Dear Poets, This issue features an interview with the Poet Neil Ray, who edits The Ink Pad poetry newsletter. Neil has recently been featured on his own Charlotte's Web pages at Artvilla. I would like to thank Neil for recently making me a member of The Ink Pad Writer's Guild, which means I can submit work for the newsletter, and enter the regular competitions. Anyone interested in receiving the newsletter or becoming a member of the Ink Pad Writers' Guild can email Neil on the link under his interview and poems. The Ink Pad Writers' Guild is based in Fayetteville, USA. Featured poets this month include Averil Bones, Fred Wolven, Duane Locke, Richard van der Draaij, Andrew Belsey and Jan Sand.

Featured poets this month include Averil Bones, Fred Wolven, Duane Locke, Richard van der Draaij, Andrew Belsey and Jan Sand.

Many thanks to all contributors.

Averil Bones AVERIL BONES Averil Bones, 27, lives in Sydney, Australia. She has studied journalism and native bushland regeneration, and is currently working in the publishing industry. Averil's work has been included in an anthology of new Australian poets called Sensory, and she is a regular contributor to Poetry Downunder. The most influential part of her life is the ocean, and she tries to remain an active environmental campaigner.

MOONLIGHT AND LATE BREEZES © Averil Bones Falling asleep to moonlight's touch and late breezes, even our feet not touching, but close; and then waking in slow death of dawn's darkness to see your foreign face come clearer; stirring, breathing, on verge of waking; and I cannot help but reach out to touch your hair, just your hair, so that you do not feel the shake in my fingers, the sick rippling in my belly; the softness of my hankering and fear. Without opening your eyes (dawn's rise quick now) you place one palm on my forearm; and I feel in my own hesitation your tremor; some even thrill from deep in primal source. Melted, I roll into arm lock, tension lost to be caught up by a million muscles whose fibre your breathless caress ignites and whose quiver laughs along with morning's birdsong. REPRIEVE © Averil Bones The top-most curls of stone-warmed air breathe, breathe deep and long, a mother's touch long absent. Sky scraped cirrus laid out above, platters of dreams shifting, changing, forming, fleeing, once seen and gone. Lilac breeze ripples broad ocean swells of air. On sunned tipped splay, stirred lizard backs appear. * * * Cuts come to me, absorbed in kneecap visions, hair wet and dripping, creektouch fresh: flies and blood from shattered carcass, minute against skin pores. Peace echoes with rapid fall; water into sandstone; lulling summer blindness; inward turned and languid, laughing at colours, scents, slit-eyed and demon-free. Currawong breathes inwards and launches into spiral song. He pulls my heart and head out of reverie in a moment's time to see the light begin to fade. MUSE © Averil Bones Oh you, whose mysteries deep and wide I plumb, rise with trailing fingers rippling silk, and bring to life my veins which feel so numb, that I may drink of sweet creation's milk. Leave me not to linger shadow-cowed blind to inspiration's coloured hues. I will not waste a moment, I have vowed, but take that which you offer without cue. Broad mother, with your understanding eye, bring forth a birdcall to disturb my sleep; and with delight I'll listen to your cry, and take your words within to ponder deep. I only pray all I can offer up will fill a little mother nature's cup. THE TRIPPING OF FINGERS OVER SOUND © Averil Bones The tripping of fingers over sound makes for such sweet music along rippled fence lines, thrumming through the city grasses that press their shadowed backs against sunned gaol bars, and grow. [email protected]

FRED WOLVEN is a teaching writer, poet, former editor-publisher of Ann Arbor Review and now of MPG: Miami Poetry & Graphics, is a professor at Miami-Dade Community College in Homestead, Florida - the hurricane capital of the world! Fred believes "all writing is a form of mediation in motion, a relaxed and interactive exercise involving mind and body." He adds, "such activity is essential in developing my critical thinking and writing skills. With this energy I can soar; without it I remain a doormat." Long influenced by Michigan-born Theodore Roethke and Tampa poet Duane Locke, Fred admits to an eclectic taste in his free verse form and format. In his teaching, with students such as nieces of Ernest Hemingway and Piri Thomas among them, he sees new writers and former students winning competitions, earning prizes, recording albums, and signing book contracts. With several chapbooks out and published in periodicals like Wind, Mountain Valley Review, UT Review, Mid-American Review, Sumac, Fred is currently seeking new audiences in ezines. Believing, afterall, that "poetry is more than art, mediation, music, or myth," he notes, "as a poet I am in search of new readers and writers." Recently he judged a poetry slam.

