Memory Sickness, in Khmer
One returned to drugs or never left them. Television as a second act. One loved a woman Taller than himself and left while she was pregnant. He has agents, handlers, lifts in his shoes. He breaks a rib and moves on and on in ceaseless industry. The leaves turn, the altar of invention wans into parody, The self lilts ever more inwards. Masks collect as evening Drapes off the table into the future. Velveteen. And still we have to speak of her breasts, Or the one who left citing irreconcilable differences, Or the one whose wife left him. How his drunkenness bled Into everything, and everything into night, and night into a feeling Of familiarity. And you will recognize this sculpture as your own, All the days in the dirt, the same avoidance of pain Staring down the gun barrel. Come October you will see all Suffering as your own and the days will become bleached with light And your bones will fill with air and you will think: This photo was just someone trying their best, Still who is that man who looks Directly at the camera If not you David Joez Villaverde Editor's note: This poem was written in response to a specific cast photograph by Alex Berliner (USA) from the Interview with a Vampire film premiere in 1994. Click here to view. David Joez Villaverde is the winner of Black Warrior Review's 2018 poetry contest and his poems in Crab Fat Magazine and L'Éphémère Review are 2018 Best of the Net nominees. He has been recently published or is forthcoming in Yemassee, RHINO Poetry, The Indianapolis Review, Yes Poetry, and Occulum. Visit him at schadenfreudeanslip.com
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At the Movies
When the blues threaten to consume me, when life seems a cruel ruse and I’m losing every battle and war, I don’t fill up on booze or kneel in a church pew. I meet me at the movies at night. The sky’s dark, but the theater is darker. Strangers fuse together inside this womb, becoming an audience, seeking salvation together, clues about our human condition, or just a good laugh or two. I love it when the lights die, cueing our voyage, the spell cast by motion and colour – smooth, flowing moves to jittery jump cuts, restrained, subtle hues to bacchanalian jewels. Gifted new actors and directors are thrilling. Veterans I know better than my relatives are wonderful too. Of course a good script is essential, but some nights a bad one will do. When the film’s over and the credits are rolling, I thank every name scrolling by and then thank their muse for helping me forget me for a few hours. I’m meeting me at the movies tonight. Sheila Wellehan Sheila Wellehan's work is recently featured or forthcoming in Forklift, Ohio; Menacing Hedge; San Pedro River Review; Tinderbox Poetry Journal; Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Visit her online at www.sheilawellehan.com.
Coming of Age I groan under the weight of courage Shiny expectations banged out repeatedly Smooth edges, sharp fear singles triples doubles the tally of uncertainties I cloth myself in angry gold Try to cover my humanness with deity Melinda Dewsbury Melinda studied English literature in her undergraduate degree and applied language studies in her graduate degree. She teaches first year composition, multi-cultural literature, English grammar, and multi-disciplinary courses at Trinity Western University. She lives in Langley, B.C., Canada with her husband, three sons, and puggle. *** El Dorado The golden one. Over time, it was recognized as a mythical place. 'El Dorado' only lived in the imagination of Europeans, giddy with the prospect of instant wealth picked up by the handful in a mythical city of gold. The ‘Guatavita’ one of the ceremonies of sacrifice conducted by priests. A new ruler, covered in mud and gold, placed on a raft with a great amount of golden items at his feet: nose rings, pectorals, diadems, pendants, bracelets, ear rings… Thousands gathered at the shore. At the centre of the lagoon, El Dorado threw the gold overboard, letting it sink to the bottom. There were flutes and pipes, much singing and dancing. The indigenous peoples never attached monetary value to the shiny metal, its value symbolic of the brilliance and constancy of the sun. Most graves have been looted by now. Found in the mud at the bottom of lagoons the highly stylized works by the master goldsmiths of Colombia. Rose Mary Boehm A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of Tangents, a poetry collection published in the UK in 2010/2011, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the Goodreads monthly competition, a new poetry collection (From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden 1939-1949 : A Child’s Journey) has been published by Aldrich Press in May 2016, and a new collection (Peru Blues or Lady Gaga Won’t Be Back) has been published (January 2018) by Kelsay Books. *** My Bat Like all families, we have many beautiful ornaments. I love my own pendant, so small that it fits in my hand and does not tug on my neck. A bat made of sunshine. I wear it at home and sometimes when we visit others, but not when working with my sisters. Some days, at home, Mother lets us wear one of her many small pendants as a reward for a good day. At family meals, Father might let us wear one of his, even one with many feathers spreading outward—but they tug on my neck. Our brothers always want to wear those and act very solemn and brave when they do, but sometimes they fight over one so father scolds them and puts it away. We treasure them for their beauty; how they release bright sunlight during the day, deep reds and yellows by the evening firepot, and pure white like the moon when we all share in lesser feasts. Mother says they were created for beauty, to be enjoyed, to brighten our lives, although some also please our gods to favor us with crops, health, and children, and others keep evil smoke from our thoughts. Father says his largest ones protect us from dangerous spirits in the forests; wolves, great cats, and bears who once people but can no longer dwell in the open and enjoy our village live. We also have a Great Pendant which we only see at home before the Great Feast. It has many fine lines like the delicate weave of a blanket, like the beautiful feathered robes that the rulers, shamen, and prophets wear at the Great Feast. The Great Pendant is always wrapped up again and hidden away before we leave, but when her year comes, our oldest sister will wear it to the Feast, then all the oldest sisters will join the gods to sing and dance before them forever. Then the Great Pendant will be given to our oldest brother for his oldest daughter to wear when her year comes. It seems silly and terribly sad, almost unbelievable, that someday men from mountains across the Great River will arrive and take away all our ornaments. They’ll kill or enslave many fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers; spread demons who will destroy our minds and bodies; make us sacrifice to their gods; and tear down our temples, villages, and homes—all because they have an unquenchable thirst for these lovely pieces. But that is what our prophets tell us at the Great Feast, so it must be true. They say our oldest sisters will help protect us in the meantime, but that someday, our Final Year will come. Ken Gosse A Proverb of Wealth: D’oh-Raymese of Tolima Don’t put all your faith in gold, Raising all your hopes on earth. Meekness is the stronger hold; Folly’s glitter has no worth. Sewing kindness brings you joy Lots of true wealth to employ, Teaching love, be its envoy, And you’ll have much more than gold. Ken Gosse Ken Gosse prefers writing light verse with traditional metre and rhyme filled with whimsy and humour. First published in The First Literary Review–East in November 2016, his poems are also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years, usually with a herd of cats and dogs underfoot. *** to protect a sacred torso en oro pre-hispanic goldsmith's good-luck gato pancaked by rival speculative metallurgist taken home taxidermised en oro to shield his sacred torso on battlefield of commodity futures in a return to mineral wealth melted down into weapons with sharp edges and in bars behind which self-made man always finds himself Jordan Trethewey Jordan Trethewey is a writer and editor living in Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. His work has been featured in many online and print publications, and has been translated in Vietnamese and Farsi. To see more of his work go to: https://jordantretheweywriter.wordpress.com *** A Dead Tolima Woman Speaks to Her Shaman Husband Time shuts its door, keeps us from knowing the future, the future from knowing us. Only after passing can I see the ghost-coloured men who will assault Tolima, dig through the dust of our children’s children’s children. They will find many treasures, but not the truth. Your gold breastplate, born of the sun, will wink at them. Here lies a leader, a man of power, they will think, just as I did when the glint off your chest first pierced my heart. A warrior, they will say, never understanding our people prefer making music to bearing arms or that the power in your hands was healing. What will they think of me? Nothing. Like countless women before me, I leave the world, and history will speak not a word. Alarie Tennille Alarie’s latest poetry