Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault

Desire Across a Street

one whose
in passing
is al dente
like a car fender
one whose
wraps around
your legs
like a cat
one whose half smile
spares you nothing
she charges
her bow
with your own

The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

"Hosta X"  2021 botanical series, by Ruth Stanners

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Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

Stream of Consciousness

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by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

As if someone etched,
sketched, that tree, left
a conversation bubble

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by Kai Chan

Spring Drawing 8, 2021 Watercolour on paper

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DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0625-2021

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Holly wrote about DIGI (1994-1996), a publication platform for digital art, we published in the nineties.

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

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 91: Earth Tones (June 4, 2021)

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – By the time we arrived in Bukhara it was late afternoon, the midday sun casting large shadows, we scurried around to catch a glance around before the end of day. Geeking out at the patterned mosaic facades, we inadvertently entered a Kukeldash Madrasah; turned hawkers market. I was less interested the merchant trying to sell us silk scarves; a large number imports from India. My eyes escaped passed (the dilapidated soviet era frescos) to the original domed ceilings for most of our visit.

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by Cem Turgay

Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 81

My giant cherry tree seems to be growing by leaps and bounds even as I look at her.  Only seven years ago, I brought the little tree, which was supposed to be a dwarf cherry, from a nearby Garden Center, as a cheering ornamental tree that I could admire from a window of our sun room while sipping my tea.

The cherry is now almost as tall as the mature spruce near her, a spruce that has been growing here for decades.  Sometimes, I'm in a panic that the tree will darken the garden and overturn the house, and I do not know quite what to do with her.  Gary suggested that I simply enjoy her as birds do.

This summer the tree provided us with one cherry each. The birds and the squirrels got all the rest.



by Fiona Smyth

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Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

VLIEGENDE KINDEREN: flying children


is invisible enough

to see you”― Paul Celan


A child dances carefully over a dampened dike, tonguing the sky
On one side the nurturing marsh, the other the wide sea and the world.
She thinks of her quiet grandmother and opens memory:
You see she palaces herself close to similar distances, the boats curved like kettles, the distance like tears
And shouts into the mud bee-hiving the bottom of the wall
To share the echo rich in her throat, the careless alphabet of her grammar:
For in her memory, her grandfather moves through veils with a hush, the gunner’s torrent
The letters to her lost love perfumed by his sweat, dirt and shales, coins offered as love,
As he peels himself aside the way a tin roof peels apart when catching fire.
The scratch of a fallen leaf in a November gutter.
Is this the sound of his remembrances—
Is this child wilding over the stone and sea beckoning his memory.
In that letter, he shreds thoughts as if his skin a transparent rattle.
Along the stone wall, she sings his name.

A train ride away, he becomes sheltered under her singing:
He is old and grows immortally young: Uitwaaien.


That  man you see with the face as long as an opening remark,
And fingers like the wool of trees, baaaahing,
Notices you, so she tells herself, and some essence is sensed.
There in the winter village, a puppy tastes the white flesh of a lost bone
Buried long before recovery.

Remember, he has seen a child on a blue train, remembering,
Playing with a clean, rubber ball against a passing window
While the mother, a country away on the adjacent seat,
Dreams of the colour of teeth, and the breath silt against the January window.

Later, he sings to her of his own children, long asleep as the carriage couples over the nation gone.
How they flew kites on a Dutch hill near the sea and imagined their names inked in the sky by the colours,
How they pulled the cloth bodies from the sky like stars, their imagination and hope
Until they too grew sky-held and drifted upward like bubbles and baubles tossed aside,
Vliegende Kinderen, he christened them.
His children learned to fly before he had.

This distance subscribes companions.

Now that man uncovers things, the granddaughter whispers,
Folds his body together in memory with the child’s reluctant eyes
Tastes the train-mother’s laughter and joins with them like a net.
And this little girl continues remembering over the dampened dike.

Have you heard her slipping: Hè Hè


The man tells his granddaughter bedtime stories, Amsterdam-green.
She sings her grandfather evening songs, neglectfully cleaned.
They two, are pebbles falling from the room,
The sound broken wide open, the temperamental duration of things,

Long the green eyes, as her hands reach out to comfort and the sky runs rogue, and rouge.


He tells her:
The sweet distance from which you have journeyed,
The measure between the tip of a finger
And the slender touch of the sky
All that orchestra and manoeuvres.
Move through the darkness as a key move through a lock.

The arch of your silver journey an undoing
That grows wild with each touch.
The train that hurried you over dreams is a single gesture,
The train that steeped you toward the cows along the slopes and the lantern alleyways,
The man who nearly died, the women who beckoned their suffering and stubbornness.

The world sleeps between your palms.

Vliegend Kinderen,
The man you see with the face tempered like the back of a mirror
And his eyes like the throat of a shell, the clock shelling each of our times water-forward.
Notice his heartbroken desire for all the people around, beginning with himself and his granddaughter.
She reaches after him, the crowd and madness and bends like a stream.

The dike that carries the weight of your body but a gesture,
The question mark stamped in the key of a typewriter iron bending,
The kite-wings that pull you upward along the shore, the beach bare from love.
All beginnings and propinquity seeds on your tongue.

Vliegende Kinderen,
Teach us to walk over countries of broken glass
With the ease of paper tumbling, leanly from hand to hand,
In case of your cloth bodies the drifting: you are delicate over the land.
You, flying.


Raising over the land, you reach, and I understood,
From the time I bore you under my heart,
You were my flower and soil.

Care for that, forever.

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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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