Sara Elkamel: Two Poems

Alfred Wallis, St. Ives, 1928. Source: tate.org.uk

[Architecture]

To build something together one last time
there are so many questions,
like who would live there,
and if no one, why build it?

In our panic we make a house
that looks like a boat,
which reminds me of dreaming
both of us were angels, sleeping at sea.

When we lay the boat down
in the cemetery of love,
we squat over one of its three windows,
and wave to ourselves through the glass.

 

 

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K. Eltinaé: wasiya

Rashid Diab, Out of Focus, 2015. Source: artauctioneastafrica.com/

How long is a life avoiding the beach? believing God spoke through my father some found seashell pushed off a shelf I cannot bury. I’d like to think there are aisles of men praying somewhere once I’m gone/that their tongues wrap around where I kept warm like a turban woven in prayer by strangers/that I am not found stiff/half hanging off a hotel bed under a phrasebook in another useless language/I hope I go dreaming in Arabic/because love there sounds like the wind passes through every vowel/somewhere buried in my voice there is asphalt singing as brothers build rooms for one another/I find new corners in case I come back/everyone gets a duaa to float across the lake and watch disappear/this is mine.

 


K. Eltinaé is a Sudanese poet of Nubian descent. His work has appeared in World Literature Today, The African American Review and About Place Journal, among others. He can be found on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè: To Hypothesize Like E C Catalan

Head of the wife of an Ooni, the traditional ruler of the ancient Yoruba city of Ile-Ife, 1930s. Source: 1stdibs.com

(For Onnie)

 

I have tried to count our minted coins:

 

They are Z+ of integers slipping through mind

Like a money changer sans numismatic head.

Perhaps I am a failed Pythagorean

Perhaps I am a failed mathematicist

That I have always been all my life.

 

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Kyla Houbolt: Two Prose Poems

Martin Roth, from “i grew grass on rugs in a castle”, 2012/19. Source: martinroth.at

Charity

the goat has eaten all the grass he can reach on his short tether. the ground around him is bare. he kicks up roots and gnaws on those. he has dug himself into a hole. his tether is a metal chain. he tries to bite into it.

the grass beyond his reach is tall and lush and ripe green. the child tries to yank up the grass but its grip on the ground is too strong. inside, on the wall, is a rusty sword. the child remembers about it, runs inside, climbs on a stool and lifts it down. it is heavy but not too heavy.

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ML Kejera: Dash Thompson and the 21st Century Machine

Frida Kahlo, “The Suicide of Dorothy Hale”, 1938. Source: wikiart.org

for Stan Lee

I

In Which we Meet the Suicidal God

As silence booms in a dark room whose only light

is the dying kind radiating off a dying laptop,

Dave Daggert, a desolate, destitute young man,

just days from drowsing off at his own college graduation,

stirs what his dealer calls Dragon’s blood

into his glass of Jack Daniel’s and dry gin.

Soon, he thinks: my past-sins and would-be failures will

be flushed into the bin. Excusing his confusing of

toilets and trash cans, we must be patient with young,

desperate Dave for he knows not what lies in store for him.

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Alexander Booth: from “Insulae”

Harry Gruyaert, Tokyo, 1996. Source: magnumphotos.com

At least one of the panes in the warped and brittle frame was cracked enough to need a newspaper. You never bothered to replace it. From the desk, you looked across a small patch of gravel at another rowhouse, another upstairs window. Sometimes, a face would appear between the curtains, then vanish. You didn’t know it, but just a few years before a poet had died just a few doors up the street. The Greek Revival is brittle, and brick. The room is yellow and small and has a ceiling fan. On the wall, there’s a thriftstore reproduction of Goya’s little boy in red with all his birds and cats, next to him, a postcard of a coffin.

The Great Erasure: Two Hermes Poems Translated by Robin Moger

Julian Schnabel, “Anh in a Spanish Landscape”, 1988. Source: thebroad.org

an authentic corruption

There is a corruption as old as being. We can see it in all things. Say, in language: each word a holed ship leaking meaning as it goes down. And in vision: between picturing and the picture a missing link continually dilating until it swallows both. There is an authentic corruption.

In fractal geometry we are able to measure. This is the miracle. Also, the impossibility of measuring. This is the catastrophe.

The great erasure which is happening now in the world is the work of souvenir collectors. The souvenir being the most valuable thing there is. It is the hardest currency. And the collectors think: it must not be left to the masses.

 

 

 

 

we are living the greatest loss

in history

a common loss

a common loss of memory

 

 

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