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<strong>MONDAY</strong><br />

<strong>ARTPOST</strong><br />

<strong>2023</strong>-<strong>0703</strong><br />

ISSN1918-6991<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong><strong>ARTPOST</strong>.COM<br />

Columns by Artists and Writers<br />

Bob Black / bq / Cem Turgay / Fiona<br />

Smyth / Gary Michael Dault / Holly<br />

Lee / Kai Chan / Kamelia Pezeshki /<br />

Lee Ka-sing / Malgorzata Wolak Dault<br />

/ Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee /<br />

Tomio Nitto / Wilson Tsang /<br />

+ OP Edition: Mok King Keung /<br />

a collaboration (Shelley Savor and<br />

Bob Black)<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong> <strong>ARTPOST</strong> published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.<br />

An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: mail@oceanpounds.com


Hong Kong Memories<br />

Photographs by Holly Lee<br />

an exhibition and book launch<br />

June 24 to July 29, <strong>2023</strong><br />

50 Gladstone Avenue artsalon<br />

visit by appointment mail@oceanpounds.com


Hong Kong Memories<br />

by Holly Lee 112 pages, 8x10 inch, hardcover<br />

Hardcover edition is now available for order from BLURB<br />

(CAN$60) https://www.blurb.ca/b/11608544-hong-kong-memories<br />

PDF ebook edition for download at OCEANPOUNDS online shop<br />

(US$5) https://oceanpounds.com/products/hong-kong-memories


Mok King Keung<br />

Untitled<br />

8x10 inch, gelatin silver print, printed in 90s<br />

Number 13/20, OP Edition<br />

Signed and numbered on verso<br />

As the practice of collecting photographs picked up<br />

steam by 1994, the push motivated us to establish<br />

a system for people to interact, exchange, acquire<br />

and collect photographs. We set up The Original<br />

Photograph Club that year and created a print program<br />

called the OP Print Program. Ka-sing and I co-curated<br />

the project and attended all administrative and<br />

organizing work. It would be a quarterly program, each<br />

quarter of the year would feature ten photographers’<br />

work. All participants would be required to contribute<br />

an image with 20 editions, printed in the size of 8 by<br />

10 inches. These prints we referred to as OP Editions.<br />

DISLOCATION 1992-1999, and Beyond. [The OP Print Program<br />

and OP Editions, 1994-1999], Holly Lee


From the Notebooks<br />

(2010-<strong>2023</strong>)<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

From the Notebooks, 2010-<strong>2023</strong><br />

Number 185: Cherry Molecule (May 15, 2012)<br />

Gary Michael Dault’s work and books at OCEAN POUNDS<br />

oceanpounds.com/collections/gary-michael-dault


Sketchbook<br />

Tomio Nitto


The Photograph<br />

coordinated by<br />

Kamelia Pezeshki<br />

Untitled, from Summer series by Kamelia Pezeshki


TERRAIN (a haiku a day) photographs by Lee Ka-sing / haiku by Gary Michael Dault<br />

Updated daily at: 123.oceanpounds.com<br />

Serpentine<br />

armed conifers pulling aside<br />

to reveal a pathway<br />

would it were the road to Cold Mountain!


Watercolours Part One:<br />

Skies Over Water<br />

Malgorzata Wolak Dault<br />

The collection of watercolours to be shown here was influenced by John<br />

Marin’s Maine landscapes and seascapes. They are, as well, the fruits of the<br />

drives my husband and I often take through Prince Edward County to look at<br />

and enjoy its ever-changing skies and waters.<br />

This time the watercolour is about the sky and the land and the water behind it.


Night Owl Sonata (in<br />

one movement)<br />

Holly Lee<br />

Thirty six<br />

My daughter told me I’m smelled all garlic yet I am not planning to be a vampire slayer;<br />

rather, I’m exploring ways to stay a little longer, and just as the thought of attaining an<br />

eternal life sounds celebrating, it may also be boring, rendering life without meaning,<br />

heat and vigor. For a second time I am following a key to diet. Diet has so many schools,<br />

theories and doctrines, oftentimes they contradict each other: a lot of meat or no meat,<br />

a lot of fat or low fat, but all the same pointing to the danger of sugar. My sweet tooth<br />

becomes sour; honeydew becomes melon bitter. Ah! The Trinity of food: Carbohydrates,<br />

fats and proteins. Who’s the good, who’s the bad, and who can be the expert to judge all<br />

that. The answer is like a brain-eating amoeba. All you need is trust. My body, my temple.<br />

A poem in a war zone A walnut is a brain, a heart is a strawberry, a teardrop, ambrosia.


