Sea Rose Now
Sabine Miller
who are the traditional custodians of the land where this journal was prepared.
posted by mark young at 6:00 AM
20260801
Sea Rose Now
Sabine Miller
who are the traditional custodians of the land where this journal was prepared.
20230814
Mark Young
about archives books & print parts submissions links
posted by mark young at 6:00 AM
20230720
Thanks for thinking of us, but issue seventy was the final issue of Otoliths.
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page last updated 2/1/24
page last updated 2/1/24
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Individual pieces Copyright © 2023 by their respective creators.
Editor: Mark Young
Nearly all of the images in Otoliths can be enlarged by clicking on them.
posted by mark young at 1:23 PM
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20230719
20230716
Mark YoungMark Young writes: "I thought about writing some sort of historical monograph on Otoliths, have, in fact, had that suggested to me by a number of readers; but even a monostich would probably cause my brain to fry after the race to get this final giant issue completed & in place before its promised publication day.
Un vers de Charles Trenet Le critique intérieur prend un péage; mais je suis toujours ravi de partager avec vous comment une réaction diffuse, où chaque facette a des reflets argentés & représente une aspect spécifique & unique d'une personnalité plus large trait, est mis en évidence par pyro- analyse, une technique pratiquée de- puis les temps anciens. Ici, la variable continue est convertie en une variable catégorielle qui correspond à un modèle hiérarchique. S'il découvre tu penses à arrêter votre travail de jour pour devenir un cirque interprète, souviens-toi d'un adulte doit être présent pour vous conduire à la maison. A line from Charles Trenet The inner critic takes a toll; but I am still excited to share with you how a diffuse reaction, where each facet has silver reflections & represents a specific & unique aspect of a broader personality trait, is shown up by fire assaying, a technique practiced since an- cient times. Here the continuous variable is converted to a cat- egorical variable that fits a hier- archical model. If it discovers you're thinking about quitting your day job to become a circus performer, remember an adult must be present to drive you home.
"So, instead, let me just thank the more than 1500 contributors — many of whom, over the years, have become dear friends — whose combined efforts have resulted in a cornucopia of creative effort that I have been privileged to curate. My gratitude to you all.
"& a special note of thanks to harry k stammer for his much valued work in preparing the covers for both the print versions of the journal & those books that, over a number of years, came out under the Otoliths imprint."
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posted by mark young at 9:01 PM
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Makenzie Matthews-BeardMakenzie Matthews-Beard is a rising high school senior in North Carolina. She relishes learning more about pop culture, world geography/history, music, and literature, all of which she tries to incorporate in her art. IG: @makenzie.mbDear DiaryTomorrow will be a new day. I will get up, make my coffee Stretch, write a poem Go to work, have lunch Catch a movie, return home Pet my cat, drink milk Microwave dinner, go to sleep Write in my diary, Tomorrow will be a new day.