book, Waking on the Moon, contains many poems first published by The Ekphrastic Review. Please visit her at alariepoet.com. *** Tolima Hymn (The Breastplate Song) Refrain: Beneath your breast we hear the drum that sounds the dance we must become. -------------- Shaman, your powers we behold enduring in the precious gold now passed to you through those before to celebrate forevermore. You are the eyes that stalk the night. You are the wings of sacred flight. You are the hands of healing touch. You are the hope your talons clutch. You are the strength of rooted tree. You are the course of rain to sea. You are the ear through which we hear the love transcending all we fear. You are these seven signs you wear -- our future you were born to bear. Portly Bard Author's Note: Sometimes the beauty of art is believing in it. Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment *** Tolima-Region Gold Breastplate Bunny ears! The lustrous breastplate so like my once-children wrapped in costumery, buckets tipped over their heads for legionnaires helmets, lifting from spell-thick water on stuffed mermaid tails, fabric- winged eagles testing wingspan, fearsome tigers, wide eyed, teeth bared, with the pleasure of scaring. You scared me! I reassure the snarl of them, eager to keep away the truer terror, their lower lips pooching and quivering, the dark storm-clouds of thwarted plot threatening from their eyes. Devon Balwit Devon Balwit's ekphrastic poems have appeared here as well as in The Light Ekphrastic, The Front Porch, Long Exposure, The Wild Word, Counterclock, Cordite, and Rattle among others. For more about her work, see her website: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet *** Gold Breastplate It matters what burnishes the solid spread or where the design cuts and curls on chest. I splay my hands at any vulnerability certain that wings cover my breasts. Spear pierces above what nourishes child. Pectorals take the brunt of thrust so I no longer lift more weight than my own appease doctors sure no woman boasts muscle that hard. I lower expectations bow to the bottom of the golden plate touch what curls across the gut as if protecting the not-yet-born. But first they have to pass the fury of my throat. Kyle Laws Kyle Laws is based out of the Arts Alliance Studios Community in Pueblo, CO where she directs Line/Circle: Women Poets in Performance. Her collections include Faces of Fishing Creek (Middle Creek Publishing), So Bright to Blind (Five Oaks Press), and Wildwood (Lummox Press). Ride the Pink Horse is forthcoming from Spartan Press. With six nominations for a Pushcart Prize, her poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., U.K., and Canada. She is the editor and publisher of Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. *** Birdman, Colombian A golden, first century breastplate -- mythic protection in battle. Mortals have sought aegis from the gods since time began, it seems. When my youngest was three, he wore an Incredible Hulk T-shirt every day for a year, certain his kinship with the angry green goliath could transmogrify a toddler to a Titan older kids would fear. I hope the Columbian warrior with a flying deity on his chest found more success than my guileless, doomed boy, whose brother and sister held him down and made him smell the lint in their belly buttons. Sarah Russell Bio: Sarah Russell’s poetry has been published in Kentucky Review, Red River Review, Misfit Magazine, Psaltery and Lyre, Ekphrastic Review and many other journals and anthologies. She is a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee and blogs at SarahRussellPoetry.net. *** Tolima-Region Gold Breastplate, Colombia, 1 B.C. to 700 A.D. (Middle Period) “They removed all of the heir’s clothing, smeared him with sticky earth, and sprinkled him with gold dust. Thus he embarked on the raft completely enrobed in this metal.” Juan Rodríguez Freyle, 1636 Carapace of the one body Two-pronged body of spine The sight that fills The sight that sweeps out The chitinous shell The three-pronged mind Gold dusted body rinsed of its sun I am thorax. I am armour. I am emptied in to holes in the eye-souls of gods Body of plate, arachnid tines The inverse body of crustacean skin Creatrix of insect body Three-winged body of sky The sight that structures The sight that declines Myth of the one body Gold dusted body of shine Ferral Willcox Ferral Willcox is a U.S. born poet and musician currently living in Pokhara, Nepal. Ferral's work can be found in Per Contra, Peacock Journal, concis, Rat's Ass Review, and elsewhere. Ferral's work was featured in the Q-Street venue of the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, and