Author Archives: Robin Helweg-Larsen

About Robin Helweg-Larsen

Director, Andromeda Simulations International, Bahamas: a global education company providing online and in-person workshops in business finance. Series Editor, Sampson Low's 'Potcake Chapbooks'. Formal verse about traveling, family, love, etc...

J.D. Smith: ‘A Cremation’

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Fire steals from slow decay the frame
Of one who wished for us to claim
This small relief:

The words are said, the ashes flown.
What’s left? A weight, a shard of bone
Still sharp as grief.

*****

J.D. Smith writes: “This poem came about in response to the death of a very beloved and quirky dog. Though she was already 10, she was a small dog and could have been expected to live longer. Her ashes, and those of her littermate, were interred with those of my parents.”

J.D. Smith has published six books of poetry, most recently the light verse collection Catalogs for Food Lovers, and he has received a Fellowship in Poetry from the United States National Endowment for the Arts. This poem is from The Killing Tree (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Smith’s first fiction collection, Transit, was published in December 2022. His other books include the essay collection Dowsing and Science. Smith works in Washington, DC, where he lives with his wife Paula Van Lare and their rescue animals. Twitter: @Smitroverse

Photo: “gone but remembered: dog ashes” by safoocat is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Susan McLean, ‘The Whetstone Misses the Knife’

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I answered your desire to meet
resistance and be honed by friction.
Sharp as you were, you couldn’t beat
the zero-sum of contradiction.

Abrasion was your privilege,
the only stroking I have known.
Now you have lost your cutting edge
and I am just another stone.

*****

Susan McLean writes: “This poem was inspired indirectly by the suicide of a talented poet whom I had seen at conferences, but had never had a conversation with. I heard that she had killed herself on Christmas Eve because of an unhappy love affair. Since I knew nothing about her personal life, this poem is not about her, but her fate made me think about unhappy relationships, particularly those in which both partners have strong but conflicting personalities. I had in mind such stormy creative relationships as those of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, Camille Claudel and Auguste Rodin, in which the clashes are initially part of the attraction, yet turn destructive eventually. However, the imaginary relationship depicted in this poem is not based on the specifics of any of those relationships.
Balance and antithesis are the key characteristics of the theme of this poem, so I thought two quatrains with a rhyme scheme of ABAB would give equal weight to the “I” and the “you” of the poem.
This poem first appeared in Mezzo Cammin, an online journal of female formalist poets, and later was published in my second book, The Whetstone Misses the Knife, which featured a bronze bust of Camille Claudel by Jacques Chauvenet on the cover.”

Susan McLean has two books of poetry, The Best Disguise and The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and one book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Measure, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.
https://www.pw.org/content/susan_mclean

Odd poem: ‘Sonnets for the Novachord (1.)’ by the non-existent Ern Malley

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Rise from the wrist, o kestrel
Mind, to a clear expanse.
Perform your high dance
On the clouds of ancestral
Duty. Hawk at the wraith
Of remembered emotions.
Vindicate our high notions
Of a new and pitiless faith.
It is not without risk!
In a lofty attempt
The fool makes a brisk
Tumble. Rightly contempt
Rewards the cloud-foot unwary
Who falls to the prairie.

*****

This sonnet is by “Ern” Malley, a fictitious poet whose biography and body of work were created in one day in 1943 by conservative writers James McAuley and Harold Stewart in order to hoax the Angry Penguins, a modernist art and literary movement centred around a journal of the same name, co-edited by poet Max Harris and art patron John Reed, of Heide, Melbourne.

In one afternoon, McAuley and Stewart wrote Malley’s entire body of work: 17 poems, none longer than a page, and all intended to be read in sequence under the title The Darkening Ecliptic. Their writing style, as they described it, was to write down the first thing that came into their heads, lifting words and phrases from the Concise Oxford Dictionary, a Collected Shakespeare, and a Dictionary of Quotations: “We opened books at random, choosing a word or phrase haphazardly. We made lists of these and wove them in nonsensical sentences. We misquoted and made false allusions. We deliberately perpetrated bad verse, and selected awkward rhymes from a Ripman’s Rhyming Dictionary.”

