Poet's Corner

[Sky Dancer]

Freedom of Love
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire


Andre Breton

 

[Sky Dancer]

TYPING THE MENU

Not a day goes by
when Ma, in her blue waitress uniform,
stops me reading The Oakland Tribune
to dictate, precisely at 3:30 P.M.,
the next day's menu.

All right, Ma says, in English,
tomorrow we'll serve
Baked Spaghetti
Beef Stew with Potatoes and Carrots
Fried Breast of Lamb and
Boiled Ox Tongue with Spanish Sauce.

My mouth waters
as she decides the next day's specials.
Ma doesn't need to say
Breaded Veal Cutlets
Fried Oysters or
Prime Rib of Beef
because these are always
on the menu every day.

Though I can write in shorthand,
I scribble the specials in long hand
and step down into Bah Bah's office
and insert a a piece of paper
into the old Royal typewriter.
I type tomorrow's menu
watching the purple letters spring up
like soldiers marching in union
filling up the sheet, such plums and grapes
for our daily lives.

I proofread carefully,
the typed menu, making sure
I typed the correct specials
that Ma dictated,
making sure that each item
was spelled correctly
just from memory
because Spell Check
was a futuristic ploy.

With the labor of my fingers,
my back, my eyes
staring at the list of items
that ranged from Halibut Steak
for 50 cents to
Prime Rib of Beef
for 95 cents
knowing that my fingers
helped to support the family,
my secretarial skills a blip
of the family business
known as The Great China Restaurant
Ai Joong Wah
at 723 Webster Street
in Chinatown, Oakland, California.

When my sisters and I labored
without wage
but survived with tips
and ngow ngiook fahn
Beef over Rice
served us by Bock Gung
the head cook
when Ma and Bah Bah
weren't looking.

When World War II filled
The Great China with customers
Pinky of Milen's Jewlers
Mr. Carlson of Carlson's Confectionery
Johnny, the boxer, and his girlfriend Lucille
with her ruby red lips and white teeth
Thlon doy
single men
families
pensioners
workers from gas stations,
the parachute factory
and herb and poultry stores,
tenants from The Aloha Hotel,
gypsies with their love
for bowls of steamed rice overflowing
with gravy.

Typing the menu
a job I didn't apply for
but became mine
in between making coffee,
milkshakes and lettuce and tomato salads,
anxious for tips that filled
the glasses kept beneath
the formica counter,
understanding, even then,
that money grew not on trees,
but through our labor
typing the menu
drying silverware
stringing string beans
refilling granulated sugar jars
washing the coffee urn on tip toes
sweeping
mopping
Bah Bah inventorying and planning
the next day's supplies
vegetable oil
flour
50 pound sacks of long grain rice
Flank steak, pork butt,
Jello.

The Great China,
our second home,
sandwiched between
regular school and Chinese school,
our days of wonder,
questions,
fatigue,
anticipation and
simmering American dreams.

Nellie Wong

 

[midcan5]

Reader, over 70,000 views, make sure and support the poets read here or there. Buy a book.

============================

'What To Know'

"I can’t write anything new for you,
reader, I can’t tell you anything
you don’t already know, but you’re still
here so I must have gotten something right
or, at least, you can tell I’m not lying.

I know the colors of your bruise,
and that’s not it, I know the way
you feel about dark staircases and potato salad,
both are scary, but mostly I am
lonely here on the other side
of this page, hungry for everyone.

At night you want to give your thoughts
to someone, someone who will let you
pour back and forth, the way you do
between glasses to aerate the wine.

Maybe, reader, I have let you down,
not enough images here, not enough
insight. But my lover cut himself up,
covered the back of his forearms
in bloody stripes. Now, I don’t think
I know anything about love.

Has that happened to you, reader?
Has yours lost his mind, hid drugs,
heard voices and slammed his head in doors?
No? Oh, neither has mine, actually,
I’m married now, we have two kids.
While I write he is brewing coffee,
and later he’ll lift the bed sheet corner,
make a tent of space for me to crawl into.

There, I’ll pour my day into him. No,
I don’t need you, reader. I just wanted
to make you feel less alone. I thought
you might feel better about yourself, reading
this, imagining me in your shoes. But I’m not
this poem, and I can’t hope to see you."