she is a regular contributor to the Plath Poetry Project. *** This one ferocious angel might be enough all wings and teeth and eyes wide open no mouth to smile or curse or swallow you whole no soft hands reaching out to pull you in no bleeding heart no tears no thorns and roses just this hard bright sheet of beaten gold without shadow or reflection unrelenting as the desert sun all her edges sharp enough to cut Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy has always been a writer but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work published in many print and on line journals, and has an electronic chapbook, “Things I Was Told Not To Think About,” available as a free download from Praxis Magazine. *** No Cover for the Heart Smiling out at us the chief's gold protection reminds us he is sovereign. But I note, the wings, arms, smiling face would not reach his heart--his wealth does not stand between him and his people. Joan Leotta Midas at the Doctor "Open wide, your majesty." Wooden tongue depressor touches the royal mouth. Doctor drops it just in time to prevent the gold enveloping his hand and more. Doctor leaves and moody Midas picks up a golden knife and carves the oval into his own likeness, spreading out wings so he can fly above his curse, giving him self legs to outrun the curse hoping that he can will the curse upon this totem and return to the joy of human touch. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer who lives and works by the beach in North Carolina. Her first collection of poems is out for Finishing Line press--Languid Lusciousness with Lemon *** The Plunge Imagine what it was like for the new chieftain of the Muisca the day he must plunge into the sacred Lake as the people watched. The sun rose early, and he prayed for courage. His people needed protection from tribes in the mountains. Elders appeared with bowls of gold dust and feathers from the sacred eagle. A healing gel was rubbed on his back and chest and then on his arms and neck. They started to brush and dust him, and he slowly changed, gilded into a man of dazzling beauty, almost surreal. His body was dusted in sunlight and brilliant gold. His face was last to be covered. The shaman gave him a drink of herbs and mushrooms, and he started taking long, deep breaths as he slipped into another world only he could enter. The head shaman performed rituals learned from the ancestors. Pan-pipes and drums began. The different flutes seemed to speak to the stars, the birds, the winds and together they walked from the hut to the lake. All of the Muisca were there, standing around the water. The water gently lapped at the banks, and people began to hum. No words were needed. No words could express what they felt when they first saw him appear--the Golden One, the El Dorado, their new chieftain. He had gone to bed as an ordinary man, but now he appeared to be a creature that could have had wings. On his chest lay a beautiful breastplate of gold that had been pounded so thin, its feathered edges might take flight. He walked to the raft and was paddled to the centre of Lake Guatavita. Everyone began to sing a song to the skies, a song to the sun, a song to the gods that gifted them this land. The Golden One stood alone ready to take the sacred plunge. In his hands were precious gems that he held up to the sun, and he murmured some words only the sun could hear. He suddenly threw open his arms and flung the jewels into the middle of the Lake and then, with one deep breath, he plunged into the cold water. The people became silent. The music stopped. In the deep lake, the man was transformed. The gold dust had washed into the lake, but his heart had changed. He would be the fierce protector of his people, their guardian, their leader, their link with those that could fly to the heavens and speak to the sun. He emerged and gasped for air, now ready to lead his people. birth & rebirth this precious air shows the way Mary Kendall Mary Kendall lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. She is the author of two books of poetry and has had many poems published in journals. For the past two years, she has focused on Japanese short-form poetry in English, particularly haiku, senryu and tanka. *** Van Gogh Eternity’s Gate
