Friday, March 1, 2019



Our Poetry Archive is an online web journal published every month. With this particular number this international poetry journal has completed its fourth year of web publishing with 48 monthly issues along with four Anthologies. We are proud enough to publish poems of numerous poets from all over the world. We remain grateful to our writers and readers alike for making Our Poetry Archive a successful web journal. Personally I would like to extend my gratitude to all my friends who have made an enormous impact to make this web journal so much popular among the poetry lovers of all the continents. Among them I would like to thank especially all the members of the editorial desk of OPA. It could not have been possible for me alone to make OPA a successful international web journal without their direct contributions and continuous support. 

Apart from just publishing poems from all over the world, even at the beginning of this journey our mission was to build up one international platform where readers can find out different literary cultures and traditions in one place. We thought it will help us to understand different voices around the world, which may one day bring harmony among mutual differences. Yes we still believe this is one of the useful gateways to cover-up the tensions among different nations and nationalities. People will one day come to understand that we are actually equal among all the inequalities, which makes the human civilized. We believe our civilization requires these human steps especially at this present time of political and social turmoil around the world. Yes at first it may sound to some extent an Utopian idea that poetry can bring harmony among mutual difference leading to ease out the socio political tensions around. Yes, it is not at all an easy task, nor even can be achieved in our lifetime. Yet we can only start the journey. Let’s see what can we do ourselves and how far can we proceed collectively. We still believe that as poets and thinkers writers and creative artists alike it is also our responsibilities to proceed along this line of vision. And to our surprise we have won many friends along this collective journey so far. Yes, this is just the beginning and the road is long ahead. We hope more and more responsible world citizens will also join with us in this long march of Poetical Revolution to make this world a peaceful and harmonious abode for humanity.

And today we are really proud enough to feel a sense of inbuilt joy among us that poets and readers alike from different corners of the world have extended their support to us. Poetry is a creative journey which makes the personal realizations impersonal by touching the human hearts with compassions. We at Our Poetry Archive is actually trying to archive this human compassions in the name of poetry or literature.

Many readers and writers alike believe that poetry is actually the spontaneous overflow of emotions of the poet which arouse the sentimental feelings of the readers. Poetry is not the turning loose of emotions. This had been pointed out by one of the greatest English poet of all time T. S. Eliot. Yes we do agree with him. Yet, it is also true that without any emotion, words and lines can never be transformed into poetry. So, emotional interpretation of one’s feelings is also vitally important for writing poems. But one has to control the release of emotions while interpreting his or her feelings in case of writing poetry. Poetry actually demands this from its creator to control the personal emotions in such a manner that the words and lines can represent impersonal interpretation of the feelings with a world view in the canvas of eternity.

Poetry is also the discovery of the true soul of the poet. One can only become a poet with this self discovery, establishing a direct and worthwhile connection with his or her inner self. This particular phase of the poetical life can be described as “Becoming Oneself. Only then a poet can realize his or her true essence over space and time. It actually helps him or her to communicate with his time and surroundings, discovering his or her own poetical language to express the creative brilliance more meaningfully. We at Our Poetry Archive constantly try to nourish these aspects.

Poetry is also a craft which waits for its readers. Only a true reader can make a poem alive. A single poem can work differently among various readers. It can be interpreted in various ways according to the wisdom and literary knowledge of its readers. So poetry is actually a many-folded manifestation. One can never judge it with a final verdict because it also evolves along with the timescale. So the role of the readers is also very much important. We at Our Poetry Archive always believe this and keeping it at the back of our mind we remain obliged to those readers who have made Our Poetry Archive their favorite web journal.

Those who would like to participate in our upcoming editions, please send at least three poems and a profile picture, along with the explicit confirmation of your permission for publication of your copy righted materials in OPA well before the 10th of every month. You can also add one short Biography written only in the 3rd person narrative along with the submission. With this note I would like to invite you all to this collection of poems of the World Poets. I would also like to convey our gratitude to all the poets who have participated in this number with their literary brilliance, on behalf of the entire editorial desk of OPA.

From The Editorial Desk



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MARCH 2019

ALICJA KUBERSKA: What does poetry mean to you?