TANGENTS<br />

Wilson Tsang<br />

Diversion


Poem a Week<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

Our Salad Histories*<br />

our salad histories lay hidden<br />

way below the infinite creaking up<br />

of table space; you need tact<br />

to negotiate the nearness of spheres<br />

the round things of salad, tomatoes,<br />

radishes; lettuce leaves like silk skirts<br />

on a clothesline; pull up a chair,<br />

be undeniable of knife or tyne.<br />

a salad is all imposition<br />

nothing aeronautical here, all cucumber<br />

rafts, stepping-stone salad curled in its<br />

gleaming; the summer is going to be<br />

crackling like the sugar edges of spoons;<br />

there’s lighthouse life after this green glare<br />

* This is the 12th sonnet from a 50 sonnet<br />

sequence.


Open/Endedness<br />

bq 不 清<br />

假 日 ( 之 一 )<br />

之 後 , 我 們 偶 爾 記 起 其<br />

模 糊 的 概 念 。 我 們 為 它 填 補<br />

缺 口 , 像 沙 湧 向 有 知 過 後 的 無 知 :<br />

光 陰 的 回 溯 、 海 浪 按 摩 海 浪 時<br />

所 造 就 的 暈 眩 : 一 些 隨 機 的 對 話<br />

在 吞 吐 中 被 呈 現 如 一 首 失 準 的<br />

變 奏 曲 、 有 過 多 笑 聲 的 喜 劇<br />

或 未 及 吹 乾 頭 髮 的 風<br />

我 是 如 何 墮 入 這 片 境 況<br />

無 數 次 吞 嚥<br />

把 地 圖 上 的 粗 線 以 年 計<br />

推 移 , 把 無 色 的 地 區 著 色 過 後<br />

讓 海 洋 生 物 遷 進 並 開 始 以 肺 部 呼 吸<br />

以 嘴 巴 描 述 時 間 如 天 文 學 家<br />

地 質 學 家 和 博 物 學 家 的 日 常 工 作<br />

1858 年 夏 天 , 華 萊 士 與 達 爾 文 聯 合<br />

發 表 了 有 關 天 擇 的 文 章 , 論 證 了<br />

抉 擇 從 來 不 涉 及 愛 與 恨<br />

它 緩 慢 地 發 生 直 到 某 物 種<br />

成 為 準 標 本 待 某 天<br />

無 意 中 被 發 現 而 沒 有<br />

博 物 館 願 意 展 示 它<br />

害 怕 它 能 夠 被 起 死 回 生 或 借 屍 還 魂<br />

在 街 道 上 行 走 成 為 阻 塞 交 通 的<br />

長 毛 象 或 原 牛<br />

我 們 確 切 難 以 想 像 那 年 代<br />

牠 們 的 瘋 狂 , 儘 管 牠 們<br />

僅 是 草 食 動 物


HOLIDAY (part 1)<br />

Soon afterward, we were reminded occasionally<br />

of its ambiguous concept. We helped to fill its<br />

gap, like sand rushing to the post-knowledge ignorance:<br />

the flashbacks of time, waves massaged one another,<br />

leading to dizziness: some random conversations<br />

were witnessed in one’s hesitation, as if inaccuracy was<br />

found in a variation, a comedy filled with too much laughter,<br />

or winds that hadn’t had enough time to dry the hair.<br />

How did I fall into this situation?<br />

Countless gulps and swallows<br />

shifted the thick lines on the map<br />

on a yearly basis after colouring the colourless region<br />

allowing sea creatures to move in and start using their lungs,<br />

and their mouths to describe time, like astronomers,<br />

geologists and naturalists’ daily tasks.<br />

In the Summer of 1858, Wallace and Darwin jointly<br />

published an article on natural selection, arguing<br />

that choice was never based on love and hatred.<br />

It occurs slowly until some species<br />

became quasi-specimens, waiting for the day<br />

when they’ve discovered by chance, but no<br />

museums were willing to put them on display,<br />

fearing that they could be brought back to life or reincarnated<br />

as something that walks the streets like a traffic blocking<br />

mammoth or auroch.<br />

It was difficult for us to imagine<br />

their madness during those years, although they<br />

were merely herbivores.


