Sunday, January 31, 2016

#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 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

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

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

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

Yao Feng #19-- A News





Saturday, January 30, 2016