Friday, June 1, 2018



“Look beyond the physical eye, beyond the obvious, beyond the noise, beyond the confusion; be still, silent, seeking the mysteries beyond perception; filling your mind with conscious serenity.”
Chief Editor; Stacia Lynn Reynolds

The realities of the world pull us out of alignment of peace and harmony we all desire in life. Our minds become tormented within the depths of the unknown in this present day and sets itself up into our tomorrows. Anxiety may replace genuine peace and ultimate joy when we experience uncertainties in life. Though, in the actuality of our existence, as we experience life in the here and now, we can look beyond our physical world, beyond the noise and confusion, into the realm of our minds; taking hold of the power we all have within ourselves.

When poets look deep inside, within mind and soul, this capability expands beyond the realities of our physical realm. We have the ability to affect and strengthen our psyche, along with those who engulf themselves with the emotion and passion of the words we write. William Wordsworth, an English Romantic poet from the 17Th century said, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” This source of serenity is an inner capability we have; the power to control the effects of what we see and feel. When our minds reach into the depths of stillness and silence, the source of intense emotions pour from within, going beyond what the physical eye sees. Poetry is the avenue of intense emotion: sensitively and psychologically. The attraction of mental strength influences the words we write; which are enticing and appealing to not only write but to read. The poet finds inner tranquility, and the reader can feel the emotion spent, as they are lured into the mind of the one who penned such emotion.

When our minds focus only on what we physically perceive, we tend to hear only the commotion noise and confusion of the world. The images that reel through the media, internet and beyond can cause depression and uncertainty. We are blasted with the clamor of pestilence; famine; war; politics; and hate in every corner of the world. We hear and see the cries of children and elderly who are starved of sustenance and compassion. We are tried on every side, attempting to cover our eyes and ears of what we witness day to day, but our efforts may be in vain. Though, when we move beyond our earthly understandings, beyond our earthly eyes, we consume our inner man, focusing on inner serenity. The endeavor of peace and tranquility is obtainable when we reach deep within ourselves. When we purge our conscious minds from the physical world, and delve within our inner man, the poet’s words emerge. T.S. Eliot said, “We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” 

Poets are explorers; striving to express the understanding of “Why.” Some fall in the venture of constant torment, due to the overwhelming feelings which surface. Successful poets transcend between heighten spiritual awareness or deep darkness. Some put on a façade of content happiness amid clamor, though in the wake of reality, falls under the dark wing of the raven: besieged in a blackened cloud and plagued with suffering. Anguish may haunt poets, but we all have the capability of moving beyond the realities of this world. We cannot ignore what is around us, but we can make an impact; awaking our minds, and the minds around us. When we travel into our inner psyche, we can find the serenity we fervently search for. Understanding the realities of evils that torment us, within the subconsciousness of our minds, may never be answered in our physical time and place, but the passionate emotion we feel can be penned so others may relate to those feelings.

Poets are peculiar people, whose thoughts may be misunderstood, misconstrued, unrecognized and unappreciated. We may battle with the uncertainty of self, but can move beyond the negative, transcending our mind and soul to a place of serene beauty. When we find peace with who we are as a person, our ability to make an impact in the world will become a tremendous feat. Personal and corporate achievement can be carried out. The declaration of self gives us the power to declare the written word, along with the ability to heal and encourage others with those words. Walt Whitman said, “Keep your face always toward the sunshine and the shadows will fall behind you.” This quote is very simple, but also extremely profound. Light will overcome darkness in any situation; if you search for peace like the finest gold.

“Stillness, Silence, Simplicity;
Will be my Serenity.”
(Stacia Lynn Reynolds)

Our Poetry Archive is thankful for all the poets who contribute to our growing numbers, and readers alike, for your support. Without your contributions, Our Poetry Archive would not have grown the way it has over the last four years. This online poetry journal has an intense purpose and passion to witness respect and appreciation of others through expressed thought. The expression of inner emotion, the tapestry of cultures, ethnics groups, language, and race, have come together to share their personal penned words, along with respecting others who contribute. This consistent action from all contributors is overwhelming. Our Poetry Archive applauds all poets for your support and congratulates each individual poet on your personal success as a writer. I am truly humbled to be a part of Our Poetry Archive.

