Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
CHEEZ
by Fiona Smyth
Greenwood
by Kai Chan
"Family Tie #4", 1995, button, string, nail
Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault
Moon Poem Written Inside the Back Cover
Of Jack Kerouac’s novel, Desolation Angels.
in Desolation Angels
on page
seventy-three
Kerouac writes
“the moon
is a piece of me.” *
just a rock
like a freezing clock
ticking around
the sky
like a glass eye
moon like
a fumbling
spaceship
never to find at last
a starry wife
never to find
at last
a soft bed
to thrust into
and hold fast
*Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels (New York: Bantam Books,
1966), p. 73
DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0820-2021
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Here and There, a poem by Holly Lee / Lee Ka-sing - Images for the cover and chapter-divider pages of 也斯 Leung Ping-kwan's book "Cities of Memory, Cities of Fabrication" (1993).
Aotearoa
by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維
ellipsis isle and handle with moat
From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 99: A sketchy work from January 15, 2005.
This sprightly if threadbare drawing-painting is apparently from 2005, five years earlier than the boundary-dates I decided to work within (2010-2021) in selecting images from my notebooks for reproduction here.
I include it because of its insouciance (for me, at least). The picture surfaced during one of my repeated and always hopeless attempts to clean up and organize my studio, and it simply seemed too vivacious to stuff into yet another waiting envelope.
I am a pushover for wayward blobs and smears. I find it almost impossible (so why try?) not to attempt to rescue them through a new contextualizing.
Some may see this drawing's jaunty abbreviation as arrogance. I see it as tenderness.
Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor
Heat Wave
Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault
Number 89
Window on a Successful Man
He can't look at the moon without calculating the distance.
He can't look at a tree without calculating the firewood.
He can't look at a painting without calculating the price.
He can't look at a menu without calculating the calories.
He can't look at a man without calculating the advantage.
He can't look at a woman without calculating the risk.
Eduardo Galeano, Walking Words (New York: Norton,
1995), p. 141.
Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee
Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – We wandered back past the Kalta Minor Minaret, the turquoise hues illuminating in the bright winter sun. Detouring back towards musicians we had seen earlier in the day, we discovered that the crowd was larger. We watched as several women joined in the serenade, dancing to the rhythmic tunes. As the musical session ended, three women approached us with an inquisitive examination and to take selfies.
The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki
Desert of Urmia by Behrad Abuzar
"Lake Urmia in Iran was once the world's second largest salt lake, but in a matter of years it shrank to almost nothing. Now, the lake is slowly coming back to life". BBC, Peter Schwartzstein, February 25, 2021
ProTesT
by Cem Turgay
Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black
ボケット: Boketto
(letters to a wife, found in a box)
"He knew nothing to do but inhabit the paradoxes."--William McIlvanney
Letter 3
Dear Tenderness,
木心
To you, even in winter, full-bellied,
I wobble and space my hope toward home.
To rhyme the darkness with ringing:
bead against wrist, tooth against tongue
and the boom of your heart click, swaying.
Words, like small billows under hull, tiller the jib of my meandering thoughts. Pictures, like wisps of exhalation, rudder the carriage of my body’s hinting. I have always worked both, rhyme and flap, to set my life’s navigation right—Ballast of Boom and Keel—the steerage from which I have tried to helm my way home. A halyard in its pulling.
How does one see through the clouded time of unseeing, especially when they themselves tell stories with pictures while all along they have struggled with the nature of how to see. So, it is me. I am blind
Bone and feather-less wing, knobby beak and elongated rib of our throat: all that is left of our singing when the song has gone wrong, all that is left when the singing has gone rung.
moonlight on the water, like the hair of a lovers’ slumbering length across my chest in the cool and rounded belly of the night....
pieta and the thinness of our wire souls
keep lighting tunnels
I am smalling, hold me.
Love,
Hubbie
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MONDAY ARTPOST
ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
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