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Poetry is some that has found me.  For as long as I can remember I have been inspired by words, there words come into my mind without me searching for them. Sometimes they come for no reason at all, at other times they are a reaction to a thought, a place, a picture, a feeling, or even a smell. They majority arrive for no reason I understand and if I were to write every word down I would have a thousand anthologies, instead of just one.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: That is difficult to answer. I do not see poetry impacting the world the same as a novel or film. Poetry has an aftershock that in many cases is not felt until after an event. I think a good example of this are the poems of Rupert Brooke. I also those songwriters that at heart are poets, example Dylan and Cohen have a great impact. One of the best descriptions I heard of poetry is that ‘it was the stepchild of Literature.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: In depends on the subject! It depends on the inspiration!  In the main I write (rather quickly) the first thoughts that come. Then I will ponder a little (not always) over these. I am a little dyslectic, something I discovered only when I was in my teens (we didn’t have big words like that when I was young, you were regarded as just ‘slow’. So before the finished work I check (I still do not trust spellcheck) all the unsure spellings.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Not really, but nightmares figured in some early poems.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Over the years this has changed, which is I suppose in a natural progression in any form of development. At present I have tended to write on things and memories of the past. I also have a great interest in Norse/Viking history and myths and I have a separate collection on Facebook of these called Poems from the Norse-lands. In these I will sometimes refer to an old saga and the Old Gods, in other I will create new stories following in the tradition of the skalds. I have included one poem this month as an example. I use the aka Löst Viking, to sign my poems and it is also my poetry page on Facebook,

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I do not remember when I started, I was an only child in a time before even TV was in the country. So I spent a lot of time with imaginary friends. But I remember writing a poem about the donkey that brought Jesus into Jerusalem, and also about the sea, which I called H20 plus Sodium Chloride, which I thought was clever at the time. In fact it was published with another poem in the Anglo Welsh Review.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I still have difficulty calling myself a poet.  When I read all the wonderful stuff that is out there by other people. People that I would consider ‘arty’ (I mean that in an artistic way). I feel comfortable when I am sometimes referred to as a storyteller. So in answer to this question, it happen because it happened.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I never read my poems to anyone, in fact I kept the fact hidden from my friends that I wrote at all, but I was always regarded to be a little strange by their mothers. I have done only one public reading some years ago now in Highgate, London.  At the time there was a man called Norman Hidden, that published a monthly anthology which I had contributed too on a number of times and he invited me. I was the only Irish person there and very nervous. I have also written three plays for the theatre and found listening to other people say my words a lot easier.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I have appeared in many anthologies from different parts of the world.  In 2017 I published my first solo one Poems from the Shadowlands and Poems from the Norse-lands (two sections, one general poems and the other Norse related poems).  I cannot remember feeling any special emotions when I received my copies.  Perhaps I missed something special?

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: There are many poets on Facebook I like reading, sometimes I am inspired a little in what I read – nothing comes to mind as I reply here. I am still a great admirer of Robert Frost and Seamus Heaney, and the latter has inspired a number of my poems. An example is my poem Croppy Boys.

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?

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: In a word my poems are simple, very few need deciphering. I am a sort of John Clare.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Some poems have a recurring theme, I notice I mention swans a lot, and lakes.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Never thought about it as either, but in short no.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I am in many of my poems, my experiences of life are also there. Yes I have also written about contemporary issues, one recently on homeless people in Ireland was deleted by many Irish groups on Facebook.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Except that it is simple to understand, I have no idea

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: There are many, I suppose experience of life is one thing.  I spent years in the French Armed Forces and I have used that to write many poems set in Africa and Eastern Europe. But then Tennyson wrote about the Charge of the Light Brigade from the comfort of his London house.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: On Facebook and my blog I like to use an image with my poem (Flustered artist syndrome I suppose).  Some poets are totally against that….to each his own.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Lost wars, Famine, Emigration, Dreams, Drink and Love.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I have no idea, I edit many of poems after they have been posted.  I would say just to be understood.

LEYLA IŞIK:   Who are the most important poets and their main properties nowadays?

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I am not familiar with modern poets outside of blogs and Facebook, my life does not have all that spare time, I did hear Marilyn Chin read some of her work recently and was impressed.

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?

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: All of the above plus fear and sadness. And of course hope.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Depends on the mood I am in when I write.  I have crossed all borders.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Again it is whatever the subject, I would say I am telling a story in many cases. I speak to myself in my head, not often on paper.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Just what the story of the time is. I am just a simple writer of thoughts, not a sort of guru.

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

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Mainly Facebook, I have a website but it is not visited often.  But here is the link if anyone is interested.

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?

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: I have been a member for a number of years now.  I have to admit I do not contribute every poem to the page.  I tend to post in a small number of groups where there is some interaction.  But I enjoy the monthly blog.



