Tag Archives: Poem and Picture

Poem & Picture: Beverly Dahlen and Laura Paulini


Laura Paulini, <em>Heaven</em>, 2008, 16 x 16 in., egg tempera on panel. Collection of Bruce Cree, San Francisco, California.

Thoughtless as shadow
The ground of shadow
One wouldn't would
One want

All one wants
And then what
The light across the lake
And the eye creates space
The distance
Which is not

Not only
That but
All one


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Kim Bennett. <em>1</em>, 2007, ink on paper, 5 x 7 in. From <em>Oak</em>, a collaboration with poet Chris Hosea. Courtesy of the artist.
I want to throw myself under the train, he told me.
It was hard to establish exactly when he boarded the T
the night before the police used one of the house’s rooms
to conduct interviews. He told he sometimes shut his eyes
on platforms, rocked his heels, feeling
the way the subway pushed ahead a warm breeze
sweet as mildewed bread. Actually, he said nothing
about the breeze or smell, but he did mention the comfort
of thinking he could bring the end with a quick move.
To my memory, we held these talks after dark,
after drinks and slipshod hilarity. I told him to see someone
qualified. I said I would make an appointment.
He changed to a different subject, and I did not persist.
There are generations of suicide in my family,
proud men who with precision blew open their own skulls,
yet I was as ready as anyone to believe he had improved
with the first melting of the snows. The detective asked me
when I had seen him last. I remembered the final time
I heard him. There was a party at the house,
and the guests had filtered home. Lights out,
I was naked in bed with a girl and he came knocking,
whispering, then shouting about his gloves.
To my shame, I snuggled and stifled giggles
until the pleading and pounding ended
and with his footsteps he faded from our thoughts.
Did I know if he had any enemies?
(The police were ruling out a murder theory.)
It was March madness, and though I was no fan
my room got the best reception. Some kids brought their set
and a case of beer. I was too near-sighted to make out the score,
much less follow the elaborate dance of passes and jumps.
The boys were howling at the screen as if electrocuted, all except him.
I slouched on the futon like a punctured balloon.
Where did you get that knife? he asked me.
(It was a large Swiss jackknife, bright red.)
Oh, I don’t know, in Paris, I think.
Where can I get one like it?
I have no idea.
I didn’t ask him why or what for.
I felt a mild irritation, as though stuck in traffic,
and looked up at the blurry tube.
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Posted in ISSUE #4 WINTER 2008 | Also tagged , | Leave a comment

Poem and Picture: Sara Mumolo (poem) and James Gudat (picture)

James Gudat. <em>Repairs Made to the Perfect</em>, 2004, 36 x 48 in, mixed media on panel. Courtesy of New American Art Union.

Eyes with Tweezers

Greenhouse geography births, no shoes or rooftops
these blue doves all have obvious names and role-play
their text-based affairs, their skinny-legged jeans
go where the money is ignoring gray pig-tailed
fiction saves them surrounding all mental
security populations feel giant in blue sport
coats wearing voices, the neighboring constructions
of mañana mañana mañana ruffles peak from bands
no body can be, except when at a concert jumping
up hands flailing, all animals are when at the zoo
wearing last seasons, lions reach through prisons and hug
these mirrors siesta in this manor with doves who breathe to purr

Posted in ISSUE #3 FALL 2007 | Also tagged , | Leave a comment

Poem and Picture

Daria Tavoularis. <em>Living Room</em>, 2007, 24 x 19 in, pen and ink on paper. Courtesy of the artist.

Daria Tavoularis. Living Room, 2007, 24 x 19 in, pen and ink on paper. Courtesy of the artist.


In the carpet
is a story, man buys camel,
camel walks, camel walks,
and several geometric proofs.

The door is alarmed!
But the window has a
vacant sign:
upstairs room,
shelf, cabinet, lock,
fair rent.

In the living room,
an armchair where
one child sits,
seriously unappealing,

to scotchtape over every line
to save every word,
to give itself more glare.
It’s lonely for

a mother who isn’t anywhere
at home. Who accounts
for the desert with a calculator
that records amounts
in and out printing a list
that goes on, on, on,

that stops, turns a corner,
greets the isosceles
where the poker rests,
shelters the floor, meets the door,
tells the child, well
one thing’s sure.

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Posted in ISSUE #2 SPRING/SUMMER 2007 | Also tagged , , | Leave a comment

Jennifer Burch and Kristin Capp: Poem and Picture

Our building floats

                                                                     the world is round
                                               edges are piles of darkness

                          we go below


                                       think birds on a wire

            in another city
            see a room from the floor

                                          how leaves turning up come in as we wait

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Posted in ISSUE #1 WINTER 2007 | Also tagged , , | Leave a comment