They mailed sixteen poems to Harris under the guise of Ethel, Ern Malley’s surviving sister. Harris and other members of the Heide Circle fell for the hoax, and, enraptured by the poetry, devoted the next issue of Angry Penguins to Malley, hailing him as a genius. The hoax was revealed soon after, resulting in a cause célèbre and the humiliation of Harris, who was put on trial, convicted and fined for publishing the poems on the grounds that they contained obscene content. Angry Penguins folded in 1946.

In the decades that followed, the hoax proved to be a significant setback for modernist poetry in Australia. Since the 1970s, however, the Ern Malley poems, though known to be a hoax, became celebrated as a successful example of surrealist poetry in their own right, lauded by poets and critics such as John Ashbery.

The above is copied and tweaked from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ern_Malley_hoax

and the BBC covers his story here: https://www.bbc.com/reel/video/p0f3h03g/ern-malley-the-influential-australian-poet-who-never-lived

CC BY 3.0, File:Novachord insides3.jpg, Created: 29 December 2009 Attribution: Hollow Sun at English Wikipedia

John Beaton, ‘Year-Leap’

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This field in winter forms a wetland, quiet
except for hushing rainfall, rushing hail,
a breeze that, fussed with snowflakes, seems to sigh at
the calls of robin, chickadee, and quail,
and swishing noises as a buck picks through
a copse of wild roses, red with thorns,
briar stems, and rose hips, which he’ll chew
as velvet slowly silences his horns.

And then the frogs! These mudlark choristers,
raucous for amplexus, now rejoice–
last night we heard no chirrups, chirps, or chirrs;
tonight they’d overwhelm a stentor’s voice–
and, swamping winter with their song, they bring
good news: the year is sound, and crouched to spring.

*****

John Beaton writes: “On our Vancouver Island acreage, frogs herald the spring,  In this poem I tried to convey the sense of joyous surprise I feel when hearing them for the first time each year.
It’s a fairly straightforward sonnet—pentameter rhymed ababcdcd efefgg. I started out softly with feminine a-rhymes then moved to masculine. Line eight introduces the turn with a line of which I’m fond, one of those that, when they fall into your lap, make writing poetry great fun. I delighted myself with quite a bit of alliteration, internal rhyme, and selective vocabulary.”

John Beaton’s metrical poetry has been widely published and has won numerous awards. He recites from memory as a spoken word performer and is author of Leaving Camustianavaig published by Word Galaxy Press. Raised in the Scottish Highlands, John lives in Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island.
https://www.john-beaton.com/

“Painted Glass Frog & Swamp Window– Completed Strawbale House Build in Redmond Western Australia” by Red Moon Sanctuary is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Using form: Sonnet variation: Peggy Landsman, ‘How We Live Now’

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We’ve been living on this planet a lot longer
Than we had any right to hope we ever would.
The beliefs we cannot shake are growing stronger
And what we know, we know does us no good.

It can be awful knowing nothing matters.
It can be awful knowing we don’t care.
But we view our life in a gentle light that flatters
And dare to live exactly as we dare.

So here’s to life, this tricky one-way ride,
And to our love which makes it all worthwhile.
Two existential nomads, side by side,
We’ll live in beauty, Lebenskünstler style.

Our where is here, our when is now;
There is no why, no one knows how.

*****

Peggy Landsman writes: “I wrote ‘How We Live Now‘ for my husband’s 56th birthday (17 years ago). The clock was ticking and I couldn’t come up with anything to give him when, suddenly, I found myself writing like mad. This sonnet was his gift. He loved it then and still loves it now. He says it perfectly captures who the two of us are together. 
It was also a gift to me. The final couplet is one of my favorite bits of my own writing. Each line has only eight syllables, but I’m fine with that. Lots of lines in this sonnet are not the absolute regulation iambic pentameter, but since the poem says ‘And dare to live exactly as we dare…,‘ why not?”

Editor’s comment: “The final couplet is not just a summation of the attitude of the sonnet’s quatrains, but as a stand-alone is also the neatest, tightest existential statement that I know of.”

