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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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Travelling Palm


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.


Kai Chan


Ink, pastel on paper

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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.


Fiona Smyth


Wilson Tsang

The Caesars


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


Holly Lee

Alex Katz and Stephan Balkenhol at Monica De Cardenas, Zuoz


From the Notebooks


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


and who need

a bowl

of fresh water

and a plate of grass

Leaving Taichung


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


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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