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posted by mark young at 8:42 PM
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Marcia ArrietaMarcia Arrieta finds herself currently reading Borges & Angeles Arrien. Her recent work can be found in Copihue, Swifts & Slows, BlazeVOX, & Wild Roof Journal. thereof, her 5th chapbook is just out from Dancing Girl Press. She edits & publishes Indefinite Space.momentarily art brings cohesiveness sometimes * i search for the primitive in language. i search for the primitive in myselfover the years she reads so many books she wants to become an art museum the tides have become the mountains & the mountains sky change the hedgehog continues on the road the owl is in the oak serious bird—remember the magicaltranquilo reading in a boat pages suspended from skywhen i look into “I learn by going where I need to go.” Theodore Roethke when i look into the face of the owl no me recuerdo ; i surround myself with forests waterfalls meadows wild animals pyramids stars
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posted by mark young at 8:06 PM
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Volodymyr Bilyk from the cyberpunk poetry bookVolodymyr Bilyk is a poet from Ukraine. He follows Ezra Pound's "Make It New" and considers Pink Fairies song "Do It" to be a quite adequate description of his artistic intentions. Second edition of his book Roadrage is available at Zimzalla. Gerry Ha Ha is available at Timglaset. His latest book Detournement Crusade is available at Redfoxpress.*** 1 Sensation of Vagueness Bob - Vortex; And the echoes - why wonder - Dissolving? elated buzz, crackles - glittery fuzz, rickety crunch, squeak; whoosh; click; - sprung tension. angular twist - lashes out in discrete blats, leaves pauses plinking thunderous blasts bubbles abound sparkle starkness --- 2. Asterisk Wrestling An Outstretched Porridge Frayed Wavelength Spike - Nil. Coil Sparkle Boxes the Eclipse... Bad Within Nevertheless Pointedly Translucent Ferocity Towards Purposefully Uptight Buffer Chuckle. Tu Oyo - Uyoata Ayub Be Tshabalala za ‘the’. Bibbiboo Brzeczyszczykiewicz Oomoonoon Smile Throb: Clumsy afterthought shoestring gone jazz mustache pretzel - Bellybutton's "Sound of Terror" kweklo: Il. and Odd, torrential squonk: "Not Yet" Softly Frozen Smile Lightning - Hum... --- 3. A, A a, A Do Do or "Do Do Mae Doome," L: Rink Crawl Off) Since 'B' 'W' “Yeah, But” Tuxedo Nesting The Impossible Space - Forsaken Feeling Zzyzzx - Fluctuation Hum-Ba Baa! Hakata Leg Pulling Whistle From Beyond Wah Noodling Fade Boots Throb Smile Shimmer - Crunch Drone Shiver Bounce De Baka Ga And Baa!! Go-Go Buzz Abstract No Thinking Cue - Dam Non Subject - Fever Oomoonoon Dee Dee Ra Blows a Hole Low and Warped --- 4. 'GGG' T.I. to "0000". An Elephant Sitting Still Thud! EBN OZN 'Bolo':- Kekkai It went mmmmmm - A murmur, humming cloud: Mmmmmm: dimmed Deep breathing Sleep Sleep Mmmmmm Mmmmmm Ualuealuealeuale zoom ---- 5. 38492281 'La-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-la...' "1, 2, 3, 4!"? Echo (Pop, Pop, Pop, Pop) 3...2...1... Kapow. oh-- Very careless. Noookk-- uk--no-- Shhh. Emptiness stomps in a thought Aggggghhh- Something exploded in the head - very bright The Hope Blister - ...Smile OK -------- 6. suppose this is unsounded: 31 00:01:44,834 Pow! Baboons bring bliss. Aargh! Ooh! - Twang! - Ooh! Ah... So, - Mm. 891 Why? Why? 1308 01:18:34,709 - 01:18:35,959 Why? tepid tinkle of Darkness Backwards ----- 7. ZZ BTT "Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba" Dingbat Dash - Petulant Sway "Grind" "Choke" 10 K at Ovu -60 Word Sound So 'n So Da! Be? LL.LL Swift The Tidal Wave Tsunami Not Yet Softly "59" – 3:51 "4" – 2:56 Punch Line Jitter --------- 8. Earthquake - Needed gingerly Please Taste Waste Cause a commotion “COBB COBB.” "...", "...", "...". dot dot dot dot dot dots Throbbing BA-dong ‘B.B.’ KRSSSSS” Ok. O 5.00 ''' ?? ? ??????????????????????????? a ??? ??? ? ? ? ? ????-!!!!!!-"N"-"m" -"- - - - -"- , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , '...'! "..." "................... .. bibi -i -o So Sound 08 ,,,,,, zoom". "..." a "..." "..." "...", "...,............ ------ 9. bubble Nudge; "Chuckles" Leg, leg. Thumb lemon misshapen (Oo) 5-5 1107:01970.0:– “… 000.07 160, 161, 12 10) 2, 3, 7-08, 6-13, 7-07, 7-14 orff Soaring Up 'ssssss" – So Bun-Ho! B: - "(Abyss)" (right shoulder) – – 0:52 5. Horrible U'G'U'U'U 12.t zZz M M M M 03:39 08 ... (4 , 1953) Green green "oo" ---------- 10. Oo - A "B" still moue below tktk - Aeuia Ualuealeuale relently Low and 'Zong!' ‘fi U‘C‘U'U'b'fi‘v ____~-'/~/_'//'/,('/,_________oo_______ tumult. (((...). "nebulous barb macaroni." "...". a "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 'gasp!' "Shi Yee O
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posted by mark young at 7:46 PM
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Edinburgh Mews
(Jan Finlayson, Jill Cameron, Judy Wilson, Kirsty Lewin, Nicky Melville, Moira Naismith)
Opposites Tract: A Mews’ Bouche Language Event
1.