Greenwood<br />

Kai Chan<br />

Drawing<br />

ink on tracing paper<br />

Kai Chan’s work and books at OCEAN POUNDS<br />

oceanpounds.com/collections/kai-chan


Caffeine Reveries<br />

Shelley Savor<br />

Special Air Quality Alert<br />

Shelley Savor’s work and book at OCEAN POUNDS<br />

oceanpounds.com/collections/Shelley-Savor


CHEEZ<br />

Fiona Smyth<br />

Fiona Smyth’s work and book at OCEAN POUNDS<br />

oceanpounds.com/collections/fiona-smyth


Preview OCEAN POUNDS books in full version and write your short reviews<br />

OCEAN POUNDS bookmark at the front page of oceanpounds.com


a collaboration<br />

Poem by Bob Black<br />

Images by Shelley<br />

Savor


Over the last 18 months, I’ve been work writing and editing three books, completing two of them and<br />

reconfiguring and struggling with a third and I was exhausted. After finishing another long and overly<br />

ruminative poem, I went for a walk and thought to myself, “my poetry is a mess and my poems undisciplined<br />

and lost. “<br />

So, I told myself for the foreseeable future, i want to try to write short and more precise poems. Some of<br />

the revelations came from reading the work of the brilliant American poet Victoria Chang, whose work I<br />

had just discovered earlier in the year. Devouring 3 of her beautiful collections, Obit, The Trees Witness<br />

Everything and Circle, as well as her book Dear Memory, I went through a mild ‘crisis’ that my own poems<br />

and voice were egotistical and overly obtuse, substitution long narrations and abstract language for precise<br />

moments and feelings. I revisited my first book as it readied (I believed) for publication. I started to upend<br />

the book.<br />

I worked on a few short poems including an acrostic poem based on the names of my godchildren’s name<br />

and their parents name as well as another poem for my partner about a moment between us and then I<br />

stumbled on Shelley Savor’s “Change of Season Anxiety” and i loved it and it struck me: the combination<br />

of the beautiful and evocative illustration and the beautiful characters, which reminded my of constellations<br />

in the sky, both an astrological map and one of astronomy: the narrative came to me quickly. I reached out<br />

to both Shelley and Ka-sing and asked them if i could write a series of short poems on Shelley beautiful<br />

series on chinese paper with the characters.<br />

I have also loved Shelley’s paintings and illustrations and have suggested for years that she turn her<br />

paintings into books because while they are gorgeous, abstractly and iconographically speaking, each<br />

of her images are steeped in a mysterious narrative: worldly, private, autobiographical and metaphoric. I<br />

proposed to write a response to the images by writing my own series of 10 short poems that I hoped would<br />

make up a longer poem: the story of a couple.<br />

The poems came quite quickly. They still need work and editing but I like that at this stage: ruminations<br />

and reactions to Shelley’s beautiful work and series.<br />

I would also say that the work is Shelley’s. I see my poems as separate work and I hope and trust she will<br />

use these illustrations for her own book. My poems are NOT about Shelley’s paintings specifically but were<br />

born of my reaction to them and a separate story that took shape. I feel blessed that Shelley and Ka-sing<br />

agree to my suggestion and I look forward to one day seeing Shelley’s books.<br />

