Tuesday, February 24, 2015

the window to the world at poets rally week 80 on life of a poet interview (30): Roslyn Ross

Can you tell us about yourself?I am an Australian and have been writing poetry since I was a child. I have a deep interest in the esoteric, as well as health, mind/body, mythology, psychology and spirituality. I also study Astrology and Homeopathy.
Which country do you live in now? What’s your profession? be general, no need to specify your location...I currently live in Malawi, in Africa. I am a poet,  writer, editor, journalist.

We’re happy that you have been part of Poets Rally as a participant, what has driven you to where you are in this particular community? Poetry communities are stimulating and supportive.

How long have you been blogging? Do you think being part of a poetry community contributes to your creative writing?I have been blogging for about seven years. Yes, communities contribute.

Why poetry? Do you write fiction too?I have written five novels, one book of non-fiction based on four years in Angola during the civil war and am working on a fifth novel and two ancestry books.

Please share 3 to 5 blog links you enjoy reading most, give 1 or 2 sentences to tell why you love their creative process.http://dversepoets.com/


I don't have time for too much more. I like both because there are interesting prompts and interesting people.

How do you know when a poem is done? your own experiences need to be shared here...It feels done.

How do you decide when a poem is "good"? Do you redo your own poems after they’re posted? it could be poem someone else written...I don't. If I am satisfied it is what it is - others use good and bad.
No, I never rewrite and basically just tweak. The poems write themselves.

Do you think music and poetry are related? Why?Everything is related.

What issues are closed to your heart? Women’s rights, child abuses, etc.…name one…Spirituality

What’s your other hobbies besides writing? Do you have pets? Give us a picture if you own a pet.Cooking, reading, painting ... and no pets in Africa.

Please list your blog links below, share 1 or 2 poems that represents best of your poetry talent…

Thanks in advance.



Flags in sullen colors blew bruises on the day,

the memories fell dead, hope's balloon had lost its way,

and grief did fish those waters, the specter rising high,

a shroud upon the moment, to flush the waters dry.

Chromosomes did mutter in glue of life bestowed,

the mountain of eternity where God like liquid flowed,

as falling from the heights, that tragedy of life,

where years like raging pirates, waged in brutal strife.

The buffalo had gathered, saplings bowed their heads,

wildflowers lay like words, waiting to be read,

no famine in this birthing, the chorus wild and free,

as nature spoke in beauteous pun, laughing gleefully.

Love did wander widely, like deer on endless plain,

while Fates did dance through mindless minutes made,

in whirlwind of remembering, that clawing at the edge,

the streetlamp lit so fitfully; the past was surely dead.

The scales of now had settled into rocking space,

fossil held, the minute turned to stone, no grace,

oceans swallowed passion, the flesh of Eros cold;

decades drowned the days; youth had now grown old.


The day carries its own load,
forgotten moments, buried,
repressed, denied, dismissed;
like packages tied neatly and

then packed carefully into
a space, which can be then
covered over, as if it had
never been, and yet, it was

and still is, and remains in
its own dark truth, despite
the fact that it cannot be
easily seen, unless time is

taken to uncover, unwrap,
release, and make real and
raw, that which was once
consigned to the grave of

painful, non-being, as if
in the removing from the
now, it could be taken out
of existence, and cut from

the cloth of being, which
remained; but of course,
the shape was always seen
and as the edges frayed,

even then, its form could
not be denied, caste eternal
in those marks which called
forever true and always

known, even though, the
eye and mind could discern
no fixed shape - still, it
lives and surely grieves.