Edinburgh Mews is the collective name for a long-running writing class facilitated by nicky melville. Participants, past and present, include Clare Hewitt, Eimear Murphy, Jan Finlayson, Jill Cameron, Judy Wilson, Kirsty Lewin, Moira Naismith, though not all feature in this piece.
(Jan Finlayson, Jill Cameron, Judy Wilson, Kirsty Lewin, Nicky Melville, Moira Naismith)
Opposites Tract: A Mews’ Bouche Language Event
1.
Five police held the leprechaun down in IKEA while the sergeant tasered him. No terrorists dropped a gnome up out the boutique before a civilian earthed her. Aye pacifists picked up a fairy inside the cell after a soldier skyed him. No warrior dropped a monster into a convent when the nun was in the silent room. Yes, many cowards lifted a spirit disassembled the prison if a murderer is out of loud garden. Few brave men sunk in reality put together freedom when a doctor is in a quiet house.
2.
There were so many students in the park that they trampled on the spears of grass we were trying to observe. There weren’t any tutors outside the library because they didn’t tiptoe under the planks we were making no effort to hide. All the babies inside a paper recycling centre stamp over a tree, they are undoing every laziness to speak. One pensioner in the library tiptoes under the table with such vigour everyone is silent. Not one baby was in the forest clod homping over a plate outwith excluding slothlike no one was explicit. Several adults weren’t outside a building softly tripping into a cup including vigour. Everyone is coy.
2.
There were so many students in the park that they trampled on the spears of grass we were trying to observe. There weren’t any tutors outside the library because they didn’t tiptoe under the planks we were making no effort to hide. All the babies inside a paper recycling centre stamp over a tree, they are undoing every laziness to speak. One pensioner in the library tiptoes under the table with such vigour everyone is silent. Not one baby was in the forest clod homping over a plate outwith excluding slothlike no one was explicit. Several adults weren’t outside a building softly tripping into a cup including vigour. Everyone is coy.
Edinburgh Mews is the collective name for a long-running writing class facilitated by nicky melville. Participants, past and present, include Clare Hewitt, Eimear Murphy, Jan Finlayson, Jill Cameron, Judy Wilson, Kirsty Lewin, Moira Naismith, though not all feature in this piece.
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posted by mark young at 6:27 PM
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nicky melville
nicky [nick-e] melville is a poet, creative writing teacher, curator, editor, musician and occasional artist, whose work takes aim at and interrogates the imperatives of capitalism, politics and ideology. He has been grafting on and in the margins for over twenty years developing a range of publications in a variety of forms and genres: found poetry and erasures, visual poetry, lyric experiment, conceptual and post-conceptual writing. A Selected poems, Decade of Cu ts, was published by Blue Diode in 2021 and his 400-page anti-poem-novel hybrid, THE IMPERATIVE COMMANDS, his PhD project, has just been published with Dostoyevsky Wannabe. Earlier books include selections and dissections (Otoliths Press, 2010), a collection of visual poetry, and his ABBODIES series (Sad Press) which explore the neoliberal and fascist elements of Brexit through the lens of ABBA songs, aliens and James Bond. He makes music as Fuck This: https://fuckthis1.bandcamp.com.
