h/t Dina Harbour
Last year I decided to cut up a book called ‘Misunderstood’ by Florence Montgomery. I then rearranged pieces of it in a set of ten poems (artwork, really) that spoke to my situation at the time.
Robin Cracknell is a photographer and writer living in London, UK. His work has been widely published and exhibited including, notably, Eyemazing Magazine, The Michael Hoppen Gallery in London and a solo show at Sous Les Etoiles in New York. A selection of his notebooks is featured in the acclaimed 2014 Thames and Hudson publication, ‘Photographers’ Sketchbooks’ with further work from his ‘Childhood’ series in Thames and Hudson’s ‘Family Photography Now’ published in 2016.
Robin Cracknell’s work is in various private collections internationally as well as The National Portrait Gallery in London, The Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Fundacion Privada Sorigue, a museum of contemporary art in Lleida, Spain.
Robin Cracknell’s poetry is produced by randomly shuffling subtitles from foreign cinema. By allowing chance to decide how dialogue is rearranged, a narrative of a particular film becomes a completely different story; identities erased, scenes re-sequenced. Somehow, a story about X becomes a poem about Y. La Jetée (original dialogue randomly shuffled) One day she […]
by Julibel Jordan
©Julibel Jordan, 2017
According to Julibel Jordan’s FB info, she is ‘a real human being.’ She is a teacher, writer, and consummate cat caretaker. She lives in Florida.
We yearn to see what people are doing
Are they successful?
Are we more successful
Than our bullies?
Than our ex-best friends?
People you may know
Some algorithm tries to figure
Who we still care about
And who we have fallen away from
Or who we wish would disappear
It was a normal day when his name popped up
There he was
Technology telling me that I should want to
Know what he is up to
I wish I hadn’t
He lives his life day in and day out with no idea
Of how he impacts my life every single day
In a negative fashion
He may never know the extent
Of that night
Or the way that the words of Zig Ziglar apply to him
“just because someone screwed up your past, it doesn’t mean you should give them permission to screw up your future”
What a word
He will never know
Ask for permission
Would you like to download this?
Would you like Google to save this password?
Technology has more sense than he did
And technology thinks
He is someone I want to remember
It was such a lovely night, the goats slept outside
under the stars in the grass.
©Nan Nickson, 2017
Nan Nickson’s mission statement: ‘Running Rooster Farm is a live, organic, performance art project where I try to grow my own food wherever I am at.’
A mummified cat sits above your head.
A man’s ashes trap time in the wall.
You say you crave life, will wrest it from this showcase
parlor of your mother’s house. Her gilt-laden fingers fashion
keepsakes, off-kilter veils, velveteen nooses
from skinned teddy bears. Go out the window.
Japonica flares, no one dares cut the tangles,
her garden bursting with belladonna lilies,
livid chartreuse iris, the zinnia called Envy, bleeding hearts.
Angelica gigas guards orchids engorged by aphids.
Somber purple persica, columbine and Queen of the Night
adorn the still beating mausoleum
of her heart. She has set you up
with options. Refuse her.
I plan for your arrival, sow green basil and apple trees.
My cannas grow fat. Choose life. Choose me.
©2017 Ayala Hecht
Ayala Hecht is a proud graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. She resides in Baltimore, Maryland. Botanical is her second poem to be published in Recycled.
via Ode to Being Placed on Hold — O at the Edges
The music rarely
but I find
the notion that
I’ve been inserted
in that peculiar
speech and the
of care and
orbiting my head,
with bites of
a gift, you see,
like rain in
a warm voice
©Robert Okaji, 2016
Jennifer Collier’s art can be found at http://www.designsoak.com/paper-art-jennifer-collier/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+DesignSoak+(Design+Soak+Magazine)
Untrammeled, freed, set loose, released, let go –
I wander blameless where no one would know
the things I’ve done, or have not done, or do.
And best of all, they do not know of you.
Arriving here, where not a soul aspires
to circumvent the heat of my desires,
I make my old course in a country new, footloose
and fancy free. (Except I think of you.)
Loosed to create in any shape and size,
the things I’ve lost I find that I reprise
and shackle new found freedom to redo
the whole world that I built and lost with you.
For though my elder self pursues the new,
inside is my old younger self, and you.
©Bill Salter, 2016
Bill Salter “was born by the river in a little tent Oh and just like the river I’ve been running ev’r since It’s been a long time, a long time coming But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will…” [Sam Cooke]
“The William Paca Garden is a two acre oasis of natural beauty in the bustling center of Annapolis’ Historic District. Although many colonial Annapolitans had gardens, only Paca’s has been returned to its original splendor and opened to the public. Intrigued by garden details in the background of Charles Willson Peale’s 1772 portrait of Paca, researchers were able to reconstruct the site from a series of archeological digs that turned up evidence of the garden’s former glory.”
-from the Historic Annapolis site:
In Paca Garden, walled and dry
they built the Old World in the New,
and there walked girl and woman, I
with man and boy (remember?), you.
As if to keep all life at bay
and shut our eyes to hear a story
we dressed the truth in solemn play:
my quiet house of ancient glory,
linen and tea; your Russian home,
the dying count, a summons back
Were those bricked streets our sunny Rome,
or Paris? You spotted in a crack
a flash of gold; I wore it round
my neck for days. You wondered why
I prized the broken chain you found;
you feared and could not meet my eye.
We played pretend, but much came true:
our Old World gave us the refrain,
with words dictated by the New.
I have, but never wear, the chain.
Like faery queen and knight of old
we lingered in determined bliss:
a string of nonsense, trampled gold,
a small thing, but too bright to miss.
©Ruth Johnston, 2016
Ruth Johnston is a writer. See her work at ruthjohnston.com.