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Issue #1
Kintsugi - Kat Savage (Read More)
"We thrive in the cracks of society, We, the Artists. We have never quite fit in to anywhere ‘solid’ really- schools, churches, nine to fives- we are too restless you see, too electric." Kevin Tole reviews David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress in the style of the book.
Plus poetry from Susan Taylor, Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, Stephan Delbos, and Marieta Maglas.
Use the categories tab on the right hand side (bottom of the page on a smart device) to navigate to specific content including our amazing poetry submissions. |
Sarah Mayo in the spotlight discussing being an 'insider-outsider'.
Feature column from Kenwood Blenderhand 'The Age of the Screen', plus more special content released throughout the month of April.
Photograph 'Do Not Hang' by Thom Boulton |
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Marieta Maglas
Change occurs in and around life's spirals and through notched vents in exhausted buildings. The sprung structures resemble a crush of rocking bodies. Offbeat mannequins actively seek employment opportunities. They appear to be ready to rock. Experiencing an ongoing crisis can lead to negative self-talk. Hypnotic dreams destroy the future. In pandemics, phagocytic cells lack the necessary structure to aid immunity, as no love can thrive in an infested heart. For sure, freedom does not exist. It appears to be an illusion for those who believe they are capable of doing everything right. Everything gradually loses meaning. Perhaps we will continue to exist while rotating around the sun, which is an essential movement. The body requires the soul for survival, not the other way around. In an ideal world, all voices can be heard, and pressured substances create waves. Songs are like flowers flowing in a river of change. Is it necessary to bend backward at times to exist?
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Stephan Delbos
For Z. S., et al. The face of adversity is all too familiar. Look at this photograph of One countenance of perseverance: Ribbon-bonnet-wrapped head; In her eyes insistent stillness Of a woman used to waiting Until a tidal change of men’s minds And actions prove she was right All along. Eyes that told you so. Zilpha Washburn Harlow Spooner. Name like a patchwork quilt of privilege & whimsy & determination & deliverance. Daughter of Plymouth, 1818—1891, Anti-slavery reformer, suffragist, anthology Editor of Poems of the Pilgrims. At tea-time meetings, politely, fervently Revolutionary, she sang with friends A toast that foretold the day: “When women in power, alive to the hour, Shall crown their hearts’ faith at the polls” & were right, just seven decades early. Perseverance is severe— An uncompromising will to change, Something most powerful men resist. We ensure the continued actuality Of hard-won change by studying History, which, like perseverance, Demonstrates our faith in progress. Zilpha knew we could do better. What should we do now? Stephan Delbos
Our history crawls shackled, bleeding, hollering something fierce from under the rock of reality we, finally working together, now have the strength to pry from the loam of collective memory and lift, a little nervous, knee-high into this afternoon, late August when we gather to do this and our history starts running in circles like a siren’s spin around us; see what humans have done to ourselves. Our history has a mother’s eyes, a father’s ears, knee caps from a cousin long lost in the branching shadows of our one great family tree. This history is who we were before you and I; language that tries to hide us from the fact that we are one. We are one because the mystery of consciousness unites us. So we place the rock at history’s feet and sit to listen. A light offshore breeze comes up and seems to gently pull each soul by the shoulders just an inch or so out of each body. We sit and float for a moment. Someone shouts that history has vanished. But history is here—everywhere like air. And the soil is so fertile in the hollow under the rock we lifted, look. Barbara Anna Gaiardoni
The story begins with the unseen that gives way to a kind of breathing, unobtrusive vibrations, the sound of many footsteps keeping time with a drum struck softly at a slow heartpace. I wonder what new problem is about to fall on my head. The world already thinks that I’m a crazy. Perhaps yes, if we stop at stereotypes and if we focus solely on what we don't have or don't be. I'm going beyond. I put on my rain jacket and keep walking at a fast pace, because I know one of the greatest enemies is fear of what others might think or say about me. I'm not playing this game anymore. abandoned old kite threads fell into the river… do you want to play? Susan Taylor
I am the son of a wraith. The sea is in love with her so what chance have I? The wind worships her body and comes to life as it whips speed into her fleet. A figurehead that breathes, she’s chiselled as a dryad would be from our native Spetsai wood. Her lines are hard and ancient, beloved and blessed as the barque Odysseus sailed. She beats her breast in waves of wrath against swarms of pirates and oppressors. Her body is Bouboulina, but mind, it does not carry a normal, mortal soul. Her flagship is named accordingly, the Agamemnon, the old craft afloat, anew; an avatar of advantage, we glide in her wake, to seek the dread destruction of foes. They will sink. That is all. We will free Spetses and Hydra then Nafplion and Athens. Then we will live as we lived, love as we loved in the days of our Spartan gods. We are on fire, my mother, her brothers, my soul and I – we are zest in the cause Zeus has blessed. Susan Taylor
April 3rd 1821 I was birthed by a rebel woman in chains and sired by her revolutionary blade, so no power on earth holds me captive. An infant cupped in the hands of the wind, I was given the freedom of the wind to seek my life in its opening hands. My flag of liberation flares with phoenix plumes and I soar as the white-tailed eagle of Zeus, sabre-taloned in defence of our shores. Raucous and rancorous, I cry Freedom or Death! Stand by me, the glory alights on our shoulders. Stretch out your hands, see how they are stars. Follow my dagger-sharp corvette Agamemnon, catching the wise breath of Athena in her sails. The willpower of our oppressors tumbles away before her, like waves already broken. We shall win or we shall cease to exist. If we die, we shall do so knowing we do not leave the Greek behind us enslaved. Stretch out your hands, see how they are stars. Listen how the Aeolian harp stirs your souls in Aegean wind. Born in the cupped hands of the wind, we follow its direction and cry Freedom or Death in its opening hands. |
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