Allison Campbell

 

[percysunshine]

Res ipsa liquid tore
another word for your
passage to moor
ending in a chore
of unlit devoire
for the purpose of more
and the desire of score
only to deplore
in a fatefull poor
convenience store

 

[midcan5]

XXXXX

==========================================


Nora Ephron 1941-2012

'Old Friends'

"Old friends? We must be. You’re delighted to see me. I’m delighted to see you. But who are you? Oh, my God, you’re Jane. I can’t believe it. Jane. "Jane! How are you? It’s been — how long has it been?" I’d like to suggest that the reason I didn’t recognize you right off the bat is that you’ve done something to your hair, but you’ve done nothing to your hair, nothing that would excuse my not recognizing you. What you’ve actually done is’ gotten older. 1 don’t believe it. You used to be my age, and how you’re much, much, much older than I am. You could be my mother. Unless of course I look as old as you and I don’t know it. Which is not possible. Or is it? I’m looking around the room and I notice that everyone in it looks like someone — and when I try to figure out exactly who that someone is, it turns out to be a former version of herself, a thinner version or a healthier version or a pre-plastic-surgery version or a taller version. If this is true of everyone, it must be true of me. Mustn’t it? But never mind: you are speaking. "Maggie," you say, "it’s been so long." "I’m not Maggie," I say. "Oh, my God," you say, "It’s you. I didn’t recognize you. You’ve done something to your hair.""

Nora Ephron

 

[midcan5]

'Gravel'

"Little children love gravel, kneeling to play in gravel,
even gravel covering dry, meaningless dust.

It’s not, “Look what I found!” it’s the gravel itself,
which is what puzzles adults: nothing’s there, even beneath.

But that’s just what Catherine, watching children at that,
especially loves: that there’s no purpose, no meaning.

So, that day in the metro when the pickpocket
she’d warned a tourist against knelt, glaring at her,

a hand at his ankle, I wonder if one layer of that instant
of her mind had drift into it, children, children and gravel?

It didn’t come to her until later, telling it to me,
that the thief may well have been reaching into his boot

for a knife, or a razor; only then was she frightened,
more frightened even than when the crook, the slime,

got up instead and shoved her, hard, and spit at her face,
and everyone else stood there with their eyes attached,

only then did she lean against me, and shudder, as I, now,
not in a park or playground, not watching a child sift

through her shining fingers those bits of cold, unhealable
granite which might be our lives, shudder, and shudder again."

C.K. Williams

 

[percysunshine]

Twas the night before SCOTUS, when all through the House
Not a Congressman was stirring, not even a spouse.
The stock options were hung by their broker with care,
In hopes that St Roberts soon would be there.

The lawyers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And Mechelle in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just digested our arugula for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the west wing I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my cash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen know
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects bestowed.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and nine tinny Justice Dear.

With a little old driver, so lively and pert,
I knew in a moment it must be St Robert.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Kennedy! now, Ginsberg! now, Scalia and Breyer!
On, Alito! On, Thomas! , on Kagan and Sotomayor!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the Mall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the House-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Roberts too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the tube
The prancing and pawing of each little boob.
As I drew in my head, with a turning around fling,
Down the chimney St Roberts came with a founding.

He was dressed all in suit, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a meddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his spine like John Kerry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin reminded me of Olympia Snowe.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was clubby and Trump, a right jolly old self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stock options, then turned with a jerk.
And pointing his middle aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Commerce Clause to all, and to all a good-night!"

 

[Liability]

Twas the night before SCOTUS, when all through the House
Not a Congressman was stirring, not even a spouse.
The stock options were hung by their broker with care,
In hopes that St Roberts soon would be there.

The lawyers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And Mechelle in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just digested our arugula for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the west wing I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my cash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen know
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects bestowed.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and nine tinny Justice Dear.

With a little old driver, so lively and pert,
I knew in a moment it must be St Robert.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Kennedy! now, Ginsberg! now, Scalia and Breyer!
On, Alito! On, Thomas! , on Kagan and Sotomayor!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the Mall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the House-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Roberts too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the tube
The prancing and pawing of each little boob.
As I drew in my head, with a turning around fling,
Down the chimney St Roberts came with a founding.

He was dressed all in suit, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a meddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his spine like John Kerry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin reminded me of Olympia Snowe.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was clubby and Trump, a right jolly old self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stock options, then turned with a jerk.
And pointing his middle aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Commerce Clause to all, and to all a good-night!"

Brought a tear to my eye.

*sniff*

No. Not the poem. St. Roberts.

