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Oil/alkyd with paper on canvas, 60" x 60"
Katherine Ace
April 2014

Tales from the Ground Up, oil/alkyd with paper on canvas by Katherine Ace

Oil on wood, 35" x 30"
Irene Hardwicke Olivieri
March 2014

Subterranean Family, oil on wood panel by Irene Hardwicke Olivieri

Watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper in bound volume; open book size: 4 x 12 in.
Charles Ritchie
February 2014

Three Snow Studies; watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper in bound volume by Charles Ritchie

Kari Wergeland
January 2014

We press on, firing furtive glances
at the sneaky walking of the gull
determined to drop it, make use
of the foundationless to kill his prey—
the blue-black mussel that plummets
from air to pavement, maybe
three times, before it cracks
open to reveal its yellowish spoils.

Then we watch his stubborn take-off
into the sky which reaches out
and holds him firmly and which,
as though with tender hands,
tethers his wings to one place.
There, practically motionless and calm,
there defying the laws of gravity
and casually triumphant, he faces the wind.

E. Louise Beach
December 2013

Lallation—
like that of a brook—

without malice or guile
as when humans were good,

and gain could be got
with lesser vexation.

Then follows congruence
of wind and trees,

of the musical
with the metrical accent.

Each word, a birth.
Like a morning walk

beside a white fence
toward horses.

Korkut Onaran
November 2013

I wake up early
and take a walk
into dawn’s sky.

I meet a shadow
way up there
who doesn’t remember its source.

The moon is still out.
I fold some moonlight
and put it in my pocket for later.

I run into an old routine.
I feel at home
seeing it.

A poem asks for directions.
I don’t know my way around
these skies either, I say.

Then I meet a future without a past
and it tells me that
my absence does not exist.

How can I talk about my presence
without my absence?
I ask.

A hummingbird
lands on my ear and draws some words
out of my brain.

The poem keeps staring at me.
After a while it asks
for a kiss.

Oil on wood panel, 16" x 20"
Leeah Joo
October 2013

Flight of the Crane Wives, oil on wood panel by Leeah Joo

Mark Turcotte
September 2013

Back when I used to be Indian
I am reaching toward the light
with both fists, yawning,
growling like a flower.
Mother pushes me, gasping.
Mother pushes me again.
I swim out from muffled
cradle, dripping blood,
salt of the very first
flood, first wound, I uncurl
upon the island shore.
I breathe.
Mother pulls me, gasping.
Mother pulls me again
to her weeping breast. I drink
and begin, with one shaky eye
to search for my father.
The room rattles with empty.
In the hallway hoofbeats fade.
Millions cry in my veins.

“Continue” was originally published in Mark Turcotte's Exploding Chippewas (Triquarterly Books/Northwestern University Press, 2002).

Sarah Brown Weitzman
August 2013

To subtract to increase.
Each paring, each chip
magnifies the essential.

Brancusi’s brass bird
a curved gleam
gives flight form.

On marble heads
both nose and brows
streamlined to a slender V.

Just lips jut out
from a polished egg.
To subtract to increase.

Each paring, each chip
magnifies the essential.
What genius

to express only essence.
What genius to know
just how little it takes.

