sadness,
waiting impatiently for Charon
to ferry my heart back to me.
I give the Earth
the life I once gave you,
cursing the pomegranate
but never
the beloved eater.

Six Seeds of Separation
© Joy Yourcenar

Myths never finish the story.
Giddy Persephone,
dancing ambiguously
through Olympian meadows
right up to the edge of womanhood,
desired Hades tentatively
in her thoughtless, childish way.
Little girls ripen like corn
into goddesses,
and become summer heavy.
Swaying before Cerberus' master,
half begging, half afraid.
Demeter's wayward daughter
flirts with raw passion;
Persephone plays a breathless game,
captive and captivating,
nubile and mutable,
taunting the Lord of Hell
with her budding breasts,
nipples like blossoms,
caressed by carelessly woven daisy chains.
Onto her pomegranate stained mouth
Hades whispers love and
the grown up secrets she craves
but cannot fully comprehend.
Pendulous breasts heaving,
Demeter, left alone in her despair,
draws back fertility into her womb,
clinging to it like a stillborn child.
Fully ripened and oft harvested,
she understands too well
the double entendre
of plowing and planting,
the excruciating pleasure
of godflesh on godflesh.
Her primordial maternal heart
was not prepared
for the sudden adolescent fecundity,
the precocious bloom of rampant sexuality
on Persephone's roseblushed childcheeks.
Zeus spared her the sight
of braids taken down and unplaited
in preparation for the bridal bed
and hymen's exquisite sacrifice.
But whose loss of innocence
does she mourn
in a wild extravagant grief,
splashy as red poppies
in a verdant field?
Demeter regains only partial vibrancy
when Persephone returns as Spring,
never able to forget
the pomegranate seeds
which, once consumed,
became the six seeds of separation
between a goddess and a girl.
Myths always end
without telling you
the entire story.

[email protected]

Jerry Jenkins

JERRY JENKINS, has been writing poetry since 1993. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, where his poetry has been nominated for the Association's Rhysling Award. His poetry has won numerous awards in individual and chapbook competitions, and has appeared in printed publications and anthologies such as The Formalist, The Lyric, Mobius, Echoes, Harp-Strings, Amelia, Cicada, The Piedmont Literary Review, Mail Call Journal, Poetry Monthly (U.K.), The Devil's Millhopper, The Fractal, Dark Planet, Pirate Writings, and Star*Line. His online publication credits include work in Octavo, Eclectica, Pyrowords, Avalon, Poetic Express, and Deep South.

His chapbooks include AVIAN, Helionaut, Hamadryad's Passage, Candle, Monks' Wine, Our Own Loving Kind, and Confluence (in collaboration with Rosa Clement).

He is a former Marine Corps officer with 26 years of service, including service in Vietnam. He recently retired from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia, where he was Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology. He is a Sysop of the Poetry Forum on CompuServe, where he is the editor of the Compuserve Poetry Anthology.

© Jerry Jenkins

Out in the Maka Sicha
where the badlands and prairie meet,
there is a secret cave
beneath the world's feet.

Despite all the tourists and roads,
no one has learned it's there.
An ancient woman lives in it,
wizened and wrinkled. Her hair

is white and her face is shriveled,
scored like a walnut, and brown.
She's been there thousands of years,
deep in the underground.

For all those thousands of years
she has worked on a blanket strip
made of dyed porcupine quills.
She puts them up to her lips

and chews them. Her teeth are flat,
worn from the chewing she does.
A huge black dog in the darkness
watches wherever she goes,

licking his paws in silence
at the edge of an age-old fire.
His eyes are deep as the cave,
and he never sleeps or tires.

Old Woman is feeble and never
sees the dog's watching eyes.
Sometimes she feeds the flame.
It takes her a while to rise.

The moment her back is turned,
the dog pulls out every quill.
She never makes any progress,
but works on the blanket still.

The quillwork is never finished
because of the dog, our best friend.
It is well. When the last quill is woven,
the world will come to an end.

