Robin Ouzman Hislop is a retired TEFL teacher and Translator who lives in Avila Spain and Yorkshire UK. He is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com . He is author of several poetry book collections and has translated from Spanish the poetry works of Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo. You may visit: Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author & https://poetrylifeandtimes.com, which features mostly his video poems and translated authors. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
IMPRESSIONS FROM “DIALOGUE WITH THE TREES” by Ed Schorb
“Dialogue with the Trees” by Robin Ouzman Hislop is an enigmatic (I have complete confidence that he wanted it that way—he can write a fine and perfect sonnet at will) and nothing if not original work that, in one aspect, opens his secret soul to nature and even to the souls of trees—one of nature’s most beautiful productions, and, in another way to the reader’s, letting them share his sense of life. In this piece the trees talk leafy talk to him and he talks to the trees, or, in another sense, he gives voice to the trees that they may tell us what they mean. The mysticism of this profound and beautiful work moves us to a deeper understanding that inevitably leads to a powerful emotion. Some may call it love—which e.e. cummings has said “is the all and more than all.” It is an honor to share this piece called “A Dialogue with the Trees.” My own emotions are stirred. The enigmatic nature of Hislop’s writing induces, and finally compels thoughts and emotions that are naturally involved in any consideration of the enigma of life. Sadness abides; but cheers are compelled for such writing.
COMMENT by Gary Beck
Dialogue-With-the-trees is a poetic statement harking back to the poignant expressions of thought and feelings that characterize good poetry. The form is mercurial and evokes images that recur and become thematic. Stanza after stanza portray harsh realities, complemented by delicate sensibilities. The poem is an emotional treat that contains enough allusions to captivate a reader.
What is despair?
What is helplessness?
What is appeasement?
What is shock?
When everything has to make way,
For endless selfishness,
Is the tragedy,
Of paradise lost !
Leviathan has grown up,
Behemoth is already showing strength.
Why can’t we kill evil in the cradle?
Why the rights our God gifted us,
Now the stumbling blocks?
It’s often easy to see through one thing,
But it’s difficult to make the right choice !
This is the inherent death of human nature,
It never be forgiven,
Though we can get across.
Everything is handled by interests,
There is always only self in the brain,
How could we make timely rescue,
Correct response and rock?
Please open your eyes,
And see the world we’re living in now.
Full of falsehood, war and slogans,
Is this the rhythm of civilization?
Every breathing life,
Feeling is the most powerful weapon !
Start accepting different voice,
Won’t let selfishness go to the limit,
Really for the sake of faith and freedom,
Give voice for the truth and lot
By James Tian
Cos’è la disperazione?
Cos’è la debolezza?
Cos’è la riconciliazione?
Cos’è il trauma?
Quando tutto deve farsi spazio,
Per un egoismo senza fine,
È la tragedia,
Del paradiso perduto!
Il Leviatano è cresciuto,
Behemoth sta già mostrando la sua forza.
Perché non possiamo eliminare il male nella culla?
Perché i diritti che il nostro Dio ci ha dato,
Ora sono pietre d’inciampo?
Spesso è facile vedere in un’unica direzione,
Ma è difficile fare la scelta giusta!
Questa è la morte intrinseca della natura umana,
Non si può mai perdonare,
Anche se possiamo capire.
Tutto è gestito dagli interessi,
C’è sempre e solo l’io nel cervello,
Come potremmo salvare ogni cosa in tempo,
Con una giusta e forte risposta?
Per favore, aprite gli occhi,
E guardate il mondo in cui viviamo ora.
Pieno di falsità, guerra e slogan,
È questo il ritmo della civiltà?
Per ogni essere vivente,
L’amore è l’arma più potente!
