MONDAY ARTPOST 0815-2022

MONDAY
ARTPOST
0815-2022
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 / Yau
Leung / + DOUBLESPREAD (Lee Ka-sing)
/ The Book of the Poem (Gary Michael Dault)
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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William Blake

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing, ink, graphite, pastel on paper

TANGENTS
Wilson Tsang
Trans:position

Open/Endedness
bq 不 清
我 們 的
Ours
日 子 是 一 樣 的 。
它 們 的 頂 端 : 鈍 與 暗 。
我 們 足 不 出 戶 就 來 到
水 族 館 。 我 們 會 敲 敲 魚 缸
讓 我 們 的 思 緒 散 去 。
The days were the same.
Their tips: dull and dark.
We went to the aquarium without leaving
Our homes. We would tap on the fish
Tanks and let our thoughts disperse.
濕 透 了 , 冰 冷 掉 :
它 只 是 一 座 冰 山 的 山 麓 ,
潛 進 一 海 的 薄 荷 醇
肌 肉 膏 , 是 對 痛 苦 的
轉 移 。 這 意 味 著 對 我 們
Soaking wet, freezing cold:
It’s just the skirt of an iceberg,
Submerged into the sea of menthol
Muscle rub, a distraction from
Pain. It’s meant to be resilient and
有 益 處 的 韌 力 , 像 城 市 新 的
綠 化 屋 頂 儘 管 幾 乎 沒 有
人 關 心 其 功 用 以 及
搭 建 方 法 。
日 光 降 臨 而 不 願
Good for us all, like cities’ new
Green roofs though almost none of
Us care how they work and
What they’re made out of.
Daylight descends and is unwilling
離 開 ; 而 黃 昏 過 後 不 久
它 悄 悄 消 失 —— 像
萬 聖 節 的 天 使 ;
我 們 窗 台 上 的 露 珠 ; 一 些
飛 鳥 在 雲 間 滑 翔 。
To leave; only shortly after dusk
It quietly disappears — like
Angels on halloween;
Dew on our window sills; some
Birds glide between clouds.

The Photograph
coordinated by
Kamelia Pezeshki
Londres garden by Jorge Guerra

ProTesT
Cem Turgay

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth

Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
GIRAFFE
with its laneway neck
sprayed like lilac
in the spring
the fragrant giraffe
with the bedroom eyes
sweeps down to graze
like a needle falling
in a gauge
the giraffe’s pastoral
mouth moving
in the fatty dust
the emplacement
of its gnarled legs
stable like a baby’s highchair
the creature lifts its small
goat head
to the tallest trees
where the sweet leaves wink
at the animal’s appetite
delicate after food
its heavy-lidded eyes
close on spindly dreams
where a satiny evening
opens with a pillow
for its tender horns

ART LOGBOOK
Holly Lee
1. Jean-Jacques Sempé (1932-2022) French cartoonist and illustrator dies at 89
https://www.lambiek.net/artists/s/sempe_jj.htm
2. Guillermo del Toro Brings ‘Pinocchio’ to Life in a New Trailer
https://www.netflix.com/tudum/articles/guillermo-del-toro-pinocchio-trailer

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Downpour

Travelling Palm
Snapshots
Tamara Chatterjee
India (May, 2017) – Whilst tasked with
buying flowers for a family sacrament at the
famed Mullik Ghat the touristy trio immersed
themselves in bartering with broken
sentences and abstract pantomime, the best
price for the freshest hoards of blooms. We
rejoiced for a few moments in aromatic
bliss, sipping tea and inquisitively bantering
with the chai walla whilst surrounded by an
overwhelming array of horticulture.

Yesterday Hong Kong
Yau Leung
The Hong Kong Bank Building (1963)
8x10 inch, gelatin silver photograph printed in the nineties
OP Selection, edition 1/100, signed on verso
From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
The following poem, Hong Kong: Songs from the
Rooftops, is an 8-part poem that was written over the
course of the last 5 years. Each part corresponds to
a part of Hong Kong and each part also is dedicated
to a friend. It was completed this past spring. This
poem is dedicated to 8 friends, for whom the city
is a constant conversation in my head and heart,
regardless of the shape and tune.
This poem is dedicated to: Holly & Ka-sing Lee,
Nancy Li, Kai Chan, Yam Lau, Chris Song and Ting,
TimTim Cheng, Tammy Ho and Kristee Quinn.
May they always be filled with voices, food and
sound. Carry on.

