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Robin Ouzman Hislop

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Hunter's Moon
By Robin Ouzman Hislop
Last edited: Thursday, December 29, 2005
Posted: Thursday, December 29, 2005

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Recent articles by
Robin Ouzman Hislop

• After the Cave the Comet Interview with Mystic East Publishing
• Editorial Canadian Zen Haiku
• Spanish Haikus(xix -li) + Translations
• Shades of Hades
• Interview with Poetry Life & Times. August 2001
• Margret Atwood in the Heart of Darkness
           >> View all 8
Hunter's Moon



Under the Harvest Moon.

Emerging from the trees
summer seems almost gone
to this midland rain,
as i lose sight of divinity
in multiple diversity.

Where now the mystery,
here on these borders
man, woman & non human
& the all that can be anything
to each & anyone.

The incomparable archetype,
each, both & neither
to the infinity of beings
we all come from & those
that became the brilliance of the sun

To a moon that fetched them home
again, where all distinctions fade
& her psyche will never trade,
incarnation at the mouth of creation,
under the harvest moon.


Hunter’s Moon.


at a stroke the accident
of power watching cars
go by everything
committed to the balance
of understanding
communication with the mysteries
of life – whizzz

helpless dreams
on the battlefield of time
the fallen & the slain
shoals of fire fly light
in alchemical equation
an intricate complexity
to surreal music outside

from fresco to pastiche
clouds to stains
down the corridors of time
a poisonous kiss
death in the canvass
music in still life
only the ritual remains

on the waves of moirai
written with even
the unwritten in
sign of the time
in eternal return
in the mirror of origins
in the heart of the labyrinth
time is a harp its music
trapped between mute strings


autumn & the blackberry’s
dropsy reek of undergrowth
fetid rank dank
as dead winter sets in
sinister with it’s shadow
a stranger at the door
knocking memory is a place
knocking existence its cage


time on the shore
where memory laps
in the bay to enter
silhouetted in the door
the fates dance
the dice of chance
& you must embrace
the infinite unresolved face
moon light through the bars
on the ninth wave
the arisen minotaur
eros unbound
under the hunter’s moon


the body snatcher’s have arrived
perhaps we are all mandarins
don’t you wish you had died before

what havocs remain changes to bring
to the names of things on omniscience’s
timeless wing under scarlet skies

that fall no more from heaven call down
your satellite gaze your helicopter guns
given to your children & tomorrow’s rats


exit way out tomorrow
way out tomorrow exit
distances that fall to fences
what might have been
in place of history's name
another fame nor this
more sacred domain
than the other less profane
in knowledge’s name
but owned & disowned
we fall to our fate’s behest
a phantom ruin
tumultuous on the swell
where the high arches topple
only to arise again


to aspiring spires
& glittering processions
as if the nakedness
of the day
where the northern niche
glitters dimly glimmering
were less than
the door step speaks
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
skin to skin
never darken me again
is not the lie
mortal love exceeds
immortal love
greater than truth
he gives all within the lie
& exists more than the lie
than to live to die as
his shadow falls
where the sun ends


there was no path wending
besides the river
& every turning off fraught
in yet another dread
unmarked graves
besides the gypsy camp
small assorted bumps
dry as the winter manure’s
silage smoke
adrift in woody knolls
disseminates a silken net
over a canopy of birds
through the air of his hair
places out of time
await his shadow to haunt them
as the birds sang
& the ghost of the river
calls him down
to where the river never ends
nor ever unwinds.


Sturgeon Moon



this figure now before me,
made of ice & shadows,
of migrant spheres,

fills in rhyme
in broken time
to otherwise concise pattern.

a song on the rocks,
a splash in the air,
the blizzard in your eyes.

a toast to the metaphysical
vision of creation or its poem
yet to be accurately written.

in the meantime let
existence be as zeno’s arrow
going nowhere but in suspense.



how shall I skull you
i know you’re there
arrived on air

like an earwig
scrawling on a vellum
tympan in the dark

drizzling november rain
remembering a time
of once much taller trees

hearing my heartbeat
like thunder in the leaves
in the shape shifting light

what matter what we seem
phantom or dream
it’s but the season

in flawed reason
the process & procession
repetition ramification distortion

or the illusion
a butterfly in a garden
& then a man again

in the madness sickness
& sadness in the name of
goodness & badness

as though it were innate
this poor short world of hate
where all we human pass too late

infinitesimal in the frail dark drizzle
so thin shrouded in the dead & living
not knowing where we end or begin


Sturgeon Moon

like a christmas tree’s tinsel
in glittering & faded dust
suspends fragments of existence
he sees a face in the moon
he sees a moon in your face
what lapse of memory between
recognition even in dream
a fatal disease called terminal love
the quarters of his head
after the eightfold city of light
the morning hymn on high
an actor of many faces
many voices & all lies
as the stars look down
driven beyond their controle
on a masque that doesn’t fit
the stage where the rest is silence
in a pool at the bottom of the hill
drawn from innumerable tributaries
where the dragon fly pays homage
to the lotus in the name of the
bourgeoisie’s title to fame with mozart
in another room from another room
with another name on the
radio again -- made in china.