A SNOW LEOPARD ON MIAMI BEACH © Fred Wolven 1. You might say You might say that's a funny thing to see, but last night the white cat sort of stalked a lone silver fox crossing through the neighbor's yard probably working its way back toward the brush- lined banks of a nearby canal or the Florida pine lot over by the tracks. Fortunately the fox gave the cat the slip, and I can't remember the first time some one spotted a snow leopard on Miami Beach. 2. After the hurricane After the hurricane scare diminished I spent yesterday reading about guardian angels, and this morning in a Miami sub shop I wrote about the last poetry reading in between thinking about, but not doing, meditation. Of course, it's not quite that easy to fashion a mental garden drawing film-projected lines, real or screened, of a snow leopard walking on the beach. 3. I take a deep breath I take a deep breath, close my eyes and fading rainbow colors mix and move kaleidoscope fashion into my view. Quiet, finally, I wonder just what do I think when I think? Is it really possible to stand on one's head? Or is the world just turned upside down? Funny or not, there's no snow leopard in my vision. 4. I remember studying I remember studying the wild animals in a National Geographic photo essay; the snow leopard was not pictured. Thus, I continue to wonder.... Will I ever draw an illustration of my garden--either the one I once helped plant, cultivate and plunder, or the mental state I appear to be frozen in. 5. His first name is Tom. She said, "His first name is Tom. Tom is his first name. You remember his last name; you [a three-piece suit] should remember his first name is Tom!," she said. And I heard it loud and clear. But today I watched Toby, the fluffy grey cat follow a creeping bug, his [the cat's] eyes transfixed, his head bobbing up and down as for Halloween apples. 6. On a side street On a side street, in a small nearly unnoticed gallery only a block or two from Michigan Avenue in Chicago several years ago I remember viewing a rather realistic Sargent painting of a snow leopard. Naturally, it wasn't set in Miami Beach! 7. Sipping on a rum and coke Sipping on a rum and coke I mull over changes, made and unmade. All it takes is enthusiasm and humor, energy and more energy. Sunday, sitting in the yard, I can feel a stillness in the air. It's like some of the outer atmosphere is seeping into our world through that dark hole in space. 8. The descending scale of mellow sax notes The descending scale of mellow sax notes, unnoticed by the eating, talking crowd, fades, the bassman's pluck brings out a solitary applause of recognition, mine. The keyboard artist chords the accompaniment alternating between background and lead-in. No, it is not Saturday Night at the Savoy. It's Friday on Normandy Circle, and the snow leopard has still not been seen. 9. Eavesdropping Eavesdropping is sort of like copying out a whole Hemingway dialogue or a Sexton interior monologue just to pick up the nuances of voice sounds, the musical qualities of human talk. I suspect almost everything on most lists has multiple dimensions, like mine: a half-filled wine bottle, a piece of driftwood, Shakespeare's sonnets, a paperclip, Rilke's animals, a Mozart concert, a fountain pen, a featherduster, an Idaho potato, popcorn, and a Smith Bros. cough drop, but no snow leopard on Miami Beach. 10. Bly has already analyzed Bly has already analyzed his male shadow. What more can I learn from confronting my own; it's a gloomy outline looming too tall and leaning too far out in front of me. Perhaps, it's only a side view, mirror image reflected, one I would not recognize if I stepped on it while jumping over concrete cracks (you know, instead of breaking your mother's back). I hesitate to view my past up close. It's the present I live in and the future I live for... the day when walking on Miami Beach and a snow leopard finally crosses my path. [email protected]

Duane Locke with one of his paintings DUANE LOCKE 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 http://www.vidapublishing.com 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.