 

[midcan5]

'Unplotted'

"One woman leaned
over another on the shoulder
of the road. A thin black
sweater fluttered backward.
Whatever had happened
had just happened.
Trucks piled up
behind us, a procession
for the woman none of us knew.
And in this curve of dust
and sky, on Route 62-180
to El Paso, beside a mountain
where that morning
we’d risen in the wind,
where somewhere close a border
had been drawn,
we waited and were told
the wait would be long.
Men stood in clumps,
speaking Spanish, taking turns
to walk out to the desert
and relieve themselves, glance
through swaying brush
at the afterwards ahead,
wives still in their passenger seats
with the doors nudged open.
Such an easy thing,
to wait, to be alive, but
some of us closed our eyes
and sighed. How soon,
we wanted to know, could
we be back on the road like those
who would come upon this curve
in a few hours and pass over it,
as they’d pass over any other
spot along their way, not knowing?"

Christine Poreba

 

[midcan5]

'Fourth of July'

"Freedom is a rocket,
isn’t it, bursting
orgasmically over
parkloads of hot
dog devouring
human beings
or into the cities
of our enemies
without whom we
would surely
kill ourselves
though they are
ourselves and
America I see now
is the soldier
who said I saw
something
burning on my
chest and tried
to brush it off with
my right hand
but my arm
wasn’t there—
America is no
other than this
moment, the
burning ribcage,
the hand gone
that might have
put it out, the skies
afire with our history."

John Brehm

 

[midcan5]

'Fourth of July at Santa Ynez'

I
"Under the makeshift arbor of leaves
a hot wind blowing smoke and laughter.
Music out of the renegade west,
too harsh and loud, many dark faces
moved among the sweating whites.

II
Wandering apart from the others,
I found an old Indian seated alone
on a bench in the flickering shade.

He was holding a dented bucket;
three crayfish, lifting themselves
from the muddy water, stirred
and scraped against the greasy metal.

III
The old man stared from his wrinkled
darkness across the celebration,
unblinking, as one might see
in the hooded sleep of turtles.

A smile out of the ages of gold
and carbon flashed upon his face
and vanished, called away
by the sound and the glare around him,
by the lost voice of a child
piercing that thronged solitude.

IV
The afternoon gathered distance
and depth, divided in the shadows
that broke and moved upon us . . .

Slowly, too slowly, as if returned
from a long and difficult journey,
the old man lifted his bucket
and walked away into the sunlit crowd."

John Haines

 

[midcan5]

'Learning to Love America'

"because it has no pure products

because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline
because the water of the ocean is cold
and because land is better than ocean

because I say we rather than they

because I live in California
I have eaten fresh artichokes
and jacaranda bloom in April and May

because my senses have caught up with my body
my breath with the air it swallows
my hunger with my mouth

because I walk barefoot in my house

because I have nursed my son at my breast
because he is a strong American boy
because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is
because he answers I don’t know

because to have a son is to have a country
because my son will bury me here
because countries are in our blood and we bleed them

because it is late and too late to change my mind
because it is time."

Shirley Geok-Lin Lim

 

[midcan5]

'The Promise'

"Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.

Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always."

Jane Hirshfield

 

[Dajjal]

I wrote this some years ago.

I walked among a grove of trees,
On a golden carpet of autumn leaves,
The leaves were falling, dying things,
Giving up their luscious greens,
They died to be reborn again,
With the coming of the spring.

I saw that God was hard at work,
Tending to our mother earth,
Gathering up the worn and old,
Then giving new lives to the world,
Reaping what the harvest sowed,
A crop of new enlightened souls.

The mother and father of us all,
Allows his worn out leaves to fall,
Our creator and eternal life giver,
Our redeemer and our forgiver.
I knew then mankind were brothers,
All women our sisters and mothers.

I knew the old Gods had seen their day.
The Gods to whom we used to pray,
Like Ra and Thor and Zeus and Mars,
Like Gods of the sun and of the Stars,
Gods grown old beyond their time,
Ideas that only imprisoned our minds

I saw a new God for all creation,
For ever colour, race and nation
To whom you do not need to pray
For he is within you every day,
Judging no soul to cruel damnation.
Giving us our greatest revelation,

I knew then that there is no heaven,
There is no lasting place like hell,
The kingdom of heaven lies within
Our mortal lives are just a dream,
When all our dross is burned away,
Our hearts will be purified one day.

We need not fear where we will go,
Our divine creator loves us all,
We are all a living part of him,
We are all his immortal children.
All souls will finally be redeemed,
This is the God of which I dreamed.

My feet felt the earth in strange delight.
The colours all seemed clear and bright,
The breeze embraced me and curled around,
The rustling leaves were a sweet sound.
Caressed by wind and kissed by rain,
I saw through all earthy mortal pain.

I was with God in the here and now,
There was nowhere I would rather go,
I knew I needed nothing nor ever will,
All fear was gone and time stood still,
I loved every blessed living thing,
For every creature was a divine being.