nicky [nick-e] melville is a poet, creative writing teacher, curator, editor, musician and occasional artist, whose work takes aim at and interrogates the imperatives of capitalism, politics and ideology. He has been grafting on and in the margins for over twenty years developing a range of publications in a variety of forms and genres: found poetry and erasures, visual poetry, lyric experiment, conceptual and post-conceptual writing. A Selected poems, Decade of Cu ts, was published by Blue Diode in 2021 and his 400-page anti-poem-novel hybrid, THE IMPERATIVE COMMANDS, his PhD project, has just been published with Dostoyevsky Wannabe. Earlier books include selections and dissections (Otoliths Press, 2010), a collection of visual poetry, and his ABBODIES series (Sad Press) which explore the neoliberal and fascist elements of Brexit through the lens of ABBA songs, aliens and James Bond. He makes music as Fuck This: https://fuckthis1.bandcamp.com.
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posted by mark young at 6:14 PM
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Cy Forrest
now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches
to the she-bots that start to feel the heat
to August, to arriving on the beaches
to the sea wall, to the car park inundated with poppies
to the tin foil barbecues, to standing on the burning sand
to the bearded men blowing on hot coals
to rising sea levels, to diminishing islands
now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches.
Of wading through seaweed, of a ship’s ballast
of the cans of Stella, to crazy-daisy plates, to Regatta clothing
to the women hauling beer, spitting on their hands
stand up, tell them to brew their own
to the Private signs, to the piss and the shit
and soon you’re going to feel wracked by the high tide
now the she-bots are fucking the lifeguards on the beaches
now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets
to the she-bots that set foot on the flood plains
to the malls, to the promise of the earth
to arrive at the newbuilds, to swim upstream against the flow
to two rivers, to the confluence, to the flint dry banks
and soon you will dig a hole in the sand knowing this is not your home
now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets.
Not from these parts and out of its natural habitat
you drop in some wild angelica
angelica is the best choice, no watering required
no going back, no confidence needed to flourish
to the gold mine, to the lick and spitters
to the homeless shitters, seize the day
you arrange your lips for what you’re about to receive
now the she-bots are fucking the buskers outside the hypermarkets
now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections
to the she-bots that feel a mini-famine
to arriving in the World Food sections, to the hot summer of sex
to the jackfruit, to the jerk chicken
to the sheltered paths, to the secret coves, to the thin static
to the rusting transmitters, to the messages
to the pale-brown creeks, to the salt-washed, sun-bleached a-holes
now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections.
Of tipping sand from the conch-shells shuttled by the oceans
of messages received, of dead almond leaves for sails
to the infinity pools, to the drowned out ecstasy
of making yourself heard above the rising tide
to the hypermarket announcements, to the afternoon delight
to holding onto sea-lashed limpets on the islands of dreams
now the she-bots are fucking the shelf-stackers in the World Food sections
Cy Forrest is from Manchester, in the UK, but now living in Wiltshire. He graduated from the Creative and Life Writing MA at Goldsmiths, University of London in 2002. Poems in Poetry Ireland Review, Abridged, Honest Ulsterman, Stand, Icefloe Press, Wombwell Rainbow, Spelt and others. Poems due to appear in Eratio and Obsessed With Pipework. previous page contents next page
posted by mark young at 5:45 PM
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Paul Pfleuger, Jr. If not for the war, it would be a lovely walk these new dramatic pictures, you’re looking at what appeared running along that wooded area scrambling to safety attacked in this video from above you see a hasty retreat it’s not just the video, the flanks are crumbling and the front line is falling with attempts to smooth over the situation somehow in the media space today, massive explosions, these pictures just after the strike you see thick black smoke billowing over this city that had not been under attack the missiles we understand, it’s not just an announcement they’re going, they’re ready, they’re using them we’re learning of another strike taking out power to a number of neighborhoods and what is the latest on the ground where you are? this evening, we’ve noticed missiles flying there’s also been heavy fire amid