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

Ephemeral by John Bladen Bentley

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Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

Aged Cheese

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by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

at the edge

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by Kai Chan

Spring Drawing 10, 2021 watercolour on paper

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DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0709-2021

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Holly Lee - NIGHT OWL SONATA (in one movement) “What is there to say about Africa, …..” / Lee Ka-sing - A selection of 10 photographs I created for CITY MAGAZINE 號外, in the Contents Page section (1988-1989)


Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault

The Runaway Watch
the heavy watch
like a goldfish
out of my grandfather's
like a helium balloon
strains upwards
towards the ceiling,
its gold chain taut
it's like a puppy
on a leash
that wants to go pee
in a corner of the sky
over the house


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

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 93: Ancient Instrument, March 9, 2011

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Canada (September, 2020) – It feels like a decade ago; that brief interlude of cautious social distant interaction. It was a memorable day; consisting of anomalous shapes and painted projections, of giggles and outbursts, a bonding experience culminating in the winds of change.

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Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 83

Gary, who sometimes reminds me that he is half-Greek, is passionately devoted to the writings of the great Greek writer, Nikos Kazantzakis (author, most famously, of Zorba the Greek).  He is currently reading a short Kazantzakis novel he says he'd never read before called Toda Raba (1929), born of the author's travels through the Soviet Union in the years immediately following the 1917 revolution.  

In the novel, a young and dedicated Leninist named Dina ("demonically possessed by painting and poetry") is talking to a gathering of fellow fervid revolutionaries:

"An artist paints an autumn tree," she said, as if she were merely going on with her secret thoughts.  "If this artist is really modern, if he is racked by the terrible problems of our time, that tree must express the whole soul of today, with all its sufferings and all its revolt...In the eyes of a real artist every leaf of a tree reflects his whole age."
                     ---Nikos Kazantzakis, Toda Raba (New York: Simon and Shuster, 1964), p.34.

Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

The Sweet Bite of Licorice Laced Between Fingers


If upon a night late in Spring driven by rain falling as small pebbles from a roof
you were to see her and begin to call out,
would you recognize
how far she has to travel to un-bone her dead
to unbox the ghosts which must be made anew, a requirement,
how much the light of words tugs and tags at her heart:
the gamble on gambolling, as
she hastens to realize the licking upon the openness of things:
her child braving fear and self-hood leaping off a summer cliff, another child falling apart from fear
her mother lost in a trailer dying of the crooked light racqueting over a field of rusted crops and grown weeds,
a murder of ravens descending and quaking away in fright,
their feathers bathing the bottom of her feet as she rubs soft stones through her toes
and recalls him, once long ago, spinning in a dislocated room, clinging for life
as they danced and clanged around each other’s waist
like Spanish moss married to a tree, unkempt: yet
there they were ripening, slowly.

Their bodies as language and a continent of words surrounding them:
name it rhymes, clack, a crack in the tea cup she once found at a bus shelter,

Soon to take flight in a world of shadows, she turns toward light.


she steals from others because she absorbs the world
and bites off the smile of the sky’s dark morning eyes
and counts like coins the bravery of people passing through the commuting windows
who still make fit this world, lost by the description of transporting signs left rummaging upon the ground,
the boughs of love
that which will not go untamed--
what will they say to one another or about each other, as the sky swells at the day’s end.
“Can you taste this?” she says aloud, her body’s hollows shaping the empty spaces
and goes running unsteady through the neighborhood
the homeless still stroll along with the ghosts of immigrants long since debarked and
her heart wobbles: be love
she things.

we batten on.


And so, it seems we slip, laced between fingers,
a wilding of temperamental recognition and of small opal moments
quiet and dreamt that slip like sleep under bedroom doors in the morning light,
tugging at the nose and belly and eyes of us, un-winked
beginnings as we grow bold as bone
and the sky shapes forlorn v’s in its expanding tumbling toward Earth.
Thus, we have become dancers pliering the light
A convergence of stars, the twitch of fingers, the ballet of our language’s lipped meaning
A recalled story,
Lines of red scribbled from distant interiors,
Sorbetto the color of salmon finning a new constellation,
A tree arched black dancing in the crippling wind with its creaks and whispers,
The green hair, the lost color of leaves,
Dragon bones wed from the soil
The teeth in the sky pulled centripetally home, ancestors’ incandescent markings,
The sweet bite of licorice,
Hands met on the swing and twirl of the park’s carrousel as a vow,
Cotton candy swept away in the November tide, a grandmother’s untangled hair,
the white crack of a match when lit,
as we birth small gestures each to each.

The stones that learned to flower
The tongue that danced with its flame
The lullabies of lost names:
Dare the light, the bending of necks reckless but rewarding winged by love:
Once broke, a whole new you.

Now, do you see her, do you hear them, can you taste this?

Tell yourself:
I walk into a room lit by language
And embark through an opened screen-door
And walk out, anew.


and so, we birth small cobalt gestures each to each:
the stone learns to flower
the tongue will dance within its slender flame
while laced between fingers, they finger lost names
each other’s slender shadow collapsing one another
and in their running between alleyways,
their syllables are swallowed whole
then at last this:
a child slips through the slates on a park bench
his eyes falling like autumn leaves
her smile the sound of broken shells
their whispers relinquish
small silver keys asleep in a mahogany box
lacquered with a brass Chinese lock
their hair kept, disenfranchised from a dream.
They are gathering now,
As they drift toward the wire in the horizon like the tail of a sky-fallen dragon
Wavering secrets and kiting in the wind
Can you taste this.

Can you see them, gone.

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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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