SONNETEERS © Duane Locke Sonneteers sun in cemeteries, Or under small windows of seminaries The shadows of cement angels cross The blankness of their 14 lined scrolls, Wing shadows place on rice paper arabesques Of darkness overlooked by the sun-tanned sonneteers Who only see the ancient as au courant. The sonneteers confabulate with the dead If to end-stop or employ enjambment. The sonneteers with their egotism Lock sonnets in strong boxes, Wear bowties, become boulevdardiers In the borscht boudoirs of Boston. THE NEW HOUSE © Duane Locke Leaves fell, ground became brown. Winds came, ground became pearl gray. Rains came, ground became bright green. New house built, ground buried. Inside the house, on the walls twelve pictures of bulls. All the people inside wear red silk. HIS BURIED LIFE © Duane Locke The green silk kimono embroidered With golden abstract flowers she donned For the tea ceremony went unseen Since the invited never came. The invited misplaced the invitation Under pamphlets sent by a man who bored him in a bar. Pamphlets went unread, for all his time Was devoted to reading Chekhov about unrealized lives. In a welfare store he had found a Japanese brush used as pen, That ended in a point as sharp as a needle. He wrote to her with jet-black ink Calligraphic letters on rice paper an apology. INDIAN PIPES © Duane Locke Grains of light suffuse through white stems, White leaves to stripe the oak shadows Covering the Monotropa uniflora, Commonly know as "Indian Pipes." This plant in sphagnum also called "The Ghost" Has the silky textures of the legs Of the nude girls stuccoed by Primaticcio On a lunette above a door at Fountainbleau, The diffused light in a moist atmosphere Combined the moment's eroticism with mysticism, As if nature had studied under Guilio Romano When he painted Psyche at Palazzo del Tè. I stared at the white gold heads, the dappled Long limbs, felt the sacred, sensual commingle. BISHOP BERKELY AT BATH © Duane Locke Sensations emanating from things or events Abstract their essences to become abstract, ornate angels. The angels fly towards the above, collide, fuse, Until no individual angels, only a vague White wing flapping in the fog. The wind is known by movement of white curtain. The Bishop feels he has a companion. He knows he has been accused of intellectual crimes. The invisible will be his companion, Fight a duel to prove his innocence. The curtains part, bring the rapture of watching Rain spot the hibiscus' yellow flowers. The globes of rain will roll into oblivion As they falls from gold mermaid's shoulder into the pool. All rain will disappear to become the touch of God. [email protected]

RICHARD JAMES VAN DER DRAAIJ 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: http://personal.nbnet.nb.ca and http://www.dreamagic.com/poetry/draaij.html

NOTE: The English translations appear below the Dutch. De Dragers van Sera Pelada © Richard James van der Draaij De gestalten van Sera Pelada Schuiven langzaam in eindeloze rijen, De aanblik van de bijna dode levenden Vanaf deze rustplaats, iets hoger op de keien. De mannen van Sera Pelada Torsen aarde uit een diepe kloof, Woordeloos, de hoofden zwaar en laag, Voor de roep van 't veilig-kleine leven Reeds lang volkomen doof. Ze zijn als lang vervlogen schimmen, Duizenden geesten in een eeuwige processie, Als ze honderd meter op houten ladders klimmen, De Adios Mamas; wankel, scheef en steil Al dragend dromend van 'n vlucht naar groene kimmen. Ze dromen van het oude gele goud: De macht eens te beschikken over 't eigen leven. Voorlopig zijn zij als verloren, Naamloos, allen slaaf van een diepe grijze slenk Door tallozen getrokken in het eeuwenoude woud. Gevangenen van Sera Pelada 'n Enkeling wordt rijk 'n Ander treft het minder goed, Wordt gevonden in het slijk. De prijs om bij 't edelmetaal te geraken Is te hoog voor menigeen. Maar zwijgend ploeteren zij altijd door, De handen verkrampt, in 't koud en stoffig steen. De dragers van Sera Pelada Het leven heeft ze opgegeven, Ze verkozen nu reeds dood te zijn Nooit opgewekt of uitgelaten, Slechts 'n koortsige glimtrek, bij 't stoten op 'n aderlijn Zelden kijken zij omhoog De lucht is toch te ver, De blik gericht op vuile grond, Beschenen door een trage ster. Cinco zag in 'n miniscuul kleurverschil In de aarde vastgelegd, 'n Spoor van ongekende rijkdom. Hij groef in het donker haastig door, Werd in de morgen opgedregd. Het had geregend in de nacht Water gutste door de schacht Maar Cinco was al blind. Zijn lotgenoten, goedgezind Stonden om zijn stek en lachten. Ze wisten wat ook Cinco wist; Dat in de regen en de mist, De natuurwraak zich doet gelden, Geruisloos, zuiver, in de velden, De velden van Sera Pelada. Translation: The Bearers of Sera Pelada © Richard James van der Draaij The figures of Sera Pelada Move slowly in endless rows, The sight of these living dead From this ledge, higher up ahead. The men of Sera Pelada Dig earth from a deep dark chasm, Wordlessly, their heads heavy and low Long since deaf to the call- -Of a safe little life. They are like long gone shadows, Thousand of spirits in an eternal procession, When they climb the hundred yards on wooden ladders, The Adios Mamas; crooked, shaky and steep, They dream of a flight to green horizons, They are dreaming of the ancient gold; The power to rule their own lives, In the meantime they are as lost, Nameless, slaves all to a grey crevice Cut by the countless in the age-old woods. Prisoners of Sera Pelada Someone gets rich Another, not quite so fortunate, Is found in the mire. The price to reach the precious metal Is too high for many. Yet silently they struggle on, Hands cramped tight, in cold and dusty stone. The bearers of Sera Pelada Life has given them up, They chose to already be dead. Never cheerful or elated, Just a feverish snarl when hitting a vein. Rarely do they look up The skies are just too far, Their gazes fixed on dirty ground Illuminated by a lethargic star. Cinco saw in the slightest change of colour Recorded in the earth, A trace of fabulous wealth. In the dark, in a rush, he kept on digging, In the morning he was dragged. It had rained during the night, Water poured down the shaft But Cinco was already blind. His companions, kind of heart, Stood around his claim, and laughed They knew what Cinco also knew: That in fog, and rain and morning dew, Nature wreaks her cold vengeance Without a sound, and pure, in the fields, The fields of Sera Pelada. Ik Groet de Dag © Richard James van der Draaij Ik groet de dag, Met een stille lach, En kijk uit over de wereld, Waar mensenmassa's krioelen, Dieren kruipen, vogels vliegen, Waar een zon het schouwspel beschijnt, Langzaam richt de dag zich op, En neemt mij met zich mee. Translation: I Greet the Day © Richard James van der Draaij I greet the day With a silent laugh, And look out over the world, Where multitudes of people hurry, Creatures crawl and birds fly, Where a sun lights up the stage. Slowly the day rises, Taking me along with it. All In All © Richard James van der Draaij Your green eyes absorbed the light that day, When we lay together on the sandy beach, Spring holiday and children's voices, And I already felt old, Your words did not belong to you that day, You seemed upset, although- -Your sense of humor still intact. Time passed, sounds faded away, You looked at me for a moment, We asked ourselves:"Where, why?" Amateur-philosophers no less, When the fiery ball of the Summer sun, Slowly descended into the horizon, You took my hand, I was glad, Then: your sweetest voice, meant for me, A moment then, happy together, A sort of love, all in all. [email protected]