shell-smashed trees go behind me you can see how the ground is drying out, how wet it was before the battlefield is changing now summer’s coming and that’s everything to the counteroffensive if not for the war, it would be a lovely walk go, go, go, we have a drone? a drone a drone above, we’ve got some cover in here this trench, one of several and a new minefield position how does it feel to be in the battle now? I love it actually, we want to take our territory back do you think they understand? they’re going to get killed, all of them we’re ready for this, it’s our land as we leave, there are more explosions and then this run, we don't ask, we just run and keep running we hear drones, so we're running getting back in now, more artillery coming and that’s where the fight is tonight that armor that’s busy on the battlefield and we've seen a lot of itPaul Pfleuger, Jr. is from Buffalo, New York and lives in Chiayi, Taiwan. His poetry has appeared in several anthologies and in print and online journals and zines. He is the former co-editor of the R’r journal and is the author of A Zodiac released by Red Moon Press.ф language like landscape taste language like taste landscape language landscape like taste language landscape taste like language taste landscape like language taste like landscape like language landscape taste like language taste landscape like landscape language taste like landscape taste language like taste landscape language like taste language landscape landscape like language taste landscape like taste language landscape language like taste landscape language taste like landscape taste language like landscape taste like language taste like landscape language taste like language landscape taste landscape like language taste landscape language like taste language landscape like taste language like landscape ф
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posted by mark young at 5:24 PM
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fred flynn
assault on k-28
fred flynn is another member of the Pessoan ensemble that is the horace p. sternwall stable of writers. They have a number of books available on lulu as by the 'total dissatisfaction press' and now also on Amazon.
assault on k-28
|
fred flynn is another member of the Pessoan ensemble that is the horace p. sternwall stable of writers. They have a number of books available on lulu as by the 'total dissatisfaction press' and now also on Amazon.
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posted by mark young at 3:16 PM
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nick nelson
an incident
nick nelson is a member of the Pessoan ensemble that is the horace p. sternwall stable of writers. They have a number of books available on lulu as by the 'total dissatisfaction press' and now also on Amazon.
an incident
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nick nelson is a member of the Pessoan ensemble that is the horace p. sternwall stable of writers. They have a number of books available on lulu as by the 'total dissatisfaction press' and now also on Amazon.
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posted by mark young at 3:06 PM
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Mark Melnicove
Mark Melnicove is a recipient of PEN’s New England Discovery Award and a Maine Arts Commission Fellowship. His books include Sometimes Times (Dome Editions, 2023; Two Palms, 2017), Africa Is Not a Country (Lerner Publishing Group, 2022 and 2011, winner of the Children’s Africana Book Award), and Ghosts (Cedar Grove House, 2019).
As a performance artist, he and Bern Porter (The Eternal Poetry Festival) toured New England from 1980-1993. He is Porter’s literary executor and editor of a number of Porter’s books of found poetry, most recently, Now It Can Be—Why Did It Fail Before? (The Idea of The Book, 2023).
His papers are collected at Bowdoin College’s George J. Mitchell Department of Special Collections & Archives. He lives in the Kennebec River Valley, in Dresden, Maine.
Mark Melnicove is a recipient of PEN’s New England Discovery Award and a Maine Arts Commission Fellowship. His books include Sometimes Times (Dome Editions, 2023; Two Palms, 2017), Africa Is Not a Country (Lerner Publishing Group, 2022 and 2011, winner of the Children’s Africana Book Award), and Ghosts (Cedar Grove House, 2019).
As a performance artist, he and Bern Porter (The Eternal Poetry Festival) toured New England from 1980-1993. He is Porter’s literary executor and editor of a number of Porter’s books of found poetry, most recently, Now It Can Be—Why Did It Fail Before? (The Idea of The Book, 2023).
His papers are collected at Bowdoin College’s George J. Mitchell Department of Special Collections & Archives. He lives in the Kennebec River Valley, in Dresden, Maine.