Poems from the Norse-lands
He could only speak in whispers,
His journey had been long and hard;
His horse was taken down by wolves,
In the forest of Thorlaard.
The snow cut deep into his clothes,
And the frost had chewed his skin;
How he made it here, was a wonder,
The true mark of the courage of his kin.
He told us of the treachery,
How Hákon had rebelled;
And now proclaimed that he was Konungr,*
Over all the Northern lands.
He demanded subjugation -
From the Jarls, and all their wards,
And those that would defy him,
He had put to the sword.
His timing had been perfect,
The sea ice still blocked the fjords,
And the longships had been pulled ashore;
Unprepared for winter war.
But Thórolf, our Jarl,** decided
That we would stand and fight;
All crops and food were gathered in,
All sentries doubled in the night.
The western mound – our weakest place,
Was reinforced by new felled logs,
Their large branches cut and pointed,
To deter their horse and dogs;
The forge continued day and night,
Hammering out more spears and swords,
While our women streched hard leather,
For body armour, and shield boards.

Their emissary was first to arrive,
And offered life for our parole.
With a swift blow, Orm took his head,
And mounted it high upon a pole.
Then they sent out their slaves,
A ploy to count our bowmen’s place;
But as we killed the bravest runners,
The rest scattered back in haste.
Their first attack was fast and mighty,
They came like demons out of Hel,
Even the women had to stand beside us;
In our effort to repel.
Once they breached our eastern side,
But Halfur, filled the space,
Those that died in that deadly tide;
Went to the Gods with no disgrace.
The days rolled into weeks,
The weeks themselves into an abyss,
I lost many friends that winter time,
But Hákon lost more of his.
Our food piles had diminished,
But we still could eat once a day;
Three mares were sacrificed to Thor,
Then we cut their flesh away.
As the snows began to falter,
Hákon, himself appeared,
Carrying the branch of peace;
I thought, looking older than his years.
He relinquished all his previous claims,
Even gave our Jarl more lands to roam;
And when the treaty feast was over -
He turned and took his army home.
Of course there was a reason,
The sea ice was melting fast;
And he had plans to sail, for slaves and gold,
To be found in the Christian west.
But fate marked, he would not return,
Killed in the savage Celtic lands,
And the winter war, was long forgotten,
Until written by my hand.
©John Anthony Fingleton  (Löst Viking)
* Konungr / King
** Jarl / Earl

(For Catherine, my Mother)

I never got to tell you,
No, I never had the chance;
Never got to say the words,
And we never got to dance.
Fortune had blown us far apart
I’m the one, who wronged,
So all the things you did for me,
I’ve written in this poem.
You gave your love, before I did;
And never asked the same,
I was young and selfish;
Felt no wrong or shame.
You picked me up when I was down;
Dried my tears of pain;
Held me in your arms at night,
So I would never be afraid.
How many fools are now like me?
Regret unspoken words,
Forgive me as you always did,
My shield against the world.
The many times I broke your heart,
I so wish, I could change back time,
You had your own hard cross to bear;
But you also carried mine.
Unyielding love you always gave;
My shelter from all storms,
I wish you could hear these words -
Please forgive me all the wrongs.
I remember still, the day I left;
You were standing at the door,
Waved, as I walked down the street,
I would see you, just once more.
Years then passed I took the world;
Stepped way out of your life;
Walked in many darkened places,
Far away for your love’s light.
Then that June, the cable came,
Five words – just one short line,
They will stay with me forever:
‘Come home your Mam’s dying’
But the cancer won, before the plane;
So I knelt there by your bed,
At two o’ five that morning,
Too late for words unsaid.
©John AnthonyFingleton  (Löst Viking)


He was old, and spoke in whispers,
Remembering his own days,
His words were not meant for me,
But for someone far away.
Sometimes he’d laugh,
Sometimes he’d cry,
Other times, he’d just sit and stare,
As if he could see someone,
Sitting in that empty chair.
At times I’d hear him call her name –
‘Anna O’ my love!'
I knew then my Grandmamma had come,
On a visit from above.
There would be a trace of her old perfume,
Wild flowers with speckled rose,
At these times I would slip outside –and let them be,
And say a soft prayer for her soul.
For I felt she was also lost,
Because, her man wasn’t there;
And I also knew my turn would come one day,
To stare at that empty chair.
©John Anthony Fingleton  (Löst Viking)


It snowed last night a heavy fall,
Making one colour of it all;
My footprints crunched a virgin path,
Like an alien from the Moon had called.

The woodpile seemed an odd shaped stack
Always covered in a sheet of black,
Now stood there like a marble tomb,
With no name on its front or back.

From inside the forest a sudden boom,
As clouds of snow tumbled down.
While branches sprung back into shape,
And flakes like white butterflies flew ‘round.

I looked all around this new landscape,
Not one position had escaped,
So moved on with a sudden haste,
To test the new ice on the lake.
©John Anthony Fingleton  (LöstViking)


This old bog road, is deserted now,
With the hedgerows overgrown;
The fields each side are still carefully spaced,
By ancient drywall stones.
The Fairy Mound, is not disturbed –
Old suspicions linger here,
But the cattle and the crops have gone,
And the old folks have disappeared.