Forgetting is not in the poet the painter, the artist. We are not psychopaths, murderers, walking away with bloody hands from so many familiar bodies. We are the nerves of the universe throbbing with something real. We are Van Gogh’s old man in the chair-- elbows on his knees, hands blinding the present mind racing towards the past. Joshua Dean Joshua Dean, who goes by Dean, is a second-year MFA student attending Georgia College and State University. He has a French background and an indisputable attraction to Romantic literature which has influenced his poems. The South serves as his poetic landscape, as much as he wants it to or not. He has grown to appreciate the South and writes odes to it, despite the racial tensions and poor political policies of that geographical area. Dean's poetry has appeared in the River Heron Review. Sorrow
How wise are they who say This too shall pass? Look at the lost wanderer: her naked, hunched, and pregnant body on a cold tree stump reveals sorrow can shatter life like glass. It’s spring, yet winter lingers. The trees still barren, the fields still covered with frost from long gray months and still cheerless with no bird’s song surround her. Shaken, consumed by passion, her scraggly hair traces her gaunt back’s curve. Her dangling breasts quiver, and while she weeps she holds her knees. With her frail arm she keeps her face hidden from us, but we observe the tears dripping into weeds and grass, soon must foresee ... her imminent collapse. Gregory E. Lucas Gregory E. Lucas writes fiction and poetry. Some of his poems have appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and in magazines such as The Lyric, Ekphrasis, Blueline, Peeking Cat, and Sincerely. Some of his short stories have appeared in The Horror Zine, Bewildering Stories, Yellow Mama, and Dark Dossier. Ode to Daughter as Artist Praise for the spontaneous paint splatter; for the blank, wide face of canvas; the thin stroke of clear; the unannounced swirl and burst of emergence: oils and newsprint surging into bright, wild collage, hue and creativity tottering on eternity one-day only. Or not, the heft of 3-D spinning now into something unlike anything like steady chalk or premeditated ink. No. Rather thought and arm high on epiphany, and the brilliant eye that arrives there in an ordinary room, on an ordinary day: art & its dizzying versions of birth. Marjorie Maddox Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lock Haven University, Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry—including True, False, None of the Above (Poiema Poetry Series, Illumination Book Award Medalist); Local News from Someplace Else ; Wives' Tales; Transplant, Transport, Transubstantiation (2004 Yellowglen Prize; re-release 2018); Perpendicular As I (Sandstone Book Award)—the short story collection What She Was Saying (Fomite Press); 4 children’s books; Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (co-editor); Presence (assistant editor); and over 550 stories, essays, and poems in journals and anthologies. For more information, please see www.marjoriemaddox.com These ekphrastic poems are selections from the “Second Order” group who observed the Bioart Society-sponsored “Field Notes: Ecology of Senses” in September 2018 in Lapland, above the Arctic Circle. These works are responses to the contemporary artworks and processes by international artists working at the Kilpisjärvi Biological Station in Finland. Each is paired with the relevant artwork. More at: https://bioartsociety.fi/projects/field-notes-1/pages/second-order-2 Futuring Wax In your outdoor moorish room, the fabric drapes head to clouds, the womb of the lingonberry’s bud is the flower of your belonging in the fantasy of a tent-living room, a yurt I once visited that smelled of goat’s idol form and a ting of scalp sweat, though I would have laid down under the pasture before I told them how different it smelled from the forest or even home, so when you offer mellow delights of new wax from water, from a blue oyster inlaid box I pinch just the corner, more to feel it, than to taste the salt. Hannah Star Rogers Hannah Star Rogers’ poems and reviews have appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Boston Review, The Los Angeles Review of Books, Tupelo Quarterly, The Carolina Quarterly, and TSR. She received her MFA at Columbia University, her PhD at Cornell University, and is currently a visiting scholar the the University of Edinburgh. She led the Second Order group at Field Notes’ Ecology of the Senses. Interfacing AM Frequencies Through the Core of a Willow Stem to Make a Divining Rod for the Future With the care required to Pack and ship lichen beginnings worldwide The prize the moss from its long term Abode the only home it has ever known, Estranged from plants by our insistence On the move, our nature against theirs Electro-pulses we knew we knew where There before the stars could be measured Always traveling and using up. Hannah Star Rogers Sketches for Field Notes from the Kilpisjärvi Biological Station 1. Geomancy 1. The magpie: one for sorrow, two for joy. No birds on this hill, but we turn our attention to great fortune besides. 