Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from The Most Foreign Country; “I am…”
[Text ID: “my wings? / two rotting petals”]
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Harry Grundy
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So many days like flaring cinders
in an uncle's bleak periphery,
like duets in hawthorn shade
or conspiratorial archeology.
We examined the samples. We yanked
the dumbwaiter's rope. No one spoke
of cirrus clouds or uncouth implements
unleashed upon the meadow.
There was much to do. The sagebrush
swayed. What did Alice say to Edgar?
It wasn't time to yield but to focus.
— Christopher Brean Murray, from 'The Map'.
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Mahmoud Darwish, from Journal of an Ordinary Grief (tr. from the Arabic by Ibrahim Muhawi)
[Text ID: A place is not only a geographical area; it's also a state of mind. And trees are not just trees; they are the ribs of childhood.]
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Trichome stain of rockfish gill section, @histoqueenofhearts on Instagram.
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And I’m not sorry you’re here and in front of me
and breathing and eating. If you’re Bacchus,
where’s my wine? Where were you
when I was naked, offering
a thousand dinners in my tiny kitchen?
How’s my birthday lamb? Oh, brutal. Delicious.
— Analicia Sotelo, from 'Apologia over Marinated Lamb'.
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— John Green, from "The Anthropocene Reviewed".
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Kathakali performers applying stage makeup.
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Headless John The Baptist Hitchhiking, C.T. Salazar
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“Her ears tune down to the lowest frequencies. The tree is saying things, in words before words.
It says: Sun and water are questions endlessly worth answering.
It says: A good answer must be reinvented many times, from scratch.
It says: Every piece of earth needs a new way to grip it. There are more ways to branch than any cedar pencil will ever find. A thing can travel everywhere, just by holding still.
The woman does exactly that. Signals rain down around her like seeds.
[...]
All the ways you imagine us—bewitched mangroves up on stilts, a nutmeg’s inverted spade, gnarled baja elephant trunks, the straight-up missile of a sal—are always amputations. Your kind never sees us whole. You miss the half of it, and more. There’s always as much belowground as above.”
— Richard Powers, from "The Overstory".
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by Japanese artist Narumi Yasuhara
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ada, vladimir nabokov
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Blues to You. I have folded
my sorrows like fitted
bedsheets: fraying elastic, the faint
scent of an ex-lover’s
detergent and my palms
holding the creases
against my skin, a way to live
into them. I have
folded. My sorrows don’t ask
for any precision
other than my hands
against their hands
mountains—
of holding
a mountain of folds smoothed out for the moon and
the impossible season Mars makes of it.
— Andrea Blancas Beltran, from 'Year of the Rat, Full Moon in Aries, and Coltrane Plays'.
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"Inès Longevial’s intimate portraiture utilizes impressionistic hues in thickly brushed planes of interlocking color, imbuing her close-cropped views of feminine sitters with a dreamlike pallor. Through her tightly cropped renderings of women positioned together or in isolation, Longevial challenges the objectification of femininity in both art history and popular media and celebrates beauty in all forms."
double feet by inès longevial, 2021, oil on linen canvas, 41 × 33 centimeters
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— Vinda Karandikar, 'The Wheel'.
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In the women’s compartment
of a Bombay local
we search
for no personal epiphanies.
Like metal licked by relentless acetylene
we are welded –
dreams, disasters,
germs, destinies,
flesh and organza,
odours and ovaries.
A thousand-limbed
million-tongued, multi-spoused
Kali on wheels.
When I descend
I could choose
to dice carrots
or a lover.
I postpone the latter.
— Arundhathi Subramaniam, '5.46, Andheri Local'.
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