I hope they like the poems.<br />

with love, bob


I emptied my heart into the days, once you<br />

“He stared at ruin. Ruin stared right back.”—John Berryman


day no. 1<br />

The day begins, my love, with a chorus of gnat song, the hymn the carpentry of our bedroom door<br />

the year upturned beside us, fractionally and light awakens in ponytail, devil’s horn and moss<br />

dressing<br />

we scribble on a tea-stain calendar with black dreams left on the wall of the kitchen<br />

sleep’s lost meaning, birth to shadow as crescent light uncurtains the seasons over the hum of boiling<br />

water<br />

remember when hope hid behind a bin in the alley, your name outlined by brush stroke<br />

time filled in and circumstance’s rhyme followed a tunnel under the bed<br />

the escape of wasp up from the fields, our secrets’ biology and endurance<br />

the ache along the bridge of a mouth by 4 pm, colostrum<br />

the dark gaze replacing the gap in your belly-thirst when first cut away and dying<br />

the Milkyway’s constellations pulled down in gulps, nameless in the throat<br />

the spilth that became your carriage and emanation<br />

who knew Andromeda, Cassiopeia, and Pegasus would fall<br />

the sky’s alphabet inked on your skin, calligraphy and effluvium<br />

stars scraped off the calendar in astrological swipes, homeward<br />

The Black Tortoise of the North, the Ghost & the Willow, the Emptiness, Xu<br />

the abracadabra of the cosmos a carnival of acrobats and high-wire tricks<br />

the barren stars on the lacquered table passed down generationally<br />

tear down the walls, tear down<br />

days pulled from the sink as teeth, discord thick as an almanac<br />

while you drifted past the ocean where love once thin bit off too much to chew<br />

life choked on fingers long-worn over shoots of bamboo, did it not<br />

awakened, we watch the children meander the world coated in commands, anguish spills across the<br />

mountains<br />

another book pulled off the shelf and another page withdraws, homeword and hard.


day no. 2<br />

Her breath fell frail beneath the weight of scissors, death dangled out a window in winter<br />

a lullaby boned in her throat, children’s bodies bent like saplings under night’s weight<br />

stories buried in the yard with their skeletal remains<br />

light slumped along the fence like a thought thumbing Help Wanted Ads<br />

love snipped from the back of a Friday paper, a song crumbled in newsprint kicked along the<br />

pavement<br />

cracks of ice slowed by the bees in our mouth, amber whispers of hurt along our wrists<br />

geography lost along a wrong path in a dark forest as you counted backwards 10-1<br />

your face lingered amid shadow, lumber snipped off the leeward side of the hill<br />

impatience pulled down its dress and syllables limbered in the distance<br />

insects scribbled new vocabulary on the kitchen’s brick wall, lexically unsound<br />

do you recognize the names scraped from rust stain and humidity<br />

the strain my love, the woman who tossed tech inside the Morgan Library<br />

maximally dressed book pages’ blister the edges of our skin<br />

bones between our knuckles, grandmother’s nourishment<br />

the midnight gambler who boiled gap-toothed lies with the dust steeped in the corner, toil toil<br />

the dice roll of recipes twined and coursed through you, fingers fan small accumulations<br />

all the mitzvahs in the pocket of your hip clapping<br />

small coins jangled with each step and you slope like an unstrung top with the ghosts at the table<br />

spinning an incantatory world into generalities, the mechanics of loss<br />

time snipped from the bottom of the skirt as we headed to shore on a ferry<br />

the dates dripping, mascara run from our eyes under shelter from the wind<br />

remember, my love, the chrysanthemum sky swept open when we awoke, underneath.


day no. 3<br />

Rain falls like the sound of skin skidding off a worn pillion<br />

as the scooter chants over the curves in the dark<br />

the purple night romance in the East as riders wring desire with attired light<br />

steamed noodles awakened beneath the florescent lights shoe-laced to the ceiling<br />

where love whispers deep against the buzz of flies<br />

promises fall to the floor as kinked cigarettes and faith goes astray<br />

in the puddles and out the bedroom windows with the air conditioner’s buzz<br />

this city of corners and stories perched above the lanes where cats tinker with rats<br />

the velocity of speech everything to everyone while the moon melts milky in the bay<br />

black dogs bay through the night for discarded chicken feet<br />

intemperate lovers with cartilaginous tempers button up<br />

the snake blood vendors and the ama negotiate marriages for the unborn<br />

a monk falls for the blessing of a stone<br />

a grandfather leaps from Dahu Park bridge his arm wide as wings, his hope featherless<br />