ANDREW BELSEY Andrew Belsey lives and works in Cardiff, Wales, U.K., where he is a philosophy lecturer at Cardiff University. His poems and concrete poems have been published in a number of print magazines and anthologies since the 1960s, and in two booklets (with a 26-year gap!): "Anaximander" (Outposts Publications, 1974) and "A Collection of Four-Line Poems" (Llwynywll Press, 2000). A selection of four-line poems by Andrew appeared in Poetry Life and Times, March 2000 and the "Collection of Four-Line Poems" was reviewed in Poetry Life and Times, July 2000 Andrew's poems have recently been appearing elsewhere on the Internet in e-zines including: Snakeskin A Writer's Choice Comrades and, more recently, Charlotte's Web.

Origins © Andrew Belsey that big old house with dovecote, dry swimming pool swirled with leaves of autumn, vegetable plot in neat rows of vitamins, orchard filled with fruits of wartime, rooms waiting travellers, three generations, sharing air with searchlights. Listen, Galileo © Andrew Belsey What do you think it proves If it's the earth that moves And not the sun? Don't you think that it will be hard to cope If you destroy our hope And make the figure of the Pope Into one of fun? Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . Our virgin heroine, young Blanche, Is looking rather like Jane Fonda While fighting off an anaconda. Then Bertold Brecht arrives and soothes the snake But tells us life is not a piece a cake And then looks on, with Mona Lisa smile, While all of us are putting on the style. With peaceful eyes At last old Galileo dies, While sighing, "Yes, it moves, Why worry what it proves?" The Sculptor © Andrew Belsey "Carve out a life," he cried aloud, "It's all there in the block of marble." Granules pressed into form, and fissures Turning out lathed limbs, lean and long. But what he didn't know was that the fault Interfaced where two planes ground their teeth Left no hope of success or completion But promised crumbling, ageing time Being the master, space the studio, And both subtracting from the work of art. Another Slice of Irish Mythology © Andrew Belsey I took a recipe to bake An Irish oat and water cake And all for de Valera's sake. I heard the ghost of Parnell say: "Ireland is poor, she cannot pay. Come again another day." The hills rang with Cuchulain's laugh: The god grinned to his better half And went to feed the fatted calf. Old Story © Andrew Belsey A man came riding across the sands And there was blood upon his hands. He was riding from a new world's birth And sought a grave in his old earth. He looked at the blood and knew a score Of enemies would rise no more But his blood too lay mixed with theirs And for them all he said his prayers. Still on he went by the sea's side While the hard wind blew up a tide. His horse fell dead, he stumbled on, But when the tide went he was gone. Bitter Fruit © Andrew Belsey Take my word, cos I've forgotten More than you will ever know: Ripe fruit quickly turns to rotten, All except the bitter sloe. [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. He also has his own poetry pages on Charlotte's Web at Artvilla.