Cominciate ad accettare una voce diversa,
Non lasciate che l’egoismo arrivi al limite,
Per vero amore della fede e della libertà,
Date interamente voce alla verità
Translated by Lidia Chiarelli, Italy
The Exhibition Hall of Famous Artists and Poets:
The Italian poets:
伊曼纽尔·西伦蒂（Emanuele Cilenti）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-245.html
莉迪亚·基亚雷利（Lidia Chiarelli）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-264.html
阿涅塞·摩纳哥（Agnese Monaco）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-272.html
克劳迪娅·皮奇诺（Claudia Piccinno）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-276.html
米歇拉·萨纳雷拉（Michela Zanarella）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-278.html
玛丽亚·埃里科（Maria Errico）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-285.html
萨布丽娜·德·卡尼奥（Sabrina De Canio ）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-327.html
玛丽亚·米拉利亚（Maria A. Miraglia）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-372.html
扎娜·科文（Zana Coven）: http://v.315xwsy.com/news/show-390.html
The magazine Chinese Poetry Garden （中华诗园）is managed by the Chinese Poetry Society, and is jointly sponsored by the Poetry Working Committee of ministries and commissions of the Chinese Poetry Society and the national culture research center of the Western Development Research Institute of the Chinese Academy of social sciences. It mainly serves the poetry development of ministries and commissions, and publishes the magazine. James Tian is the editor in chief of the International Edition.
The deputy editors : 1. Shao Fengyun, female. She’s the Intercultural positive psychologist, movie psychological analysis lecturer, president of poetry friends association of Tshangs-Dbyangs-Rgya-Mtsho Poetry Club, member of reading art troupe of Tshangs-Dbyangs-Rgya-Mtsho Poetry Club, former teacher of Cambridge Children’s English School.
2. Ananda The Founder of Timepiece lifestyle The proponent and practitioner of “You are a work of art” An Undefined Definer Youth writers, artists, curators, psychological consultants of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, IP planners…… She put forward the slogan “You are a piece of artwork” for the first time. She is a dreamer who focuses on the cultivation of her core spirit, forging a complete and invincible self, and making herself firmly walk on the road of completing herself. She is an independent explorer who constantly breaks the boundaries of herself from the humanities fields such as literature, art, to psychology, philosophy. Then to the field of science, she tirelessly explores the unknown world. The leading edge thoughts and continuous practical ability make her rush to become “a piece of artwork”.
The list of consultants is as follows:
Eden Soriano Trinidad [Philippines]
Smaragdi Mitropoulou [Greece]
Bisso Natalie [Russia]
Lidia Chiarelli [Italy]
Ana Stjelja [Serbia]
Lucilla Trapazzo [Switzerland]
Ewelina Maria Bugajska Javorka [Poland]
Елена Григорьевна Ананьева[Ukraine]
Xanthi Hondrou Hill [Greece]
Ольга Левадная [Russia]
Eva Petropoulou Lianoy [Greece]
Isilda Nunes [Portugal]
Jeanette Eureka [Mexico]
And the magazine will be awarded to international poets or magazines who’ll cooperate with us. Specific matters will be announced later. The official link: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/36FoAM3BRIN9fCZ9Wrd2HQ
My liquid world
(amid winds of war)
to Dylan Thomas
This ashen day in March
opens with dancing shadows –
images carved in the air
of the spring still too far.
An insidious mist enshrouds me
Among echoes in subtle vibration
teach me, Dylan, to seek shelter in
my liquid world
take me to feel the pulse
of the tides that ceaselessly
ebb and flow
and while time and space dissolve
in the primordial roar of the Ocean
lead me to fly away, with you, from
the void … of this bewilderment and of that insanity*
* from: Although through my bewildered way
Lidia Chiarelli, Italy
to Dylan, Son of the Sea
Seagulls and restless rooks
challenge the wind
on this winter morning.
Under a pearl sky
the waves sing the rising sun –
the first glimpse of light on the horizon
fades too soon.
Here and now
Dylan’s words resound:
The waters of the heart
push in their tides…*
And from the ancient cliff
I pause and listen to
the voice of the sea:
a water prayer
that softly evaporates
among the fleeing clouds.
*from: Light breaks where no sun shines
Lidia Chiarelli, Italy
A Street in a War Zone
The lone soldier hesitated to enter the empty street. Measured steps took him in footstep after footstep, eyes darting from road to rooftop and back, gun pointing this way and that. The eerie silence was broken only by the clomp of his heavy boots. He felt a thousand eyes tearing into his skin from barred windows. Soldiers can’t be afraid, he reminded himself.