I had seen through illusion to Gods face,
I knew I would find him in any place.
Send me to heaven or send me to hell.
I would be in the same place as now,
Make the world bright,or make it dark,
I would still see God within my heart.

 

[midcan5]

'The Mournes'

"I shall not go to heaven when I die.
But if they let me be
I think I'll take a road I used to know
That goes by Slieve-na-garagh and the sea.
And all day breasting me the wind shall blow,
And I'll hear nothing but the peewit's cry
And the sea talking in the caves below.
I think it will be winter when I die
(For no one from the North could die in spring)
And all the heather will be dead and grey,
And the bog-cotton will have blown away,
And there will be no yellow on the wind.
But I shall smell the peat,
And when its almost dark I'll set my feet
Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills,
And see, far up, a light
Would you think Heaven could be so small a thing
As a lit window on the hills at night?
And come in stumbling from the gloom,
Half-blind, into a firelit room
Turn, and see you,
And there abide.

If it were true,
And if I thought that they would let me be
I almost wish it were tonight I died."

Helen Waddell

http://www.usmessageboard.com/writing/235471-ulsters-forgotten-darling.html
Poems by Helen Waddell

 

[midcan5]

'America'

"Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud
Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes
Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,
He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them
Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds
Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,
or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,
It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills
Spilling from his wounds, and—this is the weird part—,

He gasped “Thank god—those Ben Franklins were
Clogging up my heart—

And so I perish happily,
Freed from that which kept me from my liberty”—

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad
Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes
And I think, “I am asleep in America too,

And I don’t know how to wake myself either,”
And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

“I was listening to the cries of the past,
When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.”

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable
Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you
And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you
And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand
Which turns the volume higher?"

Tony Hoagland

 

[Liability]

Holy fuck.

Shitty poetry is shitty regardless of who posts it or why.

 

[freedombecki]

Holy fuck.

Shitty poetry is shitty regardless of who posts it or why.

The point of a good sharp quill pen often irritates the one it pokes.. Just sayin'

Oh, wait.
That's me annoying cdrrips...

 

[midcan5]

'Why People Really Have Dogs'

"People really have dogs so they can talk to themselves
without feeling crazy. Take me, for example, cooking
scrambled eggs, ranting about this dumb fuck
who sent naked pictures of himself to strange women,
a politician from New York, I read about it in the paper,
start telling my nervous cock-a-poo, blind in one eye,
practically deaf (so I have to talk extra loud) all about it
and he’s looking at me, poor thing, like he thinks I’m
the smartest person he’s ever heard and I go on, him
tilting his head, and when he sees me pick up my dish
of eggs he starts panting and wagging his tail, I tell him,
no, they’re not for you, but then I break down and give
him some knowing full well that feeding from the table
is rule number one of what you don’t do with dogs,
but I do it anyway because he wants them so bad,
because it makes me feel good to give him what he wants,
and I expound more to make sure he’s aware of the whole
political scandal, the implications for the democrats,
the hypocrisy, tell him dogs are rarely hypocrites, except
when they pretend to be interested in you when all they want
is your food, take him, for example, right now pretending
to love me so much when all he wants are my eggs, me
talking to him when all I want is to say my opinions with no one
interrupting, feel my voice roll out on a clear Saturday morning,
listen to it echo from the kitchen to the bath, up through the ceiling,
out to the sky, the voice from within, all alone in the morning
as the light outside catches the edge of the silver mixing bowl
where the remaining, uncooked eggs sit stirred, ready to toss
into the pan, cooked, eaten by whomever pretends to want them."

Kim Dower

 

[midcan5]

'My Grandmother Told Us Jokes'

"like the one about the man who
walked down the street
& turned into
a drugstore.

There was some secret in the moment
of that turning—when he was one thing,
became another—
that I return to again & again.

The day she stopped being
grandma & turned into
that madwoman.

The day my sister stopped being
& never came back. Perhaps there
was an instant between her sweet sleep

& the moment the fever struck,
from which she could have been plucked.

Do not make that turn, I want to say to the man
who becomes the drugstore; to the woman
who dies insane; to my sister;

to the boy who became an adult
the moment the cell door slammed shut.
I want to freeze-frame each instant of turning,

unfold in slow motion the moment of callous
change. Perhaps the secret’s in the man’s
intention; in the list in his pocket of mundane
nostrums he was sent to fetch home.

Or perhaps I’ve got it wrong,
perhaps there’s a soda fountain where they all sit—
the man, my grandmother, my sister, the boy—

& drink nickel root beer floats, look back
on that fateful turn, and laugh among themselves
at the rest of us, who took it all so seriously."

Richard Beban