Peggy Landsman is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Too Much World, Not Enough Chocolate (forthcoming from Nightingale & Sparrow Press, 2023), and two poetry chapbooks, Our Words, Our Worlds (Kelsay Books, 2021) and To-wit To-woo (Foothills Publishing, 2008). She lives in South Florida where she swims in the warm Atlantic Ocean every chance she gets. A selection of her poems and prose pieces can be read on her website: https://peggylandsman.wordpress.com/

Photo: “if not here, where? if not now, when? if not me, who?” by kafka4prez is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Short poem: ‘Convalescence’

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Demonic nurses, finding little sin,
all leave my bedside. Doctor Death comes in.
He looks around, “I’m only here
To get a rough sense of the atmosphere. ”
“Please, don’t get up…”
He sits. “Not healing with your usual speed,
Eh, you young pup?
You’ve got a few years left still, don’t you worry.
Take all the time you need.
I’m in no hurry.”

*****

I wrote this in mid-2020; I think Doctor Death was in all our minds at that point, though I didn’t catch Covid myself for another couple of years. The poem was published in the current issue of Rat’s Ass Review – thanks, Rick Bates!

Photo: “1974 Madhouse with Vincent Price playing Dr Death 9599” by Brechtbug is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Poem: ‘Family Reunion’

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Once we were all one tribe, our branch that broke
from those who now are bonobos and chimps;
but wandered off when restlessness awoke,
went poking into any land we’d glimpse,
new seas, new clime.
Now: family reunion time!

We’ve found each other, these last centuries,
gone to each other’s homes for ill or good,
marrying cousins from across those seas
in worlds of travel, music, football, food:
sing! ring! chant! chime!
It’s family reunion time!

Aggressive individuals still fight,
still work to drag their group into a brawl,
but no one any longer has the might
to be successful when confronting all.
War’s now a crime.
It’s family reunion time!

We merge by TV, plane and internet,
we dye and body-mod against the flow
of currents mixing us to one fixed set,
and build a culture of both yes and no,
crass and sublime.
It’s family reunion time!

Once more we’re all a family; once more
some will roam out across the galaxy,
and we will grow apart, till on some shore
of spiral arms we’ll meet, first disagree…
shift paradigm…
then… family reunion time!

*****

Ancient history and far-future science fiction are all part of the same story, the same continuum, of equal interest to me. This poem was published in Snakeskin 303, i.e. February 2023 – thanks, George Simmers! (And the good news is that the Snakeskin Archive – decades of good poetry – is now functioning again!)

Photos: “Notting Hill Carnival 2008” by Lplatebigcheese is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Odd poem: George Simmers on audiences on Alan Bennett’s play on W.H. Auden, ‘On “The Habit of Art”.’

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The poet drinks, he stinks, he pees in sinks.
The audience, superior as shrinks,
Appraise a life amusingly in tatters.

How they appreciate a play that flatters
Their minds with chat about artistic matters!
And how much more they savour nods and winks
And saucy homosexual high-jinks!

They go home thinking:
‘Poets? Mad as hatters!
They drink, you know! They stink! They pee in sinks!’

*****

George Simmers writes: “Alan Bennett’s 2009 play The Habit of Art deals with the later life of W.H. Auden, and deals frankly with Auden’s sexual and hygenic peculiarities, as well as giving a sense of the poet’s talent. Looking back on his poem, written soon after seeing a performance at the National Theatre, I was more annoyed by the sniggering audience of London sophisticates than by Bennett’s play, which has interesting things to say about the relationship between poetry and the fallible humans who create it.”

George Simmers used to be a teacher; now he spends much of his time researching literature written during and after the First World War. He has edited Snakeskin since 1995. It is probably the oldest-established poetry zine on the Internet. His work appears in several Potcake Chapbooks. ‘Trigger Warning’ is from his ‘Old and Bookish‘ collection of poems.
https://greatwarfiction.wordpress.com/
http://www.snakeskinpoetry.co.uk/

“The Habit of Art by Alan Bennett, National Theatre, London” by chrisjohnbeckett is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Nonce form: Gail White, ‘Cardinal Richelieu’s Cats’

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The Cardinal works into the night
To realize his dream:
To keep the nobles in their place,
Make royalty supreme.
He knows it’s time for government
To grow and centralize,
And when the nobles sober up
They won’t believe their eyes.