Another sound. The creak of a door opening. Instinctively the soldier raised his gun. A man, arms folded over chest, stood against a door staring at him. He looked a bit like the soldier’s elder brother. Same height, same broad shoulders, same brown hair.
“There’s curfew! Go indoors!” shouted the soldier. The man did not move. “I have shoot-at-sight orders! Go back!”
No change in the man’s position. The soldier’s lip quivered. He had never killed anyone. But he had orders to obey.
A shaky finger pressed a trigger, gun aimed at air. Silence split by a whizzing bullet. Still the man did not move. Was he a devil? Suicidal? How could he remain standing in the face of real danger!
He’s protecting his family behind the door, thought the soldier. His mother? Wife? Children? His own mother was safely far away. Would he have the guts to protect her as this man was doing? He pushed the thought away. This was no time for weakness. His orders were clear. No one was to break curfew.
He levelled his gun and shot. A red blotch appeared on the man’s shoulder. The door behind him opened and he was pulled in. Within seconds another man took his place, arms folded identically across his chest.
The soldier couldn’t believe it. Was he hallucinating? The gun prevented him from rubbing his eyes. The barrel was still warm. Hadn’t he wounded the man? Why would another take his place knowing that he too might be shot?
The second man resembled the first. Only his shirt was black, not blue. He stood in the same defiant position. Silent. Defiance began to unnerve the soldier. His lip trembled as he ordered “Go inside! Curfew!”
Was the man deaf? Was the whole family deaf? Were they all mad? Did they not realise there was a war? That they could be killed for defying authority!
Authority…? What authority? He was the son of an ordinary farmer. He had joined the army because of his interest in martial arts. Only his uniform gave him authority. As part of a powerful army his was a voice to be obeyed.
He had been trained to obey senior officers. In three years no thought of defiance had entered his head. Now he had to quell defiance, bring rebelling citizens under control. How was he to deal with a single man standing alone in the street during curfew?
Why was this street so quiet when the whole town was in disarray? The black shirted man, about a hundred meters away, was gesturing him to come forward. What did he want? Was it a trap to avenge the wounded man!
Fear gripped his throat. Though the man’s bearing was not menacing the soldier could not trust him. But he was curious about this family of lunatics. He took a few cautious steps, then marched towards the man appearing far more confident than he felt. His heart was thumping.
As he drew close the man lowered arms from his chest. The soldier did not lower his gun. A wary appraisal of each other. Then the man turned, reached for a knob and opened the door. A stream of light poured out. The man stepped inside beckoning the soldier to follow.
Fear gripped his throat as he struggled against the impulse to run. His training. A soldier does not run away from danger. Raising the gun to his shoulders protectively, he approached the open door. As he stepped into the room the door shut gently behind him.
The room held three women and half a dozen men. All sitting quietly facing a resplendent Madonna, white veil draped over a blue cape, hand raised in blessing. Three red candles glowed in a makeshift alter at her feet. A musky fragrance hovered in the air.
It was the Madonna of his village church. He had knelt before her a thousand times – when his mother was ill, when his brother lost his job, even before the army entrance tests. His mind got trapped in a whirl of memories. He stood paralysed, mouth agape.
“Ask her to protect you,” murmured the man behind him.
The soldiers dropped his gun, kneeling.
Meher Pestonji, Mumbai, India
Meher Pestonji from India is a veteran journalist writing on street-kids, housing rights, communalism while covering
theatre, art and interviewing creative people. She has written short stories, novels : Pervez and Sadak Chhaap, and plays.
A digital performance of Turning Point is running on zoom. She is active on various international poetry groups.
poetry is just like my little dog
when she is happy she rears up on her hind legs
and she is howling with a hoarse voice to make me remember
that she used to be a wolf
I used to be a cave man
poetry has a growling stomach
but she never shows that she is famished
the most important thing for her is
to jump on the empty chair
and to be a part of the family around the dining table
Translated from Macedonian into English by Daniela Andonovska-Trajkovska
Borche Panov (1961, Republic of North Macedonia) is an awarded poet translated into more than 40 languages. Works as a Counselor of Education in Radovish, and Arts Coordinator for the “International Karamanov’s Poetry Festival”. He has published 17 books of poetry and drama.