a grandmother’s reflection suspended above the water, ghost lotus and her name the moon<br />

you have been here before and your heart is full of dust and amber rain and a cocoon of worms<br />

the date is September, the calendar Taiwan, the hour unrecognizable<br />

as longing is abandoned in the songs and neon of Neihu and grief the hills’ requiem<br />

listen young man, one day snow shall fall on the living here instead of black rain<br />

you will share a bowl of Oyster mee sua on the side of a lane with the dead wearing red coats<br />

and in the park at night when you are unprepared Taipei will eat your heart out<br />

never an explanation, my love, for the green ghosts and the swearing<br />

or the names of the meals in the shape of your breath’s first sigh or your grandmother’s last good-bye.


day no. 4<br />

In the mountains above the city, I emptied my heart under a stone in the forest<br />

chamber by chamber, spoon by spoon and lived for a year under a ribcage of leaf, twigs and branches<br />

bruised flower and kindling for rebirth and took nothing<br />

bat droppings and monsoon rain for nourishment and listened<br />

to the monkeys sing folk songs to the moon, chivalry<br />

carved courtship initials in the trees and chewed on bark like a bear’s fatty bone<br />

never knew hunger, nonetheless<br />

and burned up what was forgotten beneath December’s black fog and the racket and plunder in the<br />

city below<br />

the following year I returned to Tamsui my memory afire, a pirate’s beard<br />

ribs had become brown wings, my heart a cul-de-sac where once you buried the unborn with soil,<br />

sand and sage<br />

take all that you need, my love, for I scatter time<br />

green pebbles for teeth, moss for hair and caterpillar prolegs<br />

rope-burns for eyes and the letters of my name scrubbed away<br />

the bruised life-lines on the faces of the aunties in Zhongxiao Fuxing<br />

every mole, sun-scar or wrinkle a poem, every longing supine on the platform<br />

the thieves haven’t yet worked out all the answers but the school children set the place aflame<br />

the sacred ground murmuring where ancestral bodies replaced the stones in the rivers<br />

tributary tongues covered in cement and blood<br />

a city built on the rhymes of spectre and the expense of incense<br />

have we forgotten to listen to the lives Earthing beneath our steps<br />

before we leapt, the lesson you taught in the back of the torn book<br />

listen to the dead laughing and the ache nipping at our elbows, snot-green sea<br />

burn all bridges with tongues of fire, my love, joy races closely below.


day no. 5<br />

Her thumb nail falls away bruised blue, eyebrows shorn in the morning light<br />

the Capri blue buildings pattern clouds with elderly gossip<br />

indigo-stained and innervated, some lost calculus of an apron of flight<br />

when once my love, you scribbled your uncles name on a tea tray in the afternoon<br />

in words articulate and sharp, the peacock’s shriek you’d once ran from in Wenshan<br />

vowels scattering across the inside of your head<br />

sleep absconded with reason as a coward flees a warring king<br />

the scraps we shared, the heart’s scabs from loss and mourning<br />

a list of names on rice paper curling in the stream held underneath by rock and rusted bike<br />

until the alphabet drowned and the pot boiled<br />

until the statuary in the jungle, the patriarch on a stool throne was once water<br />

amour wasted in the tin of a young warrior<br />

History all hushed up and overdressed and the land righted toward the wrong<br />

the bamboo and shell of lost lives drifted in from the grey rock offshore<br />

we left pints of prints on the window, gamboling voices awakened miles away<br />

regret awoken in the middle of the night, both of us stirring<br />

the bitten mountain’s thunder and the snap-spit pain from an over-slept neck<br />

the body huddles, the heart reaches and lost language rewound<br />

and birds counted the hours as the morning slid between rain and the season’s clocking<br />

toes tonguing in the sand and the dawn’s madness scampered toward the sea<br />

morning lullabies tangent between the words that well in the shower a cold lick to the ankles and<br />

head<br />

the gap between your teeth and the dark song sprung from tonsils<br />

meaning suspended as a thief<br />

the dark forever escaping, my love, as our hearts go long and the world again drops hard.


