Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
CHEEZ
by Fiona Smyth
Greenwood
by Kai Chan
"Family Tie #43" 1995, button, string, nail
Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault
Lines After Yannis Ritsos
a river flows
from my little finger*
with barges drifting
over paper
and bells of ouzo peeling
from the harbour
I write all day
over water
until seductive stars
offer me
a weary dusk of oleanders
in return
for my marble pen
I lie back then
on the metal sea
and pour myself the moon
*the first two lines are by Ritsos
DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0827-2021
View Current Issue
https://oceanpounds.com/blogs/doubledouble/0827-2021
Holly Lee - NIGHT OWL SONATA (in one movement) “My father was a sojourner…) / Lee Ka-sing - Images for "poésie" issue 88 published in 2001, a special issue on contemporary Chinese poetry.
Aotearoa
by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維
Quiet dents.
From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 100: Noah's Ark, August 13, 2021
In my notebook, there is a poem--apparently mine---glued just below the painting. It reads:
This is a painting
of Noah's ark
elastic as a city park
bright as a smile
sans guile
having plunged through
eons of brimming sea
in search of drier community
came at last
to Ararat
where it sat
Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor
Nature Stayed In Our Heads
Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault
Number 90
With a single breath, you can grow a tree in your heart.
Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee
India (December, 2016) – We motored over a rickety bridge, partially eroded from main causeway, attempting a visit to Ramnagar Fort. Vaguely interested in the happening inside the fort, the area surrounding evidently just as historical, had a great deal more character. We were interrupted on our way back to Varanasi, by panoramic views of sunset over the Ganges and of a magnificent turquoise doorway. A little boy sitting outside playing shoe keeper, of some festive event beyond the magnificent gateway.
The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki
Untitled by Kamelia Pezeshki
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 4
Dear Night
Lace, butterscotch, Bao, 鹹酥雞, the color of your toes in the morning, wild Sockeye (Oncohynchus nerka) and blush. These are my words as you wait:
Words rise then plummet and in this dance scatter wild and caught up in the wind’s greed, distance and vocabulary like a feather-before-quill, ill-equipped to steady from a swan’s hock along the lake, the remaining and the squawking when you chased the birds toward the horseshoe of aqueous expanse with a grape and a handful of hope: the algebra of laughter. Neither tar nor defecating green but ellipse and enduring and winged noise (who listens to the small ticks as the necks crane just so?). The grammar of distance and the ache all caught up in that space of horizon and flutter where you await these words. A letter, some food, a color and a rhyme. Waiting, shall I begin?
So this: the rare light, wife, umbrellas storm-ward and catches both wind and the swarming that ignites from seasonal change, the gnats scatter from the grass like poppy-seed or black-winter salt thrown over ice, crisp and alight with sound in their diminutive lustre, the bees hone upward chasing the crevasses and dents of a cloud’s face, incandescent as phosphorous mountaining an altitudinal giant, the dew ascends from the cupping of late-afternoon warmth and the frequencies of language go awry in this late September timbre. All this enchantment and all that eruption which recall the distance from where I sit among the change of thought and temperature and yet scamper toward that which is you. Becoming. Sift these words like husk and the fingers in one another’s mouth. Tides and tongue again, wife. Tides and tongue.
So, I stare horizon-long and look for you in the late summer ascension, the barn swallows arabesque the dimming light nuanced by weight and the memory of cinnamon (not spice but carriage and absent poundage), the winging of the early-jetting bats whose youth is feverish and eager and the flapping of bird and mammal which I glove and toss afar from this drying land toward the watery hips from which you speak to me. Later, the cars’ headlights chew upon speech and signal desire and loss in their carving of speed and spinning, for you are not here to skirt them in the lit-up walk home and that absence is a cantilever of iron and rope and joint, waking the night. The shadows that remind us of other certainties. The fauna that is more than faux sentiment but goes swampy in your absence. At night, alone, I scribble that you once tired stories against my chest like darned socks, balled and balladry. In the morning we exchanged dream-tales like recipes for the awakening. In the morning, geography spells out countenance, teeth indentured along the skin.
My all of you, even in the loss, I am re-grown in your arms and my broken heart branches across the world.
Ovira, the scent of this ocean fever…
our beautiful child rivering through her gentle kind face a knowing:
like a green spring breeze flaging through the trees and whispering memory over grasses damp from cutting
and now mama has lent her wings for your own inimical flight breathless in cadence,
the waxwing unslain, and the light upon the land, the love upon the sea,
this beautiful nation rocking into its future as its quaking lights up from underneath
and you swing past scent and collar: Mayfly, Red Campion, and Pear;
Spider, Love-in-a-Mist, Potter Wasp, and Red Currant
There you are
scent of this life,
root and wing of these garden moments, this cumulus titling,
razing the darkness from my life
and your, yet
the sea still beckons, unarranged, ungone.
Love, not ever, not for a moment my dear,
gone
Your husband
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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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