Geoffrey Miller
July 2013

Paperboy, cleaner, tourist guide, stock taker, dishwasher, lifeguard, waiter, bartender, teacher, house painter, writer is a thing I have been paid for. Kyke, algebra, wop, drop-stich, jap, bowline, chink, piecrust, nigger, radius, dyke, spelling, faggot, manners, yank, voltage, spic, driving, whore, ice-skating, slut, baseball, cracker, geography, trash, climate, dingo, playboy, French-press, prep, weed, jock, drinking, nerd is a thing I have been taught. Whale, snake, dolphin, dog, chicken, pig, cow, ant, cricket, camel, lamb, bear, buffalo, pigeon, pheasant, duck, lobster, crab, oyster, snail, mussel, roe, tuna, salmon, veal, trout, catfish, piranha, swordfish, cod is a thing I have killed. Paris, London, Tokyo, Doha, Dubai, Christchurch, Seoul, Hanoi, Moncton, Vancouver, Lima, Hong Kong, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, LA, NY, Dallas, Beijing, Colombo, Ulan Bator, Gale, Siem Reap, Efate is a place I have slept. Lied, loved, slapped, kicked, cheated, liked, defrauded, slurred, defended, accused, believed, envied, trusted, helped, stole, cared, hit, threw, shamed, lusted, burnt, built, hated is a thing I have done. Ayako, Amanda, Mohammad, Brian, Chris, Jon, Jane, Alex, Hyun Jung, Roanne, Halumi, Ahmed, Glenn, Ayesha, William, Anna, Ozgur, Merv, Alana, Joanne, Soo Nam is a person I have known. I, me, you, we, they, them, those, these, son, rival, brother, student, lover, enemy, friend, foe, colleague, boss, teammate, opponent is a thing I have been. Hate, fear, passion, lust, hunger, joy, compassion, respect, love, horror, history, friendliness, thirst, inspiration, reverence, betrayal is a thing I have felt. Archapilago is how I first said it but my father correcting me by saying archipelago is a thing that taught me shame and pride.

a collection of photos presented courtesy of The Pablove Foundation
June 2013

Untitled photograph by Emmanuel, age 10Emmanuel, age 10, Los Angeles
Untitled

Pablove Shutterbugs, a program of The Pablove Foundation, teaches children living with cancer to develop their creative voice through the art of photography. The attached portfolio features photos taken by Shutterbugs students during the eight-week mentorship program currently offered in New York and Los Angeles. For more information about The Pablove Foundation and Pablove Shutterbugs, please visit www.pablove.org and www.pablove.org/shutterbugs.

View portfolio

Albert Pertalion
May 2013

Tannic water

Sky-scraping cypresses

Lofty limbs

Cathedral light-columns

Dropping moccasins

Alligator nostrils

Pirogue and paddles

Fly rod and spinners

Black gnats and cat-gut

Green trout

Stillness

This poem is about a swamp where I fly fished into my twenties. A true swamp, it nevertheless had an open feeling. The light coming into the darkness was like shafts of light in European cathedrals. The water was dark, but not muddy. The green trout were really small mouth bass, but the locals called them “green trout.” Moccasins would plop off a limb and aggressively swim toward the pirogue we fished from. I killed many with the paddle. The fly bait was a wet fly (black gnat) we used with a very tiny spinner and trailing a sliver of cat-gut. No fly fisherman ever uses a spinner except in the Southern Louisiana swamps. The most an alligator would let us see were two black nostrils, just above the water line. After we cooked the bass late in the day and ate them, we took small wooden stools down by the water, sat, listened to the silence.

Acrylic on canvas, 12" x 12"
Ben Cowan
April 2013

Neighbors (Caress), acrylic on canvas by Ben Cowan

Cresce a vinda da lua (but what is gained by the moon's return?)
Teu corpo, teu limite.
When will o rio dovetail nas ruas and which ainda arrives too soon?
Cresce a vinda da lua.
While the drunken dogwatch pities      another far-off monsoon,
Teu corpo, teu limite.
Something pulls against day's patois. Something restrings the body's loom.
Cresce a vinda da lua.
Who would leave your side for comfort? Who would row against the moon?
Teu corpo, teu limite.
Tudo cresce, tudo pity tudo rua, tudo moon
all is body, all is rowing, all notation is natação.

 

“Caravela with Two Lines by Fernando Pessoa” was originally published in Terri Witek's Exit Island
(Orchises Press, 2012).

Oil on canvas, 30" x 40"
Marion Kryczka
February 2013

Alley and El in Light Snow, oil on canvas by Marion Kryczka

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