Hong Kong: Songs from the Rooftops
“In these shaken times, who more than you holds
In the wind, our bittermelon, steadily facing
Worlds of confused bees and butterflies and a garden gone wild”
-- 梁 秉 鈞 , Bittermelon
long gone stories and grandmother’s lullabies as you rode the neighbor’s dog like a horse, and the
old man upstairs whose smoke yellowed your balcony and chocked off your Euphorbiaceae that had
stood the time of a small cage with a black-tooth companion during the time of re-education and
nannies dentures fallen to the floor beside her bed, an apt deculturing loss, and Ting’s older brother
who never made it past the age of six, fell himself to a wet season fever and ended the calm of the
building when his small head swooned scarlet and he fell down the stone steps sounding all the way
down the seven flights, pass the widow’s shrieks and gull skywalks, the spit left drying on the metal
oxidated banisters, the alabaster paint chips folding up and crumbling like Fan-Fan’s song and at
the bottom another child stood up in despair and look up, and all around there was left, past the
pooling blood and splintered hair and the scratch mark and bitten cement, a lone tooth left rooted
with bronzed blooded roots and later that night, as the mother terrorized the walls with grief, the
father lay beneath the moon and cigarette smoke and remember once, his child, singing himself to
sleep, and all of that now gone beneath the laundry hanging black and the lunar light hanging okra
colored and the tea stain and then this: in the afternoon late, 10 years of collecting and grieving, the
ghost clock handworking each of you until
IV. Yau Ma Tei: 萬 里 : 失 踪
A certain photograph, once 125:
hung upon the wall like the ossified remains of a prehistoric bird in search of lost
flight, a belly-bowed coat hanger in mute conversation with the nob of a steel
nose’d nail: two geometric universes moving toward their impossible marriage
and entwining: the heroic hope of our imagination’s refusal to acquiesce.
A certain photograph, once 86:
rooms have gone, scattering. And yet there you are, remaining, my love, your
heart green as what we dreamed our city would be,
once.
A certain photograph, once 27:
in the end, what else but the jade world surrounding, a bonsai as old as
grandmother in the back room, the early autumn reeds, her lotus awakening
in late August, lily pads and cathedrals, the thin morning light and the wind
rhyming through us as a lost yellow umbrella octopus hung in the torn wind:
A certain photo album, once 69:
embossed traditionally, weathering on the hallway chair, collecting the dust of
a small ache stirs—
and a child’s tooth, between each of you,
drops.
A certain photo album, once 1:
soon
there goes it all, the child racing toward the sun and sea nets, an old man being taken up the
mountain in a blue porcelain urn, flowers falling to the earth like cut wigs, and the prayers under
the plane’s ascent, all that and all the while
a train in the liminal distance serpentine swinging past Tai To Yan as the clacking goes onward
and the tears of the young mother continue and the street vendor and in a moment, time stops
and the world suspends the light and your mouth finds a new tooth where once one was lost, the
miraculous in a city too long wearied by jade and fishoil and peppers and thin black ties and full
black hair and dreams drowned in fishbowls late at night, after an old man on a rusted brass seat,
once an elephant’s foot, alone past the girls heel’d shoes clacking, plays two songs on two of his 塤 , ,
xun and shun and shone, now gone in the tea of our memory.
Listen,
there goes a train, here comes my heart.

From the Notebooks
(2010-2022)
Gary Michael Dault
From the Notebooks, 2010-2022
Number 150: 2nd Classroom Painting--Hot Globe
for a Warming Planet (August 12, 2022).

DOUBLESPREAD from
Double Double studio,
photographs by
Lee Ka-sing
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Gary Michael Dault
The Book of the Poem
An excerpt from
The Book of the Poem
8.5x11 inch, 60 pages. Paperback edition
Published by OCEAN POUNDS, 2022
CAD$35

The Book of the Poem needs to begin. An unwritten poem is a choppy animal pacing its cage.

He began the poem on Easter Monday 2017. He wanted it to be cat-hot, light as a bracelet and strong as a ribcage.
Reliquary

The Mallarme Maker
Embryo. Or Tombstone for a Poem

The Falling Poem (Montgolfier)
The Rising Poem (Montgolfier)

Forging Ahead
The end is in sight. The poet, pleased with his progress, lounges at the corner, hoping for a passer-by who will recognize
his genius at a distance.

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