And at his feet
The indiscreet
Delightful pet he calls Gazette
Provides his inspiration.

He spreads the map of Europe out
And studies its repair,
Especially in ways that might
Reduce the Hapsburg share,
With here a war and there a plot
And now and then a coup..
His opposition? Well, he might
Assassinate a few.

While on his knees
Soft Soumise,
The Cardinal’s best Eminence Grise,
Provides his inspiration.

*****

This poem by Gail White won The Lyric Magazine’s Roberts Memorial Prize for 2022. White, the resident poet and cat lady of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, writes: “I’d love to know the names of all 14 of his cats. I’m a believer!”

In a post entitled ‘The Cardinal liked cats – in 1642 he had fourteen!‘, the Eminence Rouge blog states: ‘Here are some of the names of the fourteen favourite felines: Racan (poet and Academician), Gazette (indiscrete), Rubis sur l’Ongle (scratchy), Pyrame & Thysbe (lovers who slept with paws entwined), Serpolet (loved sunning himself), Felimare (tiger-striped), Soumise (submissive, R’s favourite), Lucifer (jet black), Ludovic le Cruel (rat-killer), Ludoviska (rat-catcher’s Polish mistress), Mimi-Paillon (‘straw’ angora), Mounard le Fougueux (‘ardent’, quarellsome,capricious,worldy), Perruque (fell from Racan’s wig), and Gavroche (gastro-angora).’ (Note: this totals 14 if ‘Pyrame & Thysbe’ is the name of one cat that sleeps holding its own paws.)

However in the comments posted by readers of that blog there is scepticism about the story. One writes: ‘Elizabeth Wirth Marwick, The Young Richelieu (Chicago, 1983), says she has been unable to find contemporary documentation on cats, but that he had canaries and warblers, and also 12 small dogs were boarded at Rueil. She wonders if lap-dogs have been turned into cats in the telling. (p. 242, n. 124) But that would be a bizarre change to make.’

A further comment is: ‘I always did think this was true, but now it’s looking more and more likely to me that Richelieu never had cats. I can’t find a source anywhere for all this oft-repeated “information” on the web; people just seem to be copying one another. The earlier comment about the 1938 biographer who was unable to find contemporary documentation is significant. Katharine Macdonogh, in her 1999 book Reigning Cats and Dogs, A History of Pets at Court Since the Renaissance, states on page 124 that the story is a myth, and that it was invented by Paradis de Moncrief, a “toady” at the court of Louis XV.’

Gail White’s books ASPERITY STREET and CATECHISM are available on Amazon. She is a contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine. “Tourist in India” won the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award for 2013. Her poems have appeared in the Potcake Chapbooks ‘Tourists and Cannibals’, ‘Rogues and Roses’, ‘Families and Other Fiascoes’, ‘Strip Down’ and ‘Lost Love’.
https://www.amazon.com/Catechism-Gail-White/dp/0692696660

Painting: Charles Édouard Delort (1841-1895): La distraction de Richelieu (The cardinal’s leisure), in the public domain.

‘Sonnet Found in a Deserted Madhouse (fantasy of an alternative future)’

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The winds of winter wind through empty halls,
scraps of abandoned paper blow like leaves
to settle in odd corners of old walls.
Once a community lived here, but no one grieves:
the place was nothing but a wasteful home
for the sick, sad, psychotic and insane
who, locked in rooms or left alone to roam,
babbled their lives away, inept, inane.
All funding for the loonies has dried up;
guards, nurses, admin, tea ladies: dismissed.
And all because Brussels came out on top
and closed this home of British mental mist.
Now Big Ben chimes, tolling a final knell.
Farewell, old Houses; Westminster, farewell.

*****

As an Anglo-Dane raised in a third country, I’m naturally in favour of a borderless world. I loathe Brexit and the lies, greed and social inequities that allowed it to happen. Brexit and Trump were the two big foreign policy successes of Putin, stoking lies and fear and division. Sorry, rant over.

This Shakespearean sonnet was just published in the biannual poetry magazine Allegro, edited by Sally Long.

“Abandoned Dominican Building #2” by FotoGrazio is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.