MONDAY ARTPOST 1031-2022

MONDAY
ARTPOST
1031-2022
ISSN1918-6991
MONDAYARTPOST.COM
Columns by Artists and Writers
Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay /
Fiona Smyth / Gary Michael Dault
/ Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Kamelia
Pezeshki/ Shelley Savor / Tamara
Chatterjee / Wilson Tsang /
+ Hello Halloween (Holly Lee)
MONDAY ARTPOST published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.
An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: mail@oceanpounds.com

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Persius

Travelling Palm
Snapshots
Tamara Chatterjee
Mexico (October, 2017) – As we delightfully
wandered Oaxaca, specifically in time for
Dia de los Muertos. It was a full week of
impromptu processions; admiring costumes
during the day and well into the evening. As
the evening light dwindled down the wilder
the costumes that emerged; ghosts, devils,
catrinas, mythological beasts. It really was a
magical time in an illusionary world, with
several midnight tacos runs.

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing.
Ink, pastel on paper

Order this duo-cover Exhibition Catalogue at BLURB
https://www.blurb.ca/b/11309704-2k-4-0
64 pages, 8.5x11 inch, paperback, CAD$35 each

Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
Moonly River
a moonly river*
planted its tents
along the writer’s arm
he thinks
a black mosquito
has laid a row
of venomous onyx eggs
on his icy skin
now he scribbles
his own tornado
with which
to whisk the eggs away
into an already
omelet sky
* The phrase “moonly river” comes from Jean
Arp. My poem has been galvanized by but not
entirely indebted to a completely different poem
by Arp.

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth

TANGENTS
Wilson Tsang
The Caesars

Open/Endedness
bq 不 清
齊 天 大 聖 回 來 說 要 再 去 西 方 一 次
因 為 靈 車 中 途 失 靈
他 心 中 那 盤 大 計
得 以 起 死 回 生 , 不 被
深 埋 心 底 —— 於 五 指 山 下
儘 管 變 幻 無 窮 , 卻 仍 需 要
依 靠 你 的 微 妙 指 揮
給 予 讀 者 一 份 未 準 備 好 的 驚 喜 ——
另 一 種 修 行 的 方 式
在 天 庭 生 活 , 我 得 承 認 我
依 然 不 認 識 道 , 然 而 我 知 道
自 由 的 重 要 性 因 此
我 不 滿 成 為 天 馬 的 奴 僕
你 總 是 開 放 你 的 心 事
讓 私 隱 被 侵 犯
讓 煩 惱 與 頭 痛 成 為
一 種 反 芻 : 舊 事 被 重 新
可 是 行 空 者 仍 是 我
我 像 平 常 的 鳥 , 略 帶 形 狀 的 風
一 片 片 的 把 雨 水 送 往
東 邊 世 界 , 令 初 日 躲 藏
經 歷 , 完 成 品 過 分 模 糊
其 解 說 的 過 程 卻 過 分
單 純 。 那 天 你
撐 開 混 元 傘 把 天 空 打 開
於 雲 的 後 面 。 而 不 被 看 見
的 夢 能 夠 延 續 其 貌 似 海 市 蜃 樓 的
幻 象 : 一 個 被 錯 放 的 漁 村 或
一 種 人 為 的 地 標 的 概 念 。 而
然 後 太 陽 便 消 失 了
像 月 球 和 星 星 也 消 失 了
沙 灘 取 代 了 沙 漠
浪 花 淹 沒 了 數 個 讀 者
我 們 是 否 需 要 為 詩 的 風 格
待 續 辯 論 下 去 ? 佛
與 道 是 兩 個 不 相 同 的 概 念
卻 又 時 常 被 放 在 一 起
我 是 否 那 位 剛 完 成 任 務 的
作 者 ? 究 竟 流 沙 河 在 那 裡 ?
師 弟 沙 僧 也 記 不 起 來
而 八 戒 只 顧 消 化
正 如 瞎 子 與 象 , 彷 彿
缺 一 不 可 。 而 曾 經
唐 三 藏 有 眼 無 珠 , 無 法
分 辨 出 誰 才 是 真 正 的 美 猴 王
才 唸 完 的 經 文 :La mort
de l’auteur。 黃 昏 之 時
被 過 度 拉 長 的 影 子 仍 是 你 的
正 如 那 八 萬 四 千 根 毫 毛
就 像 我 , 偶 爾 無 法 讀 懂
一 些 意 象 。 一 個 作 者 的 死 亡
將 引 發 一 個 讀 者 的 誕 生
有 誰 不 喜 歡 雨 後 遠 方 的 彩 虹