2. We call it the devil’s field. Too many rocks to cross. 3. This next part implies the cold. Your face will not be enough. Sit alone and see if you can feel the direction of the whole wind against the rock. 4. Just before the gulley a pile of tin cans and metal scrap. Remains from the prison camp at the end of the war. The nazis didn’t make it up here until almost the end. 5. We never find the crash site. Instead we circle two wire reindeer pens and cross a dry riverbed. You instruct me in irrigation and salt. We prefer not to know what’s lost. II. Reindeer Life 1. I cannot bear to see such tight landscape, he tells me, one arm still before the window. There is no room for them to move. No room to wander. Twenty years later we are still on this question of space. 2. My mind is not a reindeer’s mind. But I know that they have a turn in their mind. A turn to spring. The new growth takes them north. 3. They have a taste for lichen. But in the summer they trample this lichen they like and eat other green things and flowers. Whatever flower you choose they eat it. And also the red berries that flood the fell. 4. They follow the winter into the wind. The winds are changing. They have to behave in time. Time on the slope falls differently. 5. Human beings are not such ecological animals. The reindeer has another logic. III. Malla 1. The dogs sit on the prow. We sit below deck. There won’t be anyone there to check passports. I forgot my money anyway and the clouds carry us over. 2. We look to the water to tell us what we already know. It’s hard to look past the shadow of the mountain. 3. Three countries claim this corner. And here a woman who has swum around all three. I have also studied the names of all the trees and flowers, she tells me bending. And I was glad to do so. 4. Wooden boards keep our feet dry. The suture holds for now. 5. At the top a sleeping hut piled over with rocks. We add one rock more and do not lie down. Rain falls beneath us and we descend. IV. Constellations 1. We thought they might give us the mountain to celebrate. But they kept it for themselves. We’re a nation apart. 2. Soil, rice, jam. I eat the soil and pull three rocks from my mouth. They could have been teeth. 3. The ice age recedes. The medusa succumbs to her burns. 4. I do not hear you for the water at your back. Later I will be jealous at the water at your window, the angle of your roof. Your beds in a line. 5. I buried my face in the soil but did not open my eyes. I do not play at death. V. Bird Thoughts 1. We are the noise. We are looking through the noise. Birds correspond to thoughts. 2. The sun doesn’t leave the shadow. It’s the plants. They know their own mind. The mushroom flowers across the screen. 3. I pull a woman from the water. White like the moon and as distant. She tells me: your future is now. Our future is now. She breaks in two. 4. Sound travels like a nerve on the spine. I collect it here, you say, showing me your copper wires and tree branches. Can you hear it, can you hear anything? A clearing upon the hill. The lightning above the door. 5. Hands flat upon the table. A smokescreen and a skull. The noise comes in waves in light against the sky. Trees lit up like eyes upon the shore unblinking. We turn back toward the sensing dark. Karen Elizabeth Bishop Karen Elizabeth Bishop teaches literature for a living. She lives in Sevilla, Spain. Perhaps Not (1) I went to Ecology of Senses? Field_Notes What was that? Socratic dialogue – it's not what I want. Were they artists No I’m not an artist. Were they scientists I was trained as a scientist, but no I am not. Practitioners Praxisters Prax-schm-ishiners... I am not being contrary, but no I am not. Well who are they ... are we then? ... (2) What do we want. A process? But no-output expected…. Or wanted? Would you like to see my no-output? Is there a no-process and no-dynamic to go with it? How about a presentation? No it's not a presentation I don’t like that word. I think we are getting somewhere – perhaps maybe I don’t know perhaps not? (3) What can I say? What can I contribute? Second Order? Whose order? Disorder! Self-order-(an/ anodon)nized? We are a slime mould? But we are doing our own thing. We are rather loose. I think it is framed - I don’t like the term frame. From the centre in own directions - No not quite that. Can you help – no help - too much wisdom from you! Banned words pungent · droplets · in a landscape- no more facts In a post-fact, neo-truth fake news world – no clichés allowed (we all know what you mean) and that’s bounded, restricted not unbounded restructed Everyone goes to Berlin