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posted by mark young at 2:48 PM
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J. D. Nelson
the green apple serpent of the jolly ranchers
dounce street, later:
parachuted
canker sore
lard v.
tallow
c-note
wipe that
smile
land’s
minus
that
bat
study
study
study
seven &
pie
carefully
dreamt
compunction nodule
we get it—
you’re a doctor
scuff lionel
ringo soon
weird wishes from planet prune
better answer:
stand with me in wonder
(Seven Untitled Monostichs)
—
nothing we are the world
—
green grapes lovely I said
—
window the scene with the giraffe
—
moist towelette sidewinder
—
Ω fresh licorice
—
boxing denmark’s aspic
—
blue gelatin dolphin in the milk
J. D. Nelson is the author of ten print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His first full-length collection is in ghostly onehead (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA. previous page contents next page
posted by mark young at 2:30 PM
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Kit Kennedy
A Few Clouds Linger Through the Palms
I remember all too keenly where I am,
where you are not.
Daunting List: What a tree bundles in its lifetime
The obvious:
leaves
branches
bark
roots
lichen
flowers
seeds
pods
nuts
lemons.
Things
which move:
insects
birds
squirrels
raccoons
the occasional cat
the human hand
carving wind.
Hammock
lanterns
ornaments
tree house
clothesline
swing
nest.
That pesky plastic bag.
From time to time
bits of constellation
and always the sway of time.
[untitled]
Night always remembers the yellow within
and the taste of cool morning.
for Alice Steele
On This Land I Will Print Each of My Poems a Tiny House
from a 3-D printer.
Every house will be
made of concrete.
Each poem will
include a reference
to the moon,
contain at least
one window.
Although space
limited, two comfy
chairs face each other
at a conversational slant.
I’ll leave
the door
ajar for you.
The Old Oak Tree
this is how crows see themselves
remove the old oak, where is home?
Kit Kennedy is a queer elder poet and blogger living in Walnut Creek, CA. She serves as Poet in Residence at SF Bay Times and Resident Poet at Ebenezer Lutheran herchurch. Please visit: https://poetrybites.blogspot.com. previous page contents next page
posted by mark young at 2:08 PM
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Pearl Button
Poem by Painting
Pearl Button is a poet and visual artist. Mostly her photos and paintings are created for her own sake, with very few being submitted for the public gaze. Her process concentrates on creating something that remains compelling to her own eye, over months, or even years. Art as she experiences it must be both ephemeral and everlasting. Her poetry is more commonly sent out. Forthcoming in 2023 with Dancing Girl Press, lune /-/ aria, the titular poem being first published here with Otoliths.
Pearl Button is a poet and visual artist. Mostly her photos and paintings are created for her own sake, with very few being submitted for the public gaze. Her process concentrates on creating something that remains compelling to her own eye, over months, or even years. Art as she experiences it must be both ephemeral and everlasting. Her poetry is more commonly sent out. Forthcoming in 2023 with Dancing Girl Press, lune /-/ aria, the titular poem being first published here with Otoliths.
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posted by mark young at 1:52 PM
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Linda M. Walker
From This Daily Practice (for Akira)
*A painting by Aldo Iacobelli, 2018
Linda M. Walker is a writer, artist, and independent curator. She used to live in Adelaide, now she lives in Mount Gambier. Trainwreck Press has published a chapbook of her poems, Thresholds. In 2024 Ginninderra Press will publish a book titled Weather Eyes containing her poems and the poems of Jean McArthur.
