#31 dark night Myron Lysenko

dark night whitewash

Red Cone- Day 31- Farm bits, wash bowl and spring

Michele Morgan #25 Dé Domhnaigh

quiet Sunday, rain
coming in
magpies, John Buchan

Susan Hawthorne #31 heart zones

broken hearts
spanning time zones
your fan club

Anna Couani #31 close up

what you can do with a close
up lens see things that
are normally invisible

Sarah St Vincent Welch #31 Wake (dipping my hat to BM and LM)

Wake

wake of wood duck

dog shake
cool clay
bare foot

blue underwing

Kit Kelen - #30 - Ekphrastics - in the Prado - Goya's 'Perro Semihundido'/'Drowning Dog'

Goya's 'Perro Semihundido'/'Drowning Dog'

this painting has many names

none of them given by Goya

let's say though that the dog is to drown

for the sake of not argument

to be drowned in strong sunshine

of a darkness – gold

but that nose is not yet under

not all these years will drown the dog

eyes must grieve for something gone

belonging to the one that's loved

the sky is gold

the water gold

she would be apt to any task

swim any given sea

if we only knew a name to call

there's something still to be retrieved

burke: Gatecrasher #31

winter comes
gatecrashing summer

the bigger birds - magpies, corollas,
mynahs and black birds - fly
into hiding

tiny brown fists of feathers
fly like wind-blown fans
across the grass and
into wet bushes

the Chinese lantern tree
goes to black

beneath the camellia bush
where I buried
the maggot-infested body
of the crested dove
a new plant grows
its bright green leaves
drinking rain

#31 Kevin Brophy 'Forgive me'

Forgive me
I don't know much
about waiting

for creeks to subside
for roads to harden again
for children to return
for pilots to declare
the air is safe again

or for the day to find me
something other than
this
waiting.

We did all our drinking
yesterday and last night
and sang happy birthday
and packed up our belongings.

Always somewhere
it is someone's birthday
and somewhere it is always
someone's time to go.

Like the birds here
we keep to the shade
of the trees
and sing of the present
that feels so deliciously like
waiting for something to happen.

Mikaela Castledine #31 for private consumption

and these she says

holding out

a plastic bag

of fresh plucked figs

we embrace

I take the green figs

feeling the ripe heart of each one

barely contained

and arrange them in a blue bowl

I place them on the table

in easy reach of everyone

think better of it

hide them in the fridge

for later

Robert Verdon, #33, The Art of Consumption in Canberra

noodles slop freely over the side of a bowl

we eat again, and there is storm after storm

warning after warning, smug adverts sputtering about

diabetes and heart attacks and Kinder Surprise, spruiking patent quackery

when not guzzling, cooking, delicious fat and flour

hour by hour, as capitalism elsewhere digs its own grave with its teeth

as we stir black bean sauce or turmeric through loesses of rice

in a fug of peanut oil as the traffic drizzles by

— but ours is a snug little kitchen in a rented unit near town

an oral town, in its 30s

or a big kitchen in a suburban tree-choked backwater, unconnected

to the great world out there, and no one knows what we eat

and no one cares, we are free free free free free

except at work, but the day goes by, to be replaced by domestic blissing out

and food and sex and food

and food, restaurants on every corner

and no one ever bothers to ask

why

and when it shall end

and is there anything we can make,

apart from dinner?

Lizz Murphy — Poem 31: Calling

Lies Van Gasse #31

(dag 1 - 23)

(afbeelding 9)

woon ik, warm en alleen,
met mijn worm in een donkere doos.

De enige plek waar je kan wonen, zijn je woorden,
en wensen die luid in de nacht blijven schallen
tegen deze kartonnen wand.

(afbeelding 10)

Zes seconden:
We spraken met eenvoudige woorden.
Ik was vreemd in dit verhaal, koos

niet het zand,
het hollen van keien,
schietende planten,

niet het trekken van een pad,
het zweet van paarden, kamelen,
de kleur die de aarde versnijdt, niet

 

-

(day 1 – 23)

(image 9)

is the place where I live, warm and alone,

with my worm in a dark box.

The only place where you can live, is in your words,
and in wishes that keep echoing in the night
against this cardboard wall.

(afbeelding 10)

Six seconds:
we spoke simple words.
I was a stranger in this story, chose

not the sand,
the running of pebbles,
sprouting shoots,

not the
the sweat of horses, camels,
the colour that dilutes the earth, not

Béatrice Machet # 19 Barefoot

Barefoot

somewhere on a carpet

waving and dancing

as if a tree were my body

driven by an outraged wind

risen by a natural grace

tracking bones

to tell me the future

when time will become

my flesh

triggering an emergence

into being

into a song

into a gentle voice

into the rhythm

a pace to draw my space

barefoot on a carpet

Pieds nus

sur un tapis quelque part

en ondulant je danse

comme si mon corps était arbre

agité par un vent rageur

élevé par une grâce naturelle

je cherche des os

qui diront mon avenir

quand le temps deviendra

ma chair

propulsant une émergence

dedans l’être

dans un chant

dans une douce voix

dans un rythme

une cadence dessinant  ma circonférence

pieds nus sur un tapis