Our Poetry Archive is pleased to introduce the JUNE 2018 POET OF THE MONTH, Ken Allan Dronsfield, from USA. Please take time to read and enjoy the thoughtful answers he has humbly provided. Also, please take time and enjoy the numbers OPA has added to June 2018 General Edition. Our appreciation goes without measure; thank you!

“The pursuit of peace lies within the soul of each individual. Reach down, deep within, and pull from within, all that will make the world sing; in perfect harmony.”

(Chief Editor)
From The Editorial Desk



email us to:


JUNE 2018

ALICJA KUBERSKA: What does poetry mean to you?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  First, let me say “thank you” for inviting me to share some of my thoughts, etc with the audience at OUR POETRY ARCHIVE. I guess to me poetry is Art. Instead of a brush and paint, or a charcoal pencil, or camera, I use words to ‘paint a picture’, whether it’s about birds, trees, a blade of grass or a walk through the woods. When done, my ‘masterpiece’ invokes images in the readers minds, paintings, drawings, etc.

ALICJA KUBERSKA: What’s according to you the meaning of poetry in the contemporary world?

KEN DRONSFIELD:   Personally I find poetry today in this world of contemporary poetry vs. the old traditional style of poetry to be harder to grasp as to the meaning of each piece of work. The styles of writing, be they, non-rhyming verse, or concrete imagery are wonderful, but sometimes I like to go back and read some of the ‘master’s’ work as well. I find it extremely fun to read.

ALICJA KUBERSKA:  Can you describe your creative process while writing a new poem?

KEN DRONSFIELD:   Most times when I’m just beginning a new piece, it will start with just a single word or short sentence, sometimes just a title, and I will let it flow from there. Many times my work sits for months with only a title and the first couple verses, or even just one quatrain, then I finish the work over time.

ALICJA KUBERSKA:  Did it happen to you that a poem was just your dream ?

KEN DRONSFIELD:    Yes, I have written many poems about what I’ve dreamt or fantasized about during daydreams.

ALICJA KUBERSKA: Tell us about your inspiration. What’re the most important subjects to you?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I love nature and light horror as well. I spent many years growing up in the woods and on the waters of the Northeast corner of the United States; ie, Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont. My love of the outdoors started there, and has been with me for all my years. The light horror comes from time spent reading Edgard Allan Poe in high school.

MARIA MIRAGLIA:  Which were the emotions that inspired your first verses?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  An exuberance, an excitement in seeing nesting birds, or watching a small baby deer walking with it’s mother, seeing it explore the world around it for the first time. It was and is very inspiring to this day!

MARIA MIRAGLIA:  Was your aspiration to become a poet or did all happen by chance?

KEN DRONSFIELD:   I just enjoyed writing. Whether it was a short story, a limerick or perhaps a four-line poem. I found it rather thrilling to write a poem or story knowing no one has written one like that piece. I think it all comes down to ‘creation’. I believe we all want to create something in our lives. It’s all about the art, albeit a canvas to paint, a picture to photograph, or a poem.

MARIA MIRAGLIA:  Who is the first person you read your poems to and why?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  Myself….I read all my work out loud before anyone else gets to read the piece. I find reading the work in my own voice helps me to correct small grammatical errors or even just improve on the piece.

MARIA MIRAGLIA:  Have you published any poetic anthology, if so what did you feel the first time you got it in your hands?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I have been published in approximately 8 or 10 anthologies over the past several years. I have also been the co-editor of two anthologies. I was very excited to find myself published in the very first anthology and as I read the book I believe all I could say was, “Wow”!

MARIA MIRAGLIA:  Who are the poets you prefer reading? Do you get inspiration from them?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  Yes, indeed. I have many poets that I enjoy reading, but not too many of the newer contemporary writers. My list of those I love to read repeatedly would be Edgar Allan Poe, William Butler Yeats, Leonard Cohen, Sylvia Plath, Seamus Heaney and William Shakespeare. I also enjoy reading Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, Maya Angelou and Walt Whitman. I even enjoy some of the poetry written by Stephen King, between he and Edgar Allan Poe, I try to write lighter horror using their inspirational styles.