From This Daily Practice (for Akira)
He wrote this to me, “it would be interesting to see the paintings that accompany Poems for Painting (Colour) … I like the rhythm of the pieces, but there’s a prevailing abstraction, a lack of concreteness and specificity and detail, that limits involvement by the reader”, and so I’m downhearted, I put the rejection in the kitchen bin, but now I’ve fished it out as a reminder to send him something he might like, something more concrete and specific and detailed, like my downheartedness, which is not so much ‘prevailing’ as pervasive in this night of two degrees, it’s not an abstract night of course, it’s a finely cold winter night, exactly brutal for downheartedness, an old-fashion word, like downcast or boweddown or downinthemouth, in the dumps, that’s for sure, there’s no excuse for writing abstractly, and I am very sorry that he read those poems and I am very sorry his reading them has given me downheartedness and I am very sorry about everything else too that clings to me like dust, like love-affairs, heartbeats and bright glittering lights, it’s a Tuesday night, and downheartedness is useful, solid, and besides what he wrote to me by hand, was a typed message, “Please don’t despair … our judgment is well-schooled, but inevitably subjective”, there you go, (our) I thought, that’s Tuesday, done.
Just calm I open a door and breathe (as urged) I am quiet while the nun talks I feed the dog which is crucial I read books for magic spells and drawings and weather like “cloud turbulence” “wind whistles” “sunbursts” “ice on the window” “air that billows” “struck by lightning” [Quotes from the poems of James Schuyler, Selected Poems, Farrar, Straus, Giroux, New York, 1988] openingtowardtheworldnothingelse to begin so as to begin with a one person view of the hills gladly and that is the first movement (or instance) coming out of the mist wrapped and warm into the world of bodies beginning at the beginning of matter along borders planted in the past and saved and present and time thin as glue with nothing (seen) but there (today) in the curve falling from the sky and the room folds out from the wall with one big window and surfaces shine through dust on the ceiling and the tops of door frames and skirting boards and tiny spiders memorise beginnings in webs strung from light fittings Blues At the dream edge real waves race to the dunes a word comes then another day breaks blue for instance Curtains tied in a knot like they were in Paris six cowries on the shelf my grandmother’s blue sugar bowl on the table In a small blue notebook ruled faint there’s the only image left in the world of Robert in a scout uniform born 6 December 1928 died 28 September 1943A painting called Cloud*
1. A big white cloud leaving the painting will soon be out of view, forgotten, absorbed into the atmosphere; ethereal; darkness lets the shape of ladders through; there’s an old empty wooden boat; there’s a floating man in the dark; there are stars; he’s returning to who know where (into the atmosphere, with the cloud, perhaps); he’s not in reach of the ladders; he’s alone in a strange world; a lonely place where things and thoughts rise and fall; he’s tiny yet distinct.
2. Way down in the back corner of the gallery, behind the hay-cart, is the painting Cloud. It’s a beautiful ethereal painting, where everything is not where it usually is. There’s a big white cloud (dispersing); there’s darkness that lets the shape of ladders through; it’s difficult darkness, not the absence of light so much as depth, an underworld. There’s an old empty boat. There’s a man floating in the dark; the stars don’t quite reach him. This is an agitated, stirred-up place of suffering, visible and invisible; a lonely place of objects and atmospheres and ‘being’ where at any moment an intimacy (conversation) could arise (or detention). Faint screaming leaks across the surface, like a veil, and gathers in the corner where the cloud edges off the canvas.
2. Way down in the back corner of the gallery, behind the hay-cart, is the painting Cloud. It’s a beautiful ethereal painting, where everything is not where it usually is. There’s a big white cloud (dispersing); there’s darkness that lets the shape of ladders through; it’s difficult darkness, not the absence of light so much as depth, an underworld. There’s an old empty boat. There’s a man floating in the dark; the stars don’t quite reach him. This is an agitated, stirred-up place of suffering, visible and invisible; a lonely place of objects and atmospheres and ‘being’ where at any moment an intimacy (conversation) could arise (or detention). Faint screaming leaks across the surface, like a veil, and gathers in the corner where the cloud edges off the canvas.
*A painting by Aldo Iacobelli, 2018
Linda M. Walker is a writer, artist, and independent curator. She used to live in Adelaide, now she lives in Mount Gambier. Trainwreck Press has published a chapbook of her poems, Thresholds. In 2024 Ginninderra Press will publish a book titled Weather Eyes containing her poems and the poems of Jean McArthur.
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posted by mark young at 11:57 AM
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