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

The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

Untitled, Toronto by Sasan Ghahreman

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The Air is like a Butterfly
(Poems, 2018-2020)
by Holly Lee

6×9 in, 15×23 cm, 108 pages, softcover, perfect binding
isbn: 9781989845141

The Air is like a Butterfly is Holly Lee’s second book of poetry, a compilation of 49 poems written between 2018 to 2020.

The book is also embellished with Lee Ka-sing's visuals: "wood series" - a suite of twenty-one black and white photographs. “The Air is like a Butterfly” is published by OCEAN POUNDS in July 2021.

“The Air is like a Butterfly” is available in two versions: POD (print-on-demand) book in perfect binding; and ebook for desktop, iPad or Kindle platform.

More info:

Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

Nature Was A Good Listener

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by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

Evening, and everything
reaching for the last light

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by Kai Chan

Spring Drawing 9, 2021 watercolour on paper

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DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0702-2021

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ONE, a poem by Holly Lee / ONE, a prose-poem (in 14 photographs) by Lee Ka-sing


Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault

In the course of painting the Madonna Flower in my current notebook (see From the Notebooks, Number 92 in this edition of the Artpost), I inadvertently sluiced two drops of red paint into the adjacent page.  Unwilling to waste anything including two drops of pigment (I expect it's an affliction, like hoarding), I  cobbled together a short falling poem called "A Ruby Drop."  You can see the photo of it above.

The text reads:

a ruby

falls upon
her slumbering
upturned child

the bells
will begin

and sleeping
in their

June 28, 2021
3:10 a.m.

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

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 92: Madonna Flower, June 28, 2021

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Canada (April, 2020) – As the Covid pandemic started and regular life's freedoms started to shut down; even those small errands became other worldly experiences. It seems those friendly walks at water's edge was indeed the best way to calm the nerves of uncertainty.

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Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 82

The Tree

...Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.

Ezra Pound, from " The Tree" in Selected Poems,  (London:  Faber & Faber, 1935), p.3.

Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black


Let me tell you a story true, tonight:

The trees soften like molasses through the night, bent and finger-figured, just as our words honey through our heads and the world in all its endlessness, yields into shape, be it shapeless or not

and so I sit, late at night, stealing all the sounds around, the falling beats, the broken branches like a come-on, the upturned dandruff leafs, leaving the darkened park as if an algebra of this and that, all that night swaying that marries the thoughts of my own: fear and adulation and circumspect listening. So, I sit in a park, emptied of people, kittled instead by all the fauna that fawns itself into knowing

The taxis and the sky and the small slap of changing streetlights: eye blink, lips dried kiss, step upon step upon snap.

And then there is the moon, abbreviated by the canopy and yet moves with the sway of the swipe of the Racoon family as they dart beside me, at first oblivious to my moon-sitting, High Park bench surfing. And the three adolescents that click past me, mischievous and unafraid, as one gallops toward me and away like a mis-thrown dart or drunken kiss landing on the collar, and I watch the mother

and she arches and fears and watches if my hand to pet the first is threatening or lazily flirtatious

and they move past and I am stilled because all that enters stills, like a blue bruise appearing one morning as if a hosted ghost

In this time of people speaking for you, of words that get all entangled and webbed into misappropriated knots and quick-judgments, I let all that go and think of how much i want to share the nearness of that fear, with you. Of the soft hair of the fearless rodent that approached, of the mother's willingness to wait before her back became all Jurassic, before her teeth shone like the corn stuck in the dentures of the old women in the window as I walked later by a neighbourhood bar, speaking to you through technology and epoch-old rhythms, of all these things

And baby, they shall not  see that because they refuse to stay still enough, to close their mouths long enough, to shut off all the electric and circumferential language long enough to be able to recognize something simple

regardless of what others construct, regardless of what the world construes, alien and predator and dipping dream, I sat there and let it go and reached out toward the darkness and softened from both the ply of the raccoon's back, the mother's shriek, and all the madness that columns in the world around

I let all their judgement go for they have not listened but have only eared, that of the bespeaking instead of the gathering and what shall we do but swallow it and Trent it golden, even if they render it brass'd and rusty

Sorrow as a sway, it is not the falling as we tumble, but that small, electric tail that tries to make sense as it ricochets in its passing, the way words accumulate on the bedsheet or the ashes beneath the bench. It is always in the noticing

Let the world spin silent, let that touch mean more than the collapsing,
and the moon fires blue in the trees

There but with you, I go.

for LV

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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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