ADVENTURE © Jan Sand Mountains there are To tooth the horizon, And lakes to trap the sky In between the forests. There is no destination, Only the push to go, To mingle into strangeness, Run a finger over rough rock, Test the strength of a vine, Watch the sway of tall trees Against the steady slide of clouds. Bright green smells of grass breeze by And birds shoot sharp whistle darts. Surprises erupt. A rabbit sprints, A raccoon scuttles, a snake Like liquid mercury flows around rocks, Through stalks to vanish Like a beautiful elusive idea. Through there the future lies. Maybe bears, perhaps wildcats. No dragons, hippogriffs, nor dinosaurs. No epiphanies with angels, elves, nor green men Snooping out of flying saucers. I can still walk, climb, smell, See even tiny leaves on mosses, Spot the industry of ants, watch flies hover, Delight in the colored stars of tiny blooms, Be startled by the blast of sunlit diamonds On a dew beaded spider web. Ahead may be chasms and rivers And perhaps, at the end, A reward of the broad forehead of the sea. There goes a black and yellow striped butterfly, A Tinkerbell amongst the trees. Here we go. RAINS © Jan Sand There are rains that drag fog skirts Across the country-side in stealthy hiss, That, gently, in determination Dampens down the grass with sodden kiss Of sky to earth as caring as a mother Calms her resting child. There are rains of panicked horses' hooves That illuminate their stampede With angry lightning flashing on black roofs While trees sway and shudder in dismay And water demons pound on window panes. But some rains come and merely sit And drum in steady patient siege, Work soft hammers on the dents and wrinkles of the day Smoothing anger and distress to flat peace, Tempt shy dreams to peek from hidden thoughts And welcome in safe surrender to sleep's release. CONTACT © Jan Sand A short "good morning" says but that I live and so do you and it is day. We nod, you touch your hat, We smile and continue on our way. But still, that spot at which we passed Becomes, invisible but monumental To small delight that does not last For what, to each of us was merely incidental. APPREHENSION © Jan Sand I do not argue with the wind And rain may wet me if it must. Random events leave me chagrined. There's not much more to be discussed. Time passes and bestows its blows With little logic, not much sense. The unexpected comes and goes Bereft of most intelligence. My weapon is to be aware, To face into the winds of chance, To try to see what's lurking there And brace my legs in happen stance . GHOST STORY © Jan Sand The biggest difference is the light. The Moon now penetrates my flesh. My bones are glass against the night, My blood and veins glisten in a mesh To delineate my frame. My whole world is not the same. I pass through walls as through a mist. Trees and plants are my solidity. I can touch them - they resist And form the limit of my reality. All else is vapour - people, animals and artifacts. I am reduced to vegetable contacts. Every moment my mind requests, "Why am I here in ghostly guise, What superbeing jests With me in this state? But surmise Gives no solution why I survive Any more than those alive. Spectres are, I suspect, quite rare. I thought I spotted someone last year. I ran to see. No one was there. I waited days for him to re-appear. It is a lonely thing - to be a ghost, To be kind of alive - almost. I try to talk to people, children, beasts. They retreat in fear - speed away. Or else, in horror, cry out for priests. So I sit alone at night, come what may. I watch the Moon and stars, contemplate This odd afterlife, watch fireflys, speculate. [email protected]

THE PERILS OF NORRIS cartoon, #2: Reginald rat is not appearing this month, being on holiday at the time of going to press.
He'll be back for another "Spot Reginald" contest next month.

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Sara Russell, Congrats on a fascinating and graphically-appealing issue! Especially catching is the interview with Charlotte Mair. In the issue Duane Locke's poems are the most intrguing, the most fascinating and challenging. I've been reading Duane's work for nearly 40 years, and it is great to see he is at the top of his form. Many of his readers believe, as I do, that he may be the most unrecognized poet of substance today. (Though he is now appearing in many, many ezines!) So it is a pleasure to see you publish several of his poems. And the layout of the poems with the bio alongside is excellent! Also, I find your cartoon, "The Perils of Norris," drawing me in to want more. Fred Wolven [email protected] EDITOR'S NOTE: Fred also sent a long poem (several poems in one), which I liked enough to use in this month's Featured Poets section.

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