APRILIA ZANK:  How important is accessibility of meaning to you? Do you challenge the readers to work hard to decipher your poems, or do you prefer transparency of meaning?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I would say ‘yes’. I don’t  challenge my readers to work to find meaning in my poems. I never try to explain my work to anyone. I let the pieces speak for themselves. I think those reading my work always find they’re own imagery within my poems.

APRILIA ZANK:  What kind of poems do you write mostly? Do you have recurring themes, or are all your poems unique?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  This is a tough question, in as much as, I write different poems on a consistent basis. I might write a nice nature poem on Monday, then decide to write a light horror piece on Thursday. With this question, I allow my Muse free will. I simply write what flows.

APRILIA ZANK:  Do you think your poetry is typically feminine / masculine? If yes, in what way?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  No, I find poetry to be totally without any feminine or masculine credo.

APRILIA ZANK:  Do you write mostly about yourself, or do you also have an open eye /ear for the issues of the world?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I try not to write about myself, but find I do ‘show up’ in some of my poems. I also have an open eye and ear to the heartbeat of the world as well, but try to stay away from current events. I enjoy writing about historical issues of years or times gone by.

APRILIA ZANK:  In what way is your poetry different from that of other poets?

I believe my work to be different because of my attention to detail and imagery that other poets might shy away from.

LEYLA IŞIK:  What are the main factors to make poetry real poetry?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  Another tough one. Let me try to answer this one. I truly believe with all my heart that it comes down to “believability” of the piece. I think that if you know nothing about horses, don’t try to write a poem about them. Your lack of understanding and knowledge will show through every time. So, before you start to write about a subject, get to know your subject first. In my heart I think that believability in poetry is good poetry, and good poetry is real poetry. And that goes for free verse, rhyming, sonnets or even short stories; whatever you choose.

LEYLA IŞIK:  Do you think imagery is important in poetry? Where does the importance of imagery begin in a poem, where does it end?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  Yes, imagery is important in poetry, but, if you are writing an imagery filled poem, keep the imagery coming, don’t start the poem full of wonderful images, then after the first quatrain, or after the first lines, go off on a boring subject. If you do this, the eyes of the reader will wander away from the page, wandering eyes, means the reader is gone. They will leave and look for something more interesting to read. You want to keep their attention and want them to read the next line, then the next, and so on.

LEYLA IŞIK:  What are the most used types of poetry in your country?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  free-verse, concrete poetry here in the USA.

LEYLA IŞIK:  What’s important to be a good poet? To write good poems!

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I would say to write for yourself first. I’ve always said that. If YOU like it, then seek publishing. If you don’t, then put it back in the folder and rework it later. Be true to yourself always first!

DEBORAH  BROOKS  LANGFORD:  Understanding poetry begins with visualizing the central images in the poem. What do you see, taste, smell, hear, and feel? What is the imagery of your poetry?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  If you can take the reader from their couch, or easy chair, and put them right there, amongst the grasses, the village, the people or animals you’ve written about in your poem, then you’ve done your job as a good imagery poet.

DEBORAH  BROOKS  LANGFORD:  What is the mood of your poetry? (Or How does it make you feel?)

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I always feel excited and fulfilled when I finally complete a poem. Whether it’s a horror piece, a nature or seasonal piece of a work of eclectic prattle…

DEBORAH  BROOKS  LANGFORD:  In your poetry who is the speaker of the poem? Are you speaking to yourself or to others?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  My work changes… rarely am I speaking to myself, most times I’m speaking to the reader.

DEBORAH  BROOKS  LANGFORD:  What is the message of your poetry?  What messages do your poetry convey?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I’m always hoping that the readers enjoy my poetry, that they feel it’s imagery filled, well written, and believable. That each poem speaks a ‘truth’ for all, and that they find the last lines as enjoyable as the first few.

