Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Poetry collections, chapbooks and ebooks since 2013

"People get tired of social realism, they want fantasy and poetry is romantic fantasy. Reading your Maore poems there is a mixture of brutality, romance and fantasy. They work on the reader's imagination."
Dennis Greig, Lapwing Publications

Maore (From Mayotte) followed by England Suite
Lapwing Publications, Belfast, UK, 2013
£10, 60 pp 

Buy it here or send me a private message I still have some copies.



I live in a hot-water bottle
surrounded by waves
surrounded by leaves
surrounded by thieves.

It is like time has stopped
between the Golden Ages
and the Dark Times.

The variegation
cannot erase the suffocation
the breath
the soul
can only see the vapid land
& blues.

The heat
the dampness of the place.
The beating
of the chants.
Drums are on every night.
Dogs bark.
Cats mew
& converge towards where
food or peace are.

I live in a bottle
firmly sealed
full of salt
and dust
rotting inside
& outside.

I live on a boat floating to nowhere
water everywhere


"Succumb to the irresistible mythologies built around the beauty of evil. Surrender to the temptations of the flesh, its vampiric shades, its mouth-watering energy. And submit to the epistolary colour Red: blood, wine, sex, desire, fire...in Walter Ruhlmann’s haunting yet sanguine collection of poetry, CARMINE CARNIVAL." Pasquale Goldberg, editor at Lazarus Media

Carmine Carnival
Lazarus media - Stonethrow Poetry, USA, 2013
Kindle Format here


In Another Waiting Room

In the sheltering place I hate to dwell in,
lost on the banks of the Loire river,
the flows are unsafe,
the waters troubled,
icy, wintry air, sun rays above all.

I rang at Hardy's door.
Not the British counterpart of Laurel of course – the time
shifted from this point.
I kept no one else's appointment but mine
for I needed more pills to cure the nightmarish gaps
night knights and knives had carved in this damaged brain of mine – 
I had to avoid suicide.

I laurel this room for its safeness
and quietness,
the light,
the whiteness,
the space – 
frames and spaces follow me everywhere,
even in hell
or on the benches where I sat listening,
dreaming, exercising, contemplating
Bishop's art of drawing
maps and landscapes.

That morning I sat on another bench,
in another waiting room,
waiting for Hardy to come in
and ring my bell, remind me of the hell,
cure me from mental hay
fever and send away all disarray.
I sat opposite this painting
by Russian-French artist Sonia Delaunay – Long Journeys.

Colours and shapes, round and vivid, bright, dazzling,
all these effects drove me back to this place
loophole dreamt – hell hole lived – I even recognized
on the right-hand side
a woman wearing saluvas... red-striped like Sandia's.

Four panels divide the canvas where variegated ghosts
shake hands, dance, pray or swim,
eat papaya, sweets and pizza in the shades of an umbrella.

Through the window I watched magpies fly 
from tree to tree, in search of food, probably.
The magpies back there feast on chelonian offsprings
as they sprout from Saziley.

I watched this leafless tree reminding me of the nervous human system.
Mine is a battle field, a war HQ, a shadow cabinet, a closet where dreams and nightmares copulate.
I watched the roof tops and the tree set on this March morning blue sky,
its clear, light blue lagoon shades invited me once more to dive
in the depths of navy blue memories
darkening my thoughts,
opening my mouth,
starting my youth,
peeling me out.

The heating system started,
I was still staring at the sky 
and in a start watched the closet hiding the beast.
The flame trembling – I could hear it – would lick the erected hair on my arm:
this limb never produces any harm, resting softly and bare on the arm of the chair,
cherishing the feel of the plastic surface.

Hardy came in, my arm lifted me up, and stretched out towards the doctor's hand.
I sat on the opposite chair. He waited for my words to come out.
He expected me to hand him my SS card.
I could still see Sonia Delaunay's art.
Master of painters in my heart.
Maore let me breathe now.
Let me forget you.
Let me live.
Let loose.
me a


The Loss followed by GMO (Great Moments of Oblivion) was written during a period of doubts and uncertainties. Life’s events always inspire me. They are my fuel, my muses, my most terrible companions when I sit in front of the digital page to write…One year after two of my previous collections were published Maore (Lapwing Publishing) and Carmine Carnival (Lazarus Media), to have this chapbook published fills me with pride and joy. I know this is the best homage I could give to my father. Not only because most of the poems in this collection are about him, our relationship and the frightening gap his death has brought, but because Great Moments of Oblivion is about food, and that he was a chef and taught me how to enjoy food. ” – Walter Ruhlmann

The Loss followed by Great Moments of Oblivion
Flutter Press, 2014
Paperback, 54 Pages
Price: $8.00

Buy it here


"Walter Ruhlmann is a softie.  Oh, yes he is.  But a hard softie.  He keeps on keeping on, as Curtis Mayfield sings, despite heartbreak and extreme loss.  He knows how to express his sorrow and ennui, but there’s a resilience and lust for life evident in much of his work.  I don’t know how he does it, but Ruhlmann pumps out a lot of poetry each year, without losing his depth and emotional poignancy." From David Herrle's review, published in SubtleTea October 2014 – February 2015 Edition.

Twelve Times Thirteen
Barometric Pressure, Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014

Free pdf download here


"Walter Ruhlmann’s newest collection Crossing Puddles (© 2015 Robocup Press), is a wonderful and highly pleasurable example of a poet who’s not afraid to explore this complicated transformation through a poetic medium." From Marie Lecrivain's review published in Al-Khemia Poetica

Crossing Puddles
Robocup Press, USA, 2015
77 pages. 
Cost includes shipping to U.S. addresses.
Buy it here


Keeping Couched

Behind the red leaves of the tall tree, hiding me from business,
between the TV set and the iridescent five-headed lamp floor,
caresses and feathers, blue wool blanket, dreams of conquests,
for all I know, heroes and foes disappeared long ago.

Many poisons used to help me open doors – spiritual, suicidal –
through which the dark demons descended the padded staircase,
billowing in my skull, floating around the grey inner fence of my head,
the shed sheltering all the gorgeous nightmares, anthracite clouds.

Evaporating under the breath of more dragons that came and sang in unison.
The sulphur perfumed choir blew flames and cinders on my neck,
they decked my skin with scars and bruises, tattooed and wrecked
the last remains of light angels had brought like specks ages ago.


"si vous recherchez des cartes postales pour égayer votre bureau, vous serez sans doute un peu déçus, malgré la présence de quelques illustrations dans le recueil. En effet, Mayotte sert de prétexte à l’introspection et ne laisse pas que des bons souvenirs. Ainsi, vous ne pourrez pas oublier les réalités de ce pays éruptif, et pas seulement au sens propre du terme, puisque hélas, la pauvreté de ses habitants, générant l’instabilité sociale, marque le quotidien des expatriés." Patrice Maltaverne, extrait de la préface.

PMT -- Post Mayotte Trauma
mgv2>publishing, 2015
64pp 5€

Achetez-le ici


PMT 1 - mai 2010

C’est dans l’attente, la latence à tâtons,
le soir et le matin, c’est le maton de la prison,
il se pavane et se défait dans un nuage de lait.

Le matelas, bleu, gonflé d’azote et de mazout,
nous suivra jusqu’en enfer.
L’enfer n’est pas encore sous nos semelles, il se mêle
à nos rêves.

Savons-nous d’ailleurs ce qui nous attend vraiment?
Sommes-nous prêts à sauter le pas?

Nous ne le saurons pas
d’avoir atteints
l’autre hémisphère.


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