day no. 6<br />

Dear world<br />

I dare you to not look into my eyes<br />

as limbs scatter with the escaping tide, benevolence rushing away mad sleep<br />

the fleas and cowardice on the legs of a king, hearts scraped against the trunks with mourning<br />

the boot kick stuck in the mud, the list of the names on rice paper curling in the stream<br />

what was once water wasted in pools of the young’s footprints<br />

we left jars of worms on the windowsill as a beacon, the deer sheltered the weakened<br />

I dare you now to look into my heart with the point of a spear and reason<br />

language and voices wriggle out from the nest behind the door, where we were alive<br />

a kitchen filled with insect shell and loss dwelled in a hat left behind with laces untied<br />

words burned all night until the room caught fire, the world blackened, the ash anewed<br />

we shut the cupboard and pulled down the curtains, the street and the hazards let down their hair<br />

language peeled into a basket of apples in Spring, reason and mold strolled arm-in-arm<br />

and the world bolted up tight and the poem left us<br />

until language and voices awakened from the dead<br />

words burned all night and the buildings caught fire, liturgy once infertile become anew<br />

as we shut the cupboard and pulled down the drapes, syntax let down its snare<br />

language fell into a casket and we sewed our mouths shut<br />

but deafness fell through the cracks<br />

and the poem left us and the words drowned<br />

remember my love, the silence between us drained white but<br />

the verbs and our hope eventually came, round.


day no. 7<br />

Stepping from corner roof to cornice tile in between the rain and the pain, the stranger ran, a green<br />

fingertip smeared along the streets and the city dismantled, an old sweater tossed off the roof, a pair<br />

of socks left on a light pole, the lockets around a pedestrian’s neck strung up on the electric lines<br />

over the small park where grasshoppers rode the shoulders of the children swiveling on the merry-goround,<br />

every day for love, every day for loss, every stick to the wool of stray dogs, torn flipflops, scent<br />

up from the sea like cum and chloride, the sullied toes that bespoke meaning in the night market and<br />

the conjuring over negotiated, choice and coin exchange, choice and change<br />

once in an old sea chest, you found a yellow dragon hibernating so you pulled it over your head and<br />

shoulders and carried it as war dead—thistle and bug, dung and dandruff and the must of time and<br />

your grandfather’s commands between the knitting and the pain washed up and the loss bracelets and<br />

you held the wool close to your mouth and you swallowed<br />

and the pine boned in your throat and every story you’d heard trucked fear out of vowels, crude<br />

ministries fell like crab apples on the gown muddied over a patch of ground as the crowd gathered on<br />

the banks with the sheep sheered and you watch your uncle’s life spread dark and red on the El Paso<br />

sidewalk from a country afar<br />

his pleading wrapped with the cats shrieking in the damp night, and there was not a god damn think<br />

to be done<br />

family and mistress, love ran ragged and forever away<br />

every day for the thief, language unwound and the night forever retreats.


day no. 8<br />

Death came sidewinding late in the night an October fist clubbing<br />

Sunday water-dreams and desert demons awoken you once gone<br />

your father a broken knife into that country between rib and lung<br />

from the racked ardour poured into a tin of dream-lust , grief<br />

tanned and tackled someone you once loved<br />

long-ago long-broke the vial of night, for what<br />

money and lust<br />

and the sirens suddenly awoke, panic rushed, grief gone agape<br />

and no one now understands the claw call of a fingering beneath the window at 3 am<br />

the mice scamper, the desert’s rat and boot straps might not ever come back<br />

the friends and family, departed<br />

then the yellow sky opened wider than a Thorny devil’s jaws<br />

all teeth and yellow’d umbrellas thrown into the sand’s cotton-mouth<br />

our limbs darts that once stood straight, right there<br />

your life leaving you in an ox-bow of blood on the warm sidewalk<br />

Asphodel petals in the rain, pulse scampers away with wind in its throat<br />

what is<br />

this life running toward death with drunk dark in your eyes, damp in your hair and<br />

the wind in your heart, rising.


