Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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by Fiona Smyth

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by Cem Turgay

by Kai Chan

" Bloom " 2021 23 x 24 cm, thread on gampi paper

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Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault

The End of Aimlessness

my eyes lift
into the open
the pigeons
are exquisite
in their circling
you want to tell them
this attenuated
will not last
but will be replaced
by a decision-filled air
of pigeon-management
they ought to know
a pigeon-cold is coming
that a certain order
will be
imposed upon them
something like
a flight-plan



DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0423-2021

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CONTENTS: Night Owl Sonata (in one movement) by Holly Lee / An essay on Alchemy, a suite of four photographs by Lee Ka-sing


by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

Chair and Pines
For months, this chair sat along my road and only one afternoon did I photograph. At about 3.30 in the afternoon, the school bus turns the corner near these pines, but it has been years now since the person I will always think of as an eleven-year-old took that bus. Every time I hear its engine, I think of her.

From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 82: To Marsden Hartley, April 24, 2021

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Madagascar (March, 2010) – I spent the day wayfaring around, getting acquainted with the community for which I had serendipitously been dropped into. As the day progressed my entourage grew; within hours the troupe inducted me into their wild playful adventures of the day of braiding hair, skipping pebbles and chasing chameleons. I can't wait for another foray in the remote areas of the cultivated jungle.

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Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 71

Through the years I have been a happy recipient of many of Gary's poems.  Some I carry around with me in the pockets of my coats and jackets.  This one I happened to find yesterday and it is about a tree:
For Malgorzata, Sitting Beneath a Tree
she leans against
the ungovernable tree
she leans upon
the undeliverable
her eyes shining
like bees
the wayward
seems fixed
in its course
but she knows
it is hurrying
near her
she can feel
the warmth
on her back
of its diapason bark
she can listen
to the teeming
of its roots
she can feel
their churning
their delving in the earth

The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

Seasons change, spring 2021 by kamelia Pezeshki

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Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

It Seemed Like A Good Time To Leave

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Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

Penumbra: in the shadow of song and vaccines

“Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home…”-Szymborska


Of shadows calendared like your tick tok rhyming and moving and hoping:
Breath cantilevered like heart-strings,
What else is possible during this time, what else is able, is muscular and organ-made,
If not everything: stitch and lengthened,
This beloved. This our time. This we. This you.


Once I learned to cook wearing white, bare and crisp as shells,
The broken eggs, half crescents of an eye gone blind,
This wobbled time, this blind moment for us all,
Softened and weightless, baking towards the weight of flour against the undercarriage of your fingers, Slick and inching the yoke and temperature against my chin,--your tenderness--
As I wiped away my fear, the outer-skin that was my seal-skin:
My mother’s apron, your abracadabra, your fear and your strength,
So that now I cannot make a damn thing or even crack an egg,
Without the stains and the apron’s remains and small tatters--
An ocean away.

All these moments jumping before the shadows of this broken year,
Before we pegged upon a wall that was seven times zones away
A lifetime away, away.
Can you vaccinate against hope


A rose that drives in the lights is a forlorn beast
A crippled animal cat in the tar-pit of time.
Two roses that drive in the parched light,
Instead re-create the entire museum of dinosaur’s lives
Fossils peering breathed life into our imagination, excavated in front of a sun
Chiseled upon our departments, until those two head-buddings suggest not rose, not bone
But you and I
Scrotum and skin, urethras and wearying
Vas Deferens and vesicles,
Rap and rhyme, toe and tap
Our lungs inhabited and chewed upon
Of all that which rosed away and is this:
Shell and sand but more, the all of that, the all of  we,
The all: gone the racing of the broken health.
Should we speak of these things?
Should we speak, at all?

Bike shadow, tin and gin, and time,
How does such a weight that cannot be sat upon a seal,,
How does one weight, the deflation of things, absent itself
But still outlined in the penumbra along the gate
Your fingers tonguing the garage wall in fear:
My heart the weight of a bicycle seat, lifted and forgiven.
Buckle that in your grasp.

Do you seek, this diseased time and its chafing. In the dust of things, right there,
Pampered corner still, which manager to carry you so far, so far and
Against the wall and alive.

We leap over the lawn’s sprinker,
Toward the light of the cascading wet,
Against that which we have forgotten in this time of loss,
Against the Spring’s fulsome blue sky and green-ground song.
And once:

You who were laid bare to despair—
Are we were yet, there…
We are not yet,

The smile of clean light and oxygen racing.
The ache as we, each of us, prances toward light and the outstanding view.
Who would have known,
Clip and clacking—
We are nothing if not attending, if not attending the words
If not each of us and all that may be lost if,
If not then and if not this,
Parry this, you.
Vaccinate that.
Celebrate that.
Alive. Arrested. Awakened.


Peal away,
Peal away the layers of self, like wallpaper removed lovingly,
Our skin after an afternoon in the sun touched by aloe,
Our memory reinventing...
I name this love:
And there we go, collected and collective: collecting
Pondering the palimpsest of our new life,
Mylar shadow of our former
Our hearts, waving as if prayer flags stirring gently colours in the breeze

penumbra: in the shadow of song and vaccines


What else, if not,
What else.
Race toward the sun, race toward the all that is, still,
You, alas.
But May beckons and gallops in next  and
The heart is a bloom

Oh you,
there we are are,
filled by this time:

oh, you,

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(Breakfast area and small shop)

Located on the second floor of an art space, INDEXG Bed and Breakfast has 4 guest rooms, all with ensuite bathroom. Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists, art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different cities visiting and working in Toronto.

50 Gladstone Ave, Toronto

ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


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