Heaven’s Equal, the Great Sage, Comes Back and Journeys to the West Again
Despite their transformation abilities, still
Required your meticulous instruction
To give the readers the unprepared surprises—
Another form of caryā.
For the hearse broke down halfway,
The big plan in his heart
Was revived and didn’t get
Buried—beneath Mount Five-Finger.
Although in Heaven, I have to say I
Still do not know the Tao, but I realize
The importance of freedom, thus
I resent being appointed as a stable boy.
You always opened yourself up,
Allowing invasions of your privacy,
And vexation and headache became
A Form of rumination: history was to be experienced
I am still the one gliding in the sky,
Like an ordinary bird, a breeze with a bit of shape,
Delivering rain drops to
The East, and conceal the morning sun
Again, the final product was overly ambiguous,
But the process of explaining it was overly
One-dimensional. That day you
Unfolded Vaiśravana’s parasol, stretched the sky
With clouds. Those unseen
Dreams can prolong the mirage-like
Illusion: a misplaced fishing village or
A manufactured concept of a landmark. And
And the sun disappeared,
Just like the disappearance of the moon and the stars.
A beach replaced the desert.
The waves suffocated a few readers.
Do we still need to continue the debate about
Poetry styles? Buddhism
And Taoism are two different concepts,
But are often juxtaposed,
Am I that author who just completed the
Task? Where is Flowing-Sand River?
Sandy couldn’t even remember.
And Pigsy was focusing on digesting
Like a blind man and an elephant
Can’t exist without one another. Once
Tang Sanzang failed to see, failed to
Tell who’s the real Handsome Monkey-King,
Those sacred Buddhist texts: La mort
De l’auteur. As dusk approached
The elongated shadows were still yours,
Just as those 84,000 hairs,
Just like I occasionally can’t comprehend
Some of these imageries. An author’s death
would lead to a birth of a reader.
Who doesn’t enjoy a faraway rainbow after a storm?

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Autumn Dive

ART LOGBOOK
Holly Lee
Alex Katz and Stephan Balkenhol at Monica De Cardenas, Zuoz
https://www.monicadecardenas.com/alex-katz-stephan-balkenhol/#section2

From the Notebooks
(2010-2022)
Gary Michael Dault
Number 161: Shepherd’s Crook (August 6, 2022)
The poem--which has been partially cut off by the camera-- reads:
Shepherd’s Crook
poem in praise
of the shepherd’s crook
the half-halo
for raking up
the sheep of men and women
who can’t find
pasture
and who need
a bowl
of fresh water
and a plate of grass

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
19 Fragments of Youth, Athirst
“Have you feared the future would be nothing to you?”--Whitman
and a fuse, somewhere, lit and spun its way toward me:
the light in the green room in which the both of us stood,
story to story, vowel to consonant, each to each,
the light in February slipping over us all like that long-ago eel’s sway
making its way back to my grandmother’s hope and away from us.
I was whole but the world was not
spinning, breathing away and gapping
the far-crossing seas and I was worried and we all lost
could I now wait for him
and I could remember for the calligraphy of life to flower, now gaping:
the world vaping and grasping for breat,
and so did we
just as my grandmother had waited for that eel sitting upon her red bucket, stanzas long ago
and in that waiting, fog and a plentitude of wai:
though it was all still youth and we were still athirst, both,
we who had born from the stories, lost them
and I was losing him to the air
he had become of the sun.
XI: 2014, winter
The week before I left, i took his hand and said:
let me weigh your heart upon the scale of my snow.
If it is as light as feather, your heart is worth its transformation and trust.
If it is as heavy as a memory, your heart will drown us both as a brick plunging through water.
I held it carefully and waited.
and then I knew,
we took to the air.
And I could see all aloft, clean, clear and the world cleaved in two.
XII - XVI: 2015-2019
How to stitch words to the forgotten and unsayable:
petrichor, sequoias and sentences, our hearts supine,
the salvage and silentium cresting
and once there was a world only for us.
XVII: 2020
And then as I left, the world turned

ProTesT
Cem Turgay

The Photograph
coordinated by
Kamelia Pezeshki
“This forest looks the way Nightingales sound.” by Ruth Stanners

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Holly Lee
Hello Halloween
Excerpted from the End-pages of
The galloping jelly pink horse with
pea green spots
DOUBLE DOUBLE October edition
Images by Holly Lee, photographed at Home Depot, and
during the exhibitions of Guillermo del Toro: At Home with
Monsters (AGO 2018); It’s Alive! Classic Horror and Sci-Fi
Art from the Kirk Hammett Collection (ROM 2020).

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