Dementia & Delirium

parallels seeking identity in
this world so small & weak
of myth & fiction.

a forgotten story
found in a corner long ago,
difficult to know,

a time of apprehension,
a suspension of meaning
that can be enclaved,

stood on a pedestal,
a collector's item,
a laminated epitaph.

it doesn't matter
at the gates of paradise,
or so it seems.

a fatal snag in the equation,
the right answer
through the wrong reason.


Countdown on a Blue Planet (i)

world of ubiquitous flesh
in voluptuous butchery
lips foaming on a blood bowl
a carnage of battered death
a comedy of masques accompanies

opening doors in mirrors
where shattered images fill their vacuities
with coaxing falsettos to make
you laugh & breath & pretend
to believe you are not lost

as the world dies to your lies
rituals of existence
that instead of offering votive
celebrant taboos fence
our words with titles for laws


Countdown on a Blue Planet (ii)

vagrant, you follow in the wake
& stand there in the break
as morn gapes & forsakes
unable even to call heaven down
to the now open but yet doom
already too late & still too soon
for the rest which remains unborn
in the emptiness where you quicken
as a world fades on another horizon
unknown a spectre that parts aghast
in the nothing which ends as the last
in time's invincible ruins reaching
a hollowness beyond touch & dream
in the tyranny of history's remains.



i should go on down the dales
to the palace of rhiannon
by the caers, those misty isles
you see, as though at sea.

a place of memory, the sidhi,
under the silver moon's
starry wheel of heaven.
a myriad jewel, a peacock's fan,

a tiara on a diadem arisen
in the slivered shimmering night.
but here at the lagoon
are peril, dread & doom.

a frond as perfect than the abysm,
waters colder, darker than the light,
where not even the moon appears
to shift its depths wherein sky shivers.

embraced in a silver circle alone,
an oracle more brittle than bone
or wind lashed skin naked drawn,
all who enter here none return.



The Hermit.

i should have died yesterday,
when was that, before let us say,
when tomorrow finally came.

i was sent down known ends.
i was an open book.
i was read between the lines,
an open secret,

kept as a personal treasure.
comforts for before & after.

a face, as innocent
as the tabla rasa sky
when i was young,
before age in its quest with time
to find the invincible archetype
transformed me to these ruins.

but are not ruins shrines we worship
at even in our most distant dreams,
no welcome only air to eat.

The Hangman.

i muffle me against their pleas,
mine's not a greedy hand,
cold eyes i serve on plates.

i hand them their bodies
& ask of them nothing in return.

i have the blood of innocence,
on my hands through no fault of my own.
i am what i am but you too
would see me hang- hermit man.

The Hermit.

after they had taken
everything from me they began
with the intention of giving it
little by little back again.

naked as i was, i spotted their game
& so attained condemnation,
by accident i laughed outright
& was straightway sent to you.
known ends, they play by the rules,
as you do too but with a noose.

The Hangman.

The matador must slay the bull,
but how could i the minotaur,
that was my doom, my exile,

i put out my eyes & only felt the jerk

of lumpen death in my hand,
as a fisherman might fly a fish in the rapids
but then the connection snapped.

The Hermit.

i knew when i got to the cross roads
all hope of escape was defeated.
id been sent with that message
& although nobody was there,
they may as well as have been waiting.

it was the same, i knew their satisfaction,
everything was as expected
& nothing more was expected
of me, they were predictable, like you
with your noose & your tale.

The Hangman.

stop, i say stop, i am stop,
that is the secret & the power of the noose,
it tautens & lets go & that's death

at the hand, as commanded,
as handed down, my role, my prerogative.

The Hermit.

because you will never be truly alone,
you will never find the living.

it is a riddle that binds you,
as you bind yourself to death
but not the dead.

that is the difference,
that is why i am here & you there.
each way is decreed, we have made it so,
we have failed to become invincible.

The Hangman

that's the warp & woof of it.
it's the the chicken & the egg,
who got here first

& what are we waiting for,
but there are no exits
only getting on & off at arrivals.

meetings that are records & reference
to records, we never leave our ruins,
they are our homage, our destiny.

they are both of us beyond reach,
that's why i'm a man with a noose,
ready to fall because i cannot be erased.

The Hermit.

line after line, they have made me, even
my loneliness & left me not even nothingness.

Web Site Gift of Tongues

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Reviewed by Sage Sweetwater 12/30/2005
Countdown on a Blue Planet(ii) is surely my favorite for its apocalyptal slant, paralleling with the coming of 2006. I really like Lagoon because it has such faerie aura. I really get into The Hermit and the Hangman for its tarot-like telling, and Dementia & Delirium I absolutely cherish for my own personal reasons, as it puts my own personal life on a pedestal. Hunter's Moon requires a quieted mind and I am reading it at my leisure to absorb its fantastical descriptions. Robin, you have a literary style like no other. You are planet-oriented and fantasy-wired when you put quill to ink. Happy New Year, to you my friend. Thank you for escorting me into 2006. I appreciate it greatly.


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