Between the gaps of invading grass,
Old cart tracks, I can see;
From when farmers drove on market day,
Down to the town of Skibbereen.
And where I on rainy mornings,
Splashed reluctantly to school;
The first road I ever travelled –
Of the many later I would choose.

Two ravens, swoop down from the trees,
Unused to being disturbed;
Their dark eyes watch my progress –
Recording every move.
Then they rise and fly off easterly,
To report what they have seen,
Perhaps to ghosts, that once walked here?
Or a far more higherthing?

I turn – retrace my footsteps –
Reluctant to go on;
There is a special grief in all returning’s,
When the loved ones have all gone.
©John Anthony Fingleton  (Löst Viking)





It is possible that sometime from the dust
A crowd of days gone by will rise,
And the bird will sing again on the branches,
The nightingale will filled with trills.
The retired spaces will return,
All rivers will flow back again,
And the tentacles of ruthless trance
Will never find you again.
Perhaps the wheel does not roll
One never-ending road,
We can come back yet,
And the Roman toga will again be in fashion.


We may breathe yet joyfully,
April still worries us,
Another sweetness of life will be pleasant to us,
Still does not oppress the mold.
More beckoning us dreams,
The sky is still blue,
Until we are all conscious,
The death moan is far away.


Springs are magical, full of carelessness,
Youth intoxicating, voluptuous love,
It seems to everyone that there is no end to eternity,
The sun will always shine clear!
We will spend all life in a waltz forever spinning,
There will be a playful mood,
We will soar in the clouds, like birds,
Listen to the nightingale singing in the woods!
Where are these trills? The nights are dreary,
And all the questions do not have answers.
Where are you, springs where is the happiness,
Where are you, sunsets, where are you, sunrises?


A horse is a horse, an ordinary nag,
Harnessed, he carries the cart,
After all, nag is a famous hard worker,
On the road submissively walks.
And Pegasus is a very unusual horse,
He has wonderful mane and beautiful wings,
Pegasus has no neighing,
He is second cousin to other nags.
Where the ground hoof hit,
There the water source will immediately score,
All know and praise Pegasus,
With the Muse, he lives next door.
About Pegasus the poet has been dreaming all life,
He will break into the sky with him in the thick fog,
But forever he just harness his nag,
Alas, the talisman will not help him!


It was a Word at the beginning,
And that word was God,
Then the chaff was separated
From the grains, who really could.
The grains were then polished,
And they made a gloss,
And so all godlessly lied,
Laying out your card solitaire.
And gradually the Word
Has been lost the God’s view,
Well, pardon, chaff
Is still flying everything...


We are all trying to understand the meaning of ancient parables,
What are they, and what is their secret meaning,
At each of the corners of their raging "speeches"
Everything is right here, no matter how sad it is!
We ourselves have become "the talk of the town",
After all, everyone wants to look smarter,
Wherever you look, you are involved in a facial dispute,
It is impossible to find the truth.
You can't get lost in our smart age,
There are so many “scientists” everywhere such a market,
After all, everyone is ready to dress up as a clever man,
And for what reason? Yes, let the steam out!
© Adolf P. Shvedchikov, PhD, LittD (Russia)


ADOLF P. SHVEDCHIKOV: Russian scientist, poet and translator. Born May 11, 1937 in  Shakhty, Russia. In 1960 he graduated from Moscow State University, Department of Chemistry. Ph.D. in Chemistry in 1967. Senior researcher at the Institute of Chemical Physics, Russian Academy of Sciences, Moscow. Since 1997 - the chief chemist of the company Pulsatron Technology Corporation, Los Angeles, California, USA. Doctor of Literature World Academy of Arts and Letters. He published more than 150 scientific papers and about 600 of his poems indifferent International Magazines of poetry in Russia,USA, Brazil, India, China, Korea, Japan, Italy, Malta, Spain,France, Greece, England and Australia. He published also 38 books of poetry. His poems have been translated into Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Chinese, Japanese, and Hindi languages. He is the Member of International Society of Poets, World Congress of Poets, International Association of  Writers and Artists, A. L. I. A. S. (Associazione Letteraria Italo-Australiana Scrittori, Melbourne, Australia). Adolf P. Shvedchikov is known also for his translation of English poetry ("150 English  Sonnets of XVI-XIX Centuries". Moscow. 1992. "William Shakespeare. Sonnets." Moscow. 1996) as well as translation of many modern poets from Brazil, India, Italy, Greece, USA, England, China and Japan. In 2013 he was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature.