Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
New work and archives
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Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor
Love Came To Town
Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault
Poem Before sleeping
I am sealed
I am perfect for
what covers me
I go to the eggshell
[This poem first appeared in my book, Flying Fish and Other Poems (Toronto: Exile Editions, 1996) ]
CHEEZ
by Fiona Smyth
a new photograph every day
by Lee Ka-sing
Aotearoa
by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維
Wairarapa
Night Owl Sonata
by Holly Lee
Nian eats livestock, crops and attacks people on new year’s eve. The next day, if we find ourselves still alive, we must celebrate. We must eat to our hearts’ delight. What really “touch our hearts” are prepared foods like turnip cake, taro cake, glutinous rice cake, deep fried sesame rice balls, crisp flour chips, and oh yes, if your teeth are healthy, try the roasted melon seeds. As a child, I watched my mother and her friends cracking watermelon seeds with their teeth while chit-chatting and drinking Chinese tea. At the beginning of a new year, it is customary that every family, besides serving tea, to have a dish of watermelon seeds to entertain their guests. No, the seeds are not shelled. In my memory, they were smaller than other seeds and had a red wine colour. To eat a watermelon seed, hold the seed with your thumb and index finger, put it between your teeth. While holding the seed, use your upper and lower incisors to crack the shell open. Once cracked, coordinate tongue and teeth and nimbly pull out the kernel. And now your fingers can discard the empty hull. Usually they gather as heaps on the table. Chew the seed. It’s addictive. Start another one. Enjoy a good munch while engaging in a humdrum conversation.
ProTesT
by Cem Turgay
From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 124: Plant in Window (May 27, 2011)
Taking Notes
by Jeff Jackson
“ Lisboa (Statue) “, Rua do Mar, Marvila, Lisbon, 2020.
Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee
India (December, 2016) – We are currently in a deep winter freeze, after being confined in hibernation for several months, my mind keeps wandering to scenic panoramas far away from the comforts of home. The memories of Sikkim, seems to help to boost my mood, often those thoughts return to the bumpy route towards Changu Lake. Including the teal-blue cast over the delectable mountain ranges and the fresh crisp mountain air along the way.
ART LOGBOOK
by Holly Lee
1
Tomás Saraceno's art intersects with sculpture, ecology and futuristic experimentation. "Galaxies Forming along Filaments, like Droplets along the Strands of a Spider’s Web", a work featured in the 53rd Biennale de Vnenzia (2009).
https://studiotomassaraceno.org/galaxies-forming-along-filaments-like-droplets-along-the-strands-of-a-spiders-web
2
Hans Holbein: Capturing Character in the Morgan Library & Museum, New York, and the Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
https://www.themorgan.org/exhibitions/online/holbein
ART LOGBOOK is a new column with contributions by various authors.
Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black
誕生 (nativity): Between the Ghosting of the Night and the Bearing of the Day
If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."-Gospel of Thomas
I
If on a summer’s night, lit white from the voices of the streets, you imagined all this: books and child and cruise-dream and psalm-song and you, both of you.
Once we were a dream.
Brought up in blue, the sound of your voice, your parents’ eyes juniper and admiral each, the only blue possible in a dream, and there swept in a flag upon a long-gone hill, the color of your sister’s dress (polka dot and red the color of a summer smile,) light lit amber like the shine of the sun winking on a glass jar’s wing in thrown-air flight and then there, in of all places, stood you, in white and green the scent of alligator barking, whisps of palm grass and the winding motion of moss over the sweeping cypress. Was this more than a dream?
And that blue and that Dream color marking up the syntax of your life and then came the light in the dawning morning: were you, either of you, prepared for this?
Later there were two of you in a dream: you and your child, who spoke of his birth and described the unearthing from your body in the language of a king, his father’s face and handwork, carved and pulpy and downstream as you fed him from your breast. Did he inherit your preternatural language too? Did he inherit his aunt’s fragile beauty and penchant for circular dancing and holding southern light between her fingers? Did he inherit your brilliance and your impatience or was it his feeding that made you instead, that weed you and nourished your self from him, all along.
Did he bear you, reconfigured
anew?
MONDAY ARTPOST
ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
mail@oceanpounds.com
mondayartpost.com
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