© Jerry Jenkins

You always loved the autumn woods, and so
when it was time for you to say goodbye
we thought how fitting it would be to go
among the umber trees. The sunset sky
was filled with floating leaves whose whispering
assured us they'd be back again in spring.

Something moved invisibly in the air.
The squirrels stopped their squabbling, to wait
within their high domain of twigs and cones.
The twilight glowed in incandescent flare
and kindled sudden gold fires in your hair.
Through lucent skin, your silhouetted bones
burned brief and black. I saw your eyes dilate,
then you were gone, and where you stood was bare,

Except for this: a filigree of gold
lay on the ground, its minute tracery
and brittle fretwork all you left for me,
this leaf whose thin fragility I hold,
trembling in my palm, alive and warm:
the forest's gift, and your eternal form.

[email protected]

detail from "Disgustibus" 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.

To see more of Jan's poems and illustrations, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter.


© Jan Sand

There exists a territory
Where the Chinese often worry
Whether there's enough to eat and drink.
Ive heard it said that its because
God said, Go be desert! and it was.
Skulking through these rocks, ravines
Sneaks the creatures known as tweens.
It chomps up circuit boards
Discarded shoes, electric cords
Hub caps, soap stubs, gears from old machines.
You must be careful, extra cautious
Its horrid smell makes you nauseous
Especially if you are wearing jeans.
It dotes upon the color blue
And eagerly would chew on you.
So run! So flee the vicious Gobi tweens.

Back before the USSR
Had dumped the overbearing tsar
They told the tales of the awful cow
That gobbled children by the schoolful.
It came, by prophesy to fullfill
Threats against kids, bad til now.
If the kids messed their rooms,
Refused to clean with mops and brooms,
Pushed aside their beets and soup,
The beast, all green with moss, would come,
Hoist them up by the thumb
And gather them into a milling troop.
Then, with whistles, snorts and growls
It tied them up in dirty towels
And slung them down, deep into its cave.
The kids would scream, the kids would shout
For somebody to get them out
But nobody came to save
The bad bad kids, no one knew how
To fight the thing, the hideous moss cow.

In mountains north of India
Where weather is more windia
Than in the fields of lower climes,
The terrain is more rockia
The climbers are more cockia
According to the latest New York Times.
There is a beast thats never stirred
A funny kind of granite nerd,
It sits forever with its head on chest.
Stock still, it waits,
Not eats nor mates
Quiescent, its the ever rest.

Have you heard of the adder
With a most humongous bladder
So it pees for hours at a time.
Its urine generates great floods
Surmounted over all by suds.
Local people often loudly sing
With genuine veracity
Of the snakes capacity,
Formidable, invincible pee king

© Jan Sand

The gods have gone adventuring.
From tall pedestals
In the Metropolitan Museum,
Out of secluded corners
In tasteful wealthy living rooms,
They beam their malevolence.
Their gold power
Is undiminished.
They have,
With sure strength,
Moved into the world
From ancient lost Aztec temples,
And the rain forests of Cambodia.
They sit now on glass topped coffee tables
And speak, not with sky thunder,
But in tinny tones
From cell phones.
Has not changed.
It is as good as ever
A conduit of god thought.
Hearts, these days,
Rip as easily as before
From living breasts.
The gods cold jade eyes
Glitter before television screens
Depicting Ruanda and Kosova.

[email protected]



Sundance Creativity is a new resource site for poets, with unique information you won't find anywhere else on the internet. Featured articles cover subjects such as avoiding cliches in poetry, how to design a poetry web site, and a collection of online workshops, courses and classes for poets. The site also includes a directory of poetry-related newsgroups, and books & magazines for writers. We're striving to become the best reference site for poets, and have many new pages in the works. Visit Sundance Creativity at http://members.tripod.com/~sundance_market/creativity.html


Catfish (Steve Rouse), a regular on alt.arts.poetry.comments, has told me of extensive updates on the Monday Night Group website. Click the logo to visit the site, and why not drop in on Lardy the Badger by clicking his photo on the right.

Hey, Pinky, *great* interview!


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