Red Door #28 - The TYPEWRITTEN issue

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POETRY I dreamt I was watching a disaster film Un Sio San Macao Translated by Jeremy Tiang I bought popcorn and picked my seat – slightly left of center – No one had brought a kid along. Anyway, this wasn’t real. Close up: a Mumbai track shoe factory, a child worker. He’s learned Math, the English alphabet, this world and the third world, the bleeding of his fingers a red pen correcting his worth. 028 The woods Hasso Krull Estonia Translated by Adam Cullen It’s very still here today. No saws rumble today, no harvester whines, there’s no one here. Not even trees. Can anyone spot an animal anywhere? No. No animals tread here. It’s long since any beasts have prowled this place, not even werewolves. Only the forest. In this forest, there’s not even wind. This forest doesn’t rustle. No twigs snap, no leaves fall, no splintered trunks squawk, not a single bird sings anywhere. This is an Estonian forest. Listen to the sound of silence. Listen in silence. Listen to the way it softly whines, to the way it whimpers, to the way it wishes to say something but can’t, to the way it buzzes like a mosquito. Listen to the booming of silence. The rustling of silence. It haunts you. Haunting silence. Haunt, golden beast. The frozen river, in its bottomless depths completes its burial rites. Wide shot: the scorching winds blow, carrying resounding farts from corn-fed cattle. At this moment, someone called out: This is blatantly an art house film! This storyline is so dreary— You’re killing me here. The film drew to a close, a hundred years had passed. Production credits began their crawl. We slowly departed. Everyone seemed immensely satisfied That their names appeared right at the end. Illustrations by Richard Polt.
Return Simona Nastac United Kingdom At the end, you handed me an apricot, originally from Asia, after Plinius. A thousand years later, I smashed stone with stone on the block’s stairwell. The words leaned, arbitrarily, to the left. A thousand years later still, flowers blossom before leaves - the only gesture in a city extinct. Spring again Pankhuri Sinha India Waiting to burst into a million colours Spring is jutting out of my shoulder blades and finger tips! Oozing out of this mother earth, the ground we walk on, its ready to take the town! The wind told me and turned into breeze Red winged black bird asked me to keep a secret! The buzzing was of bees and the silence of migrant butterflies ! Its daffodils and tulips will sing for you Grass will bloom yellow but before that muddy patch wears green lets look up at the sky clearing, Trees blushing redness sweeping the fleshy branches! I imagine the poplars The maple show, the chandeliers of the willow Tell me o dears! Of the first day, the sun melted the snow! There is spring here too Surrounded I am! Imported might be some flowers, but who cares How organic is Spring? Its here and real, native, authentic The pollen laden, tangy scented, mango blossoms Filling the air and your senses! But this cuckoo call from the other hemisphere? You ask me, what is it dear? How can I forget, I was just going to plant apple trees? There are many things you can forget But not the way, cherry blooms Pears dangle and the path leads straight To that house from the lake that was once yours! 029
Page 1 and 2: RED DOOR 28 THE TYPEWRITTEN ISSUE F
Page 3 and 4: 30-31 HAL WILDSON 12-17 MARTIN ANDE
Page 5 and 6: SUBMIT CONTENT to RED DOOR MAGAZINE
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Page 9 and 10: A number of the filmmakers will arr
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Page 13 and 14: Focused on art, urban interventions
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Page 21 and 22: An interview with Richard Polt by M
Page 23 and 24: connections, writing on typewriters
Page 25 and 26: DAVID (H) RAMBO The chair and Penny
Page 27: What is grass? There’s a god in t
Page 31 and 32: and after this destruction we will
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Page 39 and 40: FRANK SINGLETON039
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Page 43 and 44: Jessica Esch is a writer and illust
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Page 47 and 48: Chad Reynolds is a poet and visual
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Page 51 and 52: Kevin Stebner is an artist, poet an
Page 53 and 54: BENJAMIN PAWESKI ROYAL Although Ben
Page 55 and 56: SELF TAUGHT TYPER This recent poem
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Page 59 and 60: To say it bluntly, everyone knows a

Red Door #28 - The TYPEWRITTEN issue

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