DEBORAH  BROOKS  LANGFORD:   Does the internet and social media contribute to the success of your poetry? Is this the reason you write for?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  Yes, in an enormous way. I think all poets, writers, etc., feel the internet and social media contributes immensely to the success of their individual works. I find that 20 years ago, you had to find a publisher, hand type each poem, mail them and hope for the best. Most publishers at that time would simply read a few lines and throw the lot into the bin. Not even bother to let the poet know. Nowadays, I find it wonderful and exciting to send out your work to editors who select and display for their readers. I love this new age of computer media.  

NILAVRONILL SHOOVRO:  Thank you so much dear poet for the interview. We would like to know your personal experience with OPA as a literary web journal. Would you like to share anything more with our readers?

KEN DRONSFIELD:  I would simply like to thank YOU for all you do for poetry and young up and coming writers as well as those that are established. You give us all a platform to display our talents and our work. It’s an awesome thing! Thank you so much!




On the small lake outside of Budapest
sunny Sunday morning and cloudless sky
the old white swan takes her final breath as
the cat nine tails bow in solemn silence.
Life slowly slips away, a single small
white cloud appears, a vision of her mate
as the lonely old white swan slowly dies
Just a few come by to pay their respects
cat nine tails bow down with feted grace the
weeping willows shimmer and shed soft tears
Mallards fly by, and the great hawks soar high
painted turtles glide by as grasses sway
whilst the children stand on the bank and cry,
the old white swan gently closes her eyes.



Today I'll travel to the swamp and woods
to do a little artistic sketching for those
painting projects during the warm summer.
As I leave with my thermos and bag,
a lone cardinal sits by the empty feeder,
snail trails arrive in the freshly tilled garden.


Gentle rains beget fresh greener grasses;
lichen and moss cover the old stone wall,
and fill the air with a fresh spring essence.
Crows are busy in their murder covens,
nibble on corn stubble before the next plow.
Songbirds arriving daily with warmer skies.


Smells of the forest are musty and damp
colored leaves weaving a winters quilt.
Ice sheets melting on the ponds and lakes
geese happily swim through coolish waters.
Frogs and turtles are returning from hibernation,
as will the black bears and woodchucks soon.


A puff on the pipe, and a sip from the flask,
take out my sketch pad from the canvas bag.
Two deer moving slow in the hemlock swamp.
It's now time to capture, using a charcoal black,
woodland creatures and trees during this moment,
like that Pileated woodpecker;  tap, tap, tapping.


With a slow, steady hand, a raven takes shape
perched high in an ancient oak, his call a bit raspy
Trees are still bare, I watch lone leaves float down
like paper planes, some helicopter to the fodder.
As branches and twigs take shape on the paper
timeless moments found upon this spring day.


I watch the chickadees dance in the pine boughs,
the blue jays squawk, alert all to perceived threats,
gray squirrels gathering acorns for a spring snack
look toward the skies, as the clouds drift by slowly.
For it's not the beauty of what we see before us,
but it's in knowing whom to properly give thanks.


Seasons of query; blood moon sullen
keeper of the corn; coolness of breath
peeking sun warm; misty fogginess lifts.
grass wet with dew; footprints are aplenty.
fresh moldy earth turned by the oxen.
hard sharp edge; pussy willow softness
smells of mint tarrow; thankful for senses
buds burst with sun; lilacs bloomed today.
spector of essence; keeper of the scents
wafting through life; freshness of cut grass
inner core of sulfur; bud of bursting leaves
pious taste of roses; electric with the sun.


I seek the visions of light and stellar gladness
then cast the shadows of ornamental novelty.
moved by the oceans of perpetual sadness
a rising and falling of a tidal lunar philosophy
You dance through life as strife seems abated
wiping all tears and the fears of the breathless
thunderous rumbles from an icy past deflated.
death speaks of the weak to spirits so restless
Speaking in riddles or rhyming eclectic prattle
just try to voice the truth to the youth of today
fleece your coin from those whom never tattle
pack all your hate in trunks and then run away
squeezing off shots at the innocent with rattles
to rage another way, prayer forgives the unholy.