so I go to Seoul – a new … There is nothing new – no, maybe perhaps not Technical equipment It's not essential, Arduino, Android, PowerBank Breathe the earth, take your clothes off and rub yourself with something soily Artistic stereotypes (but we are not artists – no, maybe perhaps not How do I say, what I do not want to say, what I say AYE SAY! Marcus Petz Marcus Petz studies rural resilience at the Department of Philosophy and Sociology at Jyväskylä University, Finland. Embedded Second Order Light ripples Sanna and Malla embraced in warmth my arrival in an Arctic summer’s wain As a Humus sapiens, I would delve ʽn’ dive where rangifer and salvelinus dwell Peili fjord á pied-à- mer sand blackstones, bladderwrack and jellyfish pain Rain in the face so cold nice for a quick dip sauna etiquette- mixed? up face in soil smell life and electrics, smokey turvekota, Aurora, Feminist moment – Field Notes with children waves, ripples, currents moiré patterns in the hydrosphere-cum-atmosphere-soilsphere-me-as-well slime mould, talking so much talking big words and strange books, growing, divine, thinking silence again this plant with teeth: an exercise in reverse ekphrasis this plant with teeth this plant with teeth flowers overjawing mouth lips heaven- ward turned like two new deer in profile against the treebank suck young cheeks toward the sky tendons tight in advance of the leap petals back anther and filament raised in relief this morning i overflower this morning i over- flower this morning i leap antlers blooming. Karen Elizabeth Bishop Sam Nightingale is a visual artist based in the UK. He uses experimental modes of photographic image production and speculative fieldwork to make sensible the temporalities and spatialities of environments that we are a part of but that also persist beyond the limits of human experience. Patricio Hidalgo Morán es un artista multidisciplinario que reside y trabaja actualmente en Sevilla, España. Una gran parte de sus numerosos trabajos visuales, escénicos, y fílmicos se dedican al mundo del flamenco y la pintura viva, lo cual se puede ver representado en la página web: www.patriciopinceles.com. Ha colaborado también en varios libros infantiles, producciones audiovisuales que trabajan en el intersticio de la poesía y el arte visual, y dirige la revista Mordisco. Su arte ha sido galardonado y expuesto en galerías de arte y exhibiciones en España, Europa, las Américas y Rusia. Patricio Hidalgo Morán is a multidisciplinary artist who lives and works in Sevilla, Spain. A great number of his numerous visual, stage, and film productions focus on the world of flamenco and live painting, all of which can be accessed at the gallery housed on his website: www.patriciopinceles.com. He has also collaborated in the writing and drawing of various children’s books, audiovisual productions that work at the intersection of poetry and visual art, and he directs the magazine Mordisco. His art has been the recipient of numerous awards and exhibited in galleries and expositions in Spain, Europe, the Americas, and Russia. The Lost and Found Department There is no Lost and Found department at the Kilpisjärvi Biological Station. I went looking for a lost thermos. I heard someone yell, “I can’t find my other sock!” We all found ourselves searching for belongings in a place that doesn’t have a Lost and Found department. Here’s a guide to finding things around the Kilpisjärvi Biological Station:
Shruti Sunderraman Shruti Sunderraman is a writer and journalist based in Bangalore, India. She is a culture vulture and writes about music, art, gender and environmental science. She finds comfort in mushroom soup and blades of grass. Read her work here and here. In Thrall of Tininess Large things never wonder their purpose. They settle as landscape and await eternity. Their peace is traditional. Their self-assurance, alien. Tiny things wander. sometimes, into wonder most times, into trouble. Curiosity never killed their cat. they have exceptionally smart cats. A Nordic mountain is a lesson in royalty. Buckingham is a toilet on its landslide. A glacier in the distance laughs unbearably at humanness. Social cachets tested on ice are but punchlines to the immortal. a patch of lichen, meanwhile, awaits winter. It is coy. You never saw it spread across the riverside. This is the nature of patience. Standing on the precipice of largeness, my tiny heart heaves a Tundric sigh. We are terrified, we are relieved. Stepping away from desks lights and tall paper bills, we are joyous to be tiny again. The mountains dismiss me; not unkindly. Insignificance is beautiful. Shruti Sunderraman |
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