Donna Bamford is a part time free lance journalist, EFL teacher,
struggling creative writer, world traveler, and would be actress
residing currently in London, Ontario though she has also lived in
London, England, Paris, Athens and India and have travelled in Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Nepal as well as most of the countries in Europe, but she still calls Toronto home. She has written three children’s books, as well as a novella called My Villa in Tuscany and lots of poetry. Her interests includes anything to do with the arts. Or if the opportunity arises -travel! She has an Honours BA in English from the University of Toronto and speaks French fluently as well as passable Italian and German. Her poetry and essays, and articles have been published in a number of online magazines and a few print magazines such as Qwerty, Bywords, Ascent, Electric Acorn, Ygdrasil, Great Works, Scriberazone, 7:24, The Mag, Another Toronto Quarterly, Scrivener’s Pen, Tryst, and I have had several articles published in The Globe and Mail, the London Free Press, as well as the Haliburton Echo, the Port Stanley Bugle, The Old South Advocate, the Village News, and the Reporter. She has just had a novella published on the internet called My Villa in Tuscany .

Of India


Of India I recall
pressed pomegranate juice
like magenta jewels
the red-cheeked bottoms of monkeys
that played about the balustrades,
tea in terra cotta pots
that you threw to the ground
when finished, to be swept up
by ubiquitous sweepers
nasty camels
seen on the road,
unpettable
a cart drawn by a
water buffalo
across a wooden bridge
a satellite above,
in a sea of stars
so close they seem to sing
the shocking beauty
of the women,
the Bihl people
nomads, in their gypsy costume
bright like child colours
laughing beggars


and lecherous holy men
smiling lepers
their stumps held out for alms
the colour, oh the colour,
and smells of charcoal fires,
cow dung, incense,
paradox
from hideously grotesque
to
transcendentally sublime
 

 Sayeeda


Exquisite,
like saffron orchid.,
not unlike
petal of lotus
delicate,
ethereal,
like fragrance of jasmine
her beauty exotic
and oriental,
quixotic,
not unlike shot silk,
bronze and gold,
opals, Burmese emeralds,
tiger’s eye, Thai rubies,
all that shimmers and is fluid
and mystical of essence
fragile like starlight
like Chinese cherry blossom
like an Indian silk sari,
purple with gold thread
breath taking
enchanting

and

eternal

Jasmine


Jasmine or Yasmeen,
She liked to call herself
At least it was her favourite name
I loved her imagination
Her soul’s power to transport herself
To other realms
In search of beauty
That fine and careless rapture
Which was hers
At the sight of a painting
A song by Piaf
Or Albinoni
She had an artist’s soul
Responsive as a cello
Upon which the bittersweet symphony
Of life played it’s score
There was none who enjoyed more
Or gave more pleasure
To those around her
She was like a sprig
Of jasmine on a Spring day
Perfumed and delicious

And They Are All Holy

And they are all holy,
all the wanton sons of Aphrodite,
those whose beauty is like the golden-haired lion,
mediaeval,
who dance to the tabor and the lute
they are like the young Henry the VIIIth, kingly,
with voice like the young lion, lordly
they are the givers of treasure


also those dark like raven’s wing,
with dark roe eye,
warm like mahogany,
their voice flows like Hymettus honey
they come from Greek tragedy
like Paris,
with strength like Theseus
their god is Mars
their muse Calliope
they ride black horses into battle
with Agemmemnon
Medea is their sister,
and Dionysis their brother


And those who are like the young Othello,
strong and supple, like panther
With sweet Spanish accent
like Cuban rum
they mesmerize and enchant you
like Orion
exodus and exile
madness and desire
like the beamoth to the flame
eros and agape
io soi un ombres sincera
da donde cresca la sole

And they are all holy,
all the wanton loves of Aphrodite

Impressions of Provence


lavender banks
banks of pure lavender,
stealing and giving odour,
Avignon, the monks’ bridge
and I dancing madly to their song,
Arles and Van Gogh’s secret places,
a starry night, a night café
and fields of saffron sunflowers,
wizened cypresses.
wild white horses,
the Camargue,
and clouds of rose flamingos
Aigues Mortes and Hemingway
The Garden of Eden,
The Mediterranean,
indigo and turquoise, and violet,
dew-clear, and mythic,
enchanted,
my odyssey to Eden