Of limpet and crumpet
and other peculiar things.
Brooding in a chorus or
humming upon the verse.
At rest nea a bedside table
as wicked candles flicker
shadows found lounging in
darkness of the cold cellar.
Questioned a truth upheld
as sea eagles wings whistle
on tempests in graying skies.
While limpets and crumpets,
goblins and grand toadstools
await the damp chill of night.


KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD is a disabled veteran, poet and fabulist originally from New Hampshire, now residing on the plains of  Oklahoma. His work can be found in magazines, journals, reviews and anthologies. He has two poetry books, "The Cellaring" a collection of 80 poems of light horror, paranormal, weird and wonderful work. His newest book, "A Taint of Pity", Life Poems Written with a Cracked Inflection, was just released on He is a three time Pushcart Prize and twice Best of the Net Nominee for 2016-2017. Ken loves writing, thunderstorms, walking in the woods at night and spending time with his cats Willa and Yumpy.

AHMET ÖZER (Turkish poet, writer, critic)



on any august day
the train is misty / the station crowded / the lover desperate
it’s the hand surrounded by thin fingers
that grows tall between the sun and separation.

mom i was a child
my photographs were black-and-white my hair was rainy
time comes between joy and sorrow
the cloud of loneliness on my face shifts shape
another stranger joins the vein of the city.

i don’t know what else is to end a night
if not a big and hopeless duel
the dark is sticky / longing is galloping / the surrounding is intransitive
bridges are shattered at the best page of the tale.

now in a city afar
the sky is transparent at the darkness of the soil
summer wind flows from the planes with the song of birds
willows with their sparkling leaves
francolins whose shadows disperse on the streets
and bakırçay with its green water
passes its saddest flow on to a folk song.

mom i was a child
now as i further fold your love with my handkerchief
i take breezes from your skin the cities in my dreams
what overlaps with my face is somebody else’s face
it’s my voice i’ve haven’t lost that speaks to the stars
it’s my voice that lays in the endless depths of the night
becoming the cry of love and separation.

Ahmet Özer (Turkish poet, writer, critic)

aşkın ve ayrılığın sesiyle

ağustos herhangi bir gününde
tren buğulu/gar kalabalık/sevgili umarsız
incecik parmakların kuşattığı eldir
güneşle ayrılığın arasında boyveren.

ben çocuktum anne
fotoğraflarım siyah beyaz saçlarım yağmurlu
zaman giriyor sevincin ve hüznün arasına
yüzümdeki yalnızlık bulutu şekil değiştiriyor
bir yabancı daha ekleniyor kentin damarına.

biliyorum bir geceyi bitirmek
büyük ve umutsuz bir düellodan başka nedir
karanlık yapışkan/hasret dörtnala/ kuşatma geçitsiz
masalın en güzel sayfasında köprüler paramparça.

şimdi uzakta bir şehirde
toprağın esmerliğinde saydam gökyüzü
çınarlardan yaz rüzgârı akıyor kuşların şarkısıyla
ışıltılı yapraklarıyla söğütler
gölgesi raylara dökülen turaçlar
ve yemyeşil suyuyla bakırçay
en süzgün akışını aktarıyor bir bozlağa.

ben çocuktum anne
şimdi sevgini daha da katlayarak mendilime
teninden esinti götürüyorum düşümdeki kentlere
aynalarda başkasının yüzüdür yüzümle çakışan
yıldızlarla konuşan sesimdir yitirmediğim
sesimdir gecenin sonsuz derinliğine
aşkın ve ayrılığın çığğı olup serilen.
Ahmet Özer (Turkish poet, writer, critic)


what a beauty you were
all day long rivers would fall down on your face
on time for the news/when the evening falls
as our dreams fly in the howl of the wind
the sound of sparkling silk would get woven in your voice
the nicest tone of your language would reflect on your tongue
words would breathe in the depths of the mirror
in front of hundreds of images
your glance resonates to the life of a loving heart.

