Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
ProTesT
by Cem Turgay
The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki
Aga Khan Museum by Salina Kassam
Greenwood
by Kai Chan
"Magenta and Green" 2021, 5 x 23 x 5 cm, papier maché, wood, acrylic paint
Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault
The poem in the photograph is titled Driftwork (or Sail Piece) and is from July 17, 2020.
The poem reads:
the wave of night breaks
I sit up
in my bed-boat
shipping my oars
yo, poeta sin brazos, perdito*
I, poet and armless, adrift
looking for haven
it's too early yet
no stir of dawn to port
no readable stars
to starboard
a horse stands at the shore
waiting for a rider
but I have no anchor
and my boat
begins to drift
out to sea
again
*Lorca (from Poet in New York)
leekasing.net 交換眼神筆記
by Lee Ka-sing
洗手間有偌大磨砂玻璃的窗子
DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 1029-2021
View Current Issue
https://oceanpounds.com/blogs/doubledouble/1029-2021
CONTENTS: Holly Lee: a poetry wonderland blossoms the gallery 畫廊花開如一室寫詩游樂塲 / Lee Ka-sing: HK XPECIAL 心頭好物店
CHEEZ
by Fiona Smyth
Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor
Relentless Rain
From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 109: Rothko Sunset, December 13, 2015
Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee
Mexico (November, 2017) – We spent the week prior to Dia de los Muertos wandering around Oaxaca; lost in innumerable parades of skeletons, catrinas, devils and other mythical beasts. Unwittingly we found ourselves in the middle of an academic fiesta, whereby the majority of students loitered and haunted Parque La Bastide decorating temporary altars for the ancestors.
Aotearoa
by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維
Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault
Number 99
In the bark of an old tree, there are gardens.
Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black
Where I End and You Begin
“We sing to
Wing a string We sing to
Wing again”—Hoa Nguyen
Once we were born, bone apart long ago,
Our heart snapped in two and veined its way across the ocean,
The wind raging up through the valleys of the deep Pacific,
One on the Eastern shoulder, a region known for sunlight, waves, deserts and broken dreams
The other on the Western shoulder, a verdant valley known for the depth of its green rain and bone-stamina through war and flooding waters and foliage like a book of history,
And the sea grew wild and awind, carried us across the cold waters, like flotsam made jade in the sealight, criss-crossing each other’s path, railroading contours and contrails
And you were waiting, nearly two decades later,
Lined along the mountains inexorably as 青龍
The jungle-night drafting through pine-eyes and leaves in flags of breath
heading landward, sound and smacked,
light, and the palm cups of overgrown vegetation cupping the mist
we, again,
a mirrored room passing as guest love, the collapsed screen, bedbornloss
How we were born, long later.
How we are born of the veiny time,
How we gather, leaves lost in the dark October corner
Reborn through the shifting of selves, between all that was once a singular I
Which now becomes you,
Hours homeward in the hives that string across the lines of my fingerprints along the shore and stone of Da Nang,
My ghost finger unlocked and pricked your mouth wide as the sky,
your London lips sucked my aging skeleton back to life,
We danced against time and tile and buckled until late in the night and
fucked ourselves back to life
Reborn from the rattling of your voice fragile, cubes of ice rubbing against glass
British inflected, light and upturned like a cat bending a corner
your face scarred and pain-groved like the mud path your toes touched during typhoon days and clipped nights run over the puddles in your heart and streams behind your eyes:
less the memory, the chartreuse heart spans.
And so your friends ask what is it?
You look like you’ve seen a ghost
And the space transformed because of what we became, because of who you are
Because of the, the part that suddenly dropped mid-sentence,
Because we ran across nations and swam and fled oceans which fell in place,
Fell uncrippled into each other’s chambered heart and honeycomb mind, run wet in the wind:
Two ghosts, one silvered and the other blackened, bent and become one.
And I whispered onto your skin:
Collarbone, as beautiful as the celestial curve of falling stars, darkening in the slide of your light again and
Again
Again
Again
Again
Again
Again
for: Mai Huyen Chi
STAY WITH ART. INDEXG B&B
(Breakfast area and small shop)
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416.535.6957
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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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