such a beauty you were
how you brought up a love of tales i don’t know
what i know is / a beautiful voice at an afternoon
as it rains / the book i read is at the hand of the memories
my door is open / at the time of bird migration
as you lay your tongue upon my days and create a forest
it was to place words of love on the soil
woven by the embroidery of “i love you.”

you were such a beauty
when our days are in the middle of a life
and as your words mingle with the milky way
off of the edges of a sea to the stars i’d love to get driven away
if only you flew out of a closed box / to the cliff where i lie
you’d become the poem that nurses words
if i named the loneliest evening of songs after you
you’d be the sky in the light that i flash on my tongue
as the world tells of the best fall of the snow
my lines would bleed suddenly
in the thinnest vein of the marble of history.

Ahmet Özer (Turkish poet, writer, critic)

bakışı aşktı

ne çok güzeldin
yüzünden günboyu ırmaklar dükülürdü
haberin tam saatinde/akşamın indiği vakitte
şlerimiz havalanırken rüzgârın uğultusunda
ışıltılı ipeğin telleri dokunurdu sesinde
dilinden türkçenin en güzel iklimi yansırdı
sözcükler soluk alırdı aynanın derinliğinde
binlerce görüntünün önünde
bakışın çınlardı seven bir yüreğin ömrüne.

çok güzeldin
bir masal aşkını nasıl büyütürdün bilemem
bildiğim/güzel bir sesin bir akşamüstü
yağmur yağarken/okuduğum kitap anıların ellerinde
kapım açık/kuşların göç vaktinde
dilini günlerime serip bir orman yaratarak
sevgiden sözler bırakmaktı toprağa
‘seviyorum seni’ nakışıyla örülmüş.

ne güzeldin
bir yaşamın ortasındayken günlerimiz
isterdim sözlerin samanyoluna karışırken
bir denizin eteklerinden yıldızlara savrulmayı
uçuversen bir kapalı kutudan/uzandığım uçuruma
sözcüklere süt veren şiire dönüşürdün
koysam şarkıların en yalnız akşamına adını
dilime tuttuğun ışıkta bir gökyüzü olurdun
karın en güzel yağışını anlatırken dünya
dizelerim kanardı birdenbire
tarihin mermerinin en ince damarında.
Ahmet Özer (Turkish poet, writer, critic)


a woman / her tongue doesn’t reach the horizon of her voice
words are incomplete feelings are galloping her face is weary
it is the depth of an embanked water that frightens
mother is love / whose milk smells of burning / her fingers

she seeks new colors for the meaning of life
a woman / her tongue is covered with salt / her words are minced
on her sweaty forehead the tides of two countries
her heart is disturbed / in the pendulum of bell and azan.

who knows what will fill her remaining life
at which scene the lights will go off / the longing will end
days are an iron ingot / which lower her arms
dreams freeze / in her face that carries cold winds.

a woman/she added her tongue to dirge/her eyes misty
keeps looking for her pain / the one that makes her a mother
the water catches on fire / spring turns to winter / pains grow
she cranes her neck for a noose / she herself becomes the executioner

Ahmet Özer (Turkish poet, writer, critic)

dil annedir / anne dildir

bir kadın / dili yetmiyor sesinin ufkuna
sözcükler yarım duygular dörtnala yüzü yorgun
önü tutulmuş bir suyun derinliğidir korkutan
bir sevgidir anne / sütü yanık kokan/ parmakları

yeni renkler arıyor yaşamın anlamına
bir kadın / dili tuz içinde / sözleri doğranmış
terli alnında iki yurdun gelgiti
kalbi örselenmiş / çan ve ezan sarkacında.

kim bilir neler dolacak kalan ömrüne
hangi sahnede kesilecek ışıklar / bitecek hasret
demirden bir külçedir günler / kollarını çökerten
şler donakalır / soğuk rüzgârları taşıyan yüzünde.

bir kadın/ ağıta katmış dilini / gözleri buğulu
aranıp duruyor sancısını / kendini anne kılan
su tutuşuyor / kışa dönüşüyor bahar / acılar yeşeriyor
boynunu uzatıyor bir kemende / cellat kendisi oluyor.

(Turkish poet, writer, critic)