day no. 9<br />

Light awakens the bruised trees as Spring comes to the city<br />

the longers and losers, the leavers and lovers linger in the arms of mishap<br />

in the rain, the world falls into the fingers of a child’s ruby dream<br />

the effulgence of her taut chemistry and synapses call skycrackers twinned<br />

the goldduggers win beside the burial as we let dirt fall through our teeth with the drink<br />

a walk in the afternoon bestows the poplar’s seeds slopping<br />

the dust and grief of the heart’s cage swept clean, stone<br />

we let love go and God’s name go and the damage done, certainty rolled away<br />

and we lived<br />

between the jukebox glass and the record’s sway, my love<br />

the music and the rhythm of life, a beat sings in the dark<br />

your eyes rhyme the world a new<br />

as we learn to live ahead of the dying<br />

stories in our bodies, language made up on the spot<br />

the world worried and cloaked in the neon<br />

romance dialed in and meaning served up in a gimlet glass<br />

shot after shot after shot<br />

what was left on the tile floor once made up in the back room scribble<br />

love licked up long along the borders where we fell apart<br />

paper torn, memories spilled and we awakened<br />

ambidextrous<br />

still, my love, the sky goes on and the record falls and needle styles our groove.


day no. 10<br />

The sea and the waves, thousand-eyed and wind-eared<br />

your roots spread up and widened the taxonomy of love<br />

the question of the algebra inside us as grief bit down for nourishment<br />

your hands held a ball of fecund light<br />

memorized dimpled songs and the years’ shadow arpeggio<br />

the organ pedals pushed as you whisper what once was right<br />

love and loss into a child’s dreams at night<br />

between the jukebox glass and the record’s sway<br />

a boat’s paddle-beat sings in the dark as your mouth seeks the rhyme anew<br />

the clues we learned to uncovered<br />

we grew to live ahead of the dying<br />

stories in our bodies, language made up on the spot<br />

the world worried so we cloaked ourselves in the neon<br />

love licked up long along the borders where we fell apart and everything became one in the juggle<br />

this city of shadow and sorrow where song still stroked the tendons of our thoughts<br />

hoping our hearts would remain forever, our tongues slurping<br />

up the unbound and we in the morning unkempt<br />

the day recedes my love, the light turns and the days jostle forward<br />

rivering us with grief packed in the ground and blood given away<br />

we mend our bones and stich our floating hearts and beneath this<br />

our life a city of shadow where the words go on, my love<br />

the world goes on.


DIGI (1994-1996) is an extension to the last issue<br />

“DISLOCATION 1992-1999, and Beyond”.<br />

DIGI zine was a side-track in the course of our publishing venture.<br />

It was attached to the PHOTOART, in the last section as part of<br />

the contents. An additional print-run of 500 copies was printed<br />

as an independent publication–in the exact manner as we did for<br />

DISLOCATION in PHOTO PICTORIAL. In total, thirteen issues of<br />

DIGI were published from 1994 to 1995, with the last issue coming<br />

out in 1996.<br />

In this issue of DOUBLE DOUBLE, we reproduced the thirteen<br />

issues of DIGI zine as a complete volume facsimile edition.<br />

The original DIGI zine is in the format of 8.5x11 inch, 16 pages.<br />

Each issue had a 500 print-runs.<br />

DOUBLE DOUBLE April/ May edition <strong>2023</strong><br />

DIGI (1994-1996)<br />

232 pages, 8x10 inch, ebook and paperback editions<br />

Read-on-line edition for PATREON members<br />

https://reads.oceanpounds.com/<strong>2023</strong>/05/digi.html


DOUBLE DOUBLE February/ March edition <strong>2023</strong><br />

女 那 禾 多 DISLOCATION (1992-1999), and Beyond<br />

340 pages, 8x10 inch, ebook and hardcover editions<br />

Hardcover edition available at Blurb (CAD$125)<br />

https://www.blurb.ca/b/11543683-dislocation-1992-1999-and-beyond<br />

ebook edition (PDF download, US$10)<br />

https://oceanpounds.com/products/dislocation<br />

Read online the complimentary copy in full version<br />

https://books.leekasing.com/1992/01/dislocation.html<br />

THE LIFE OF A PUBLICATION, written by Holly Lee<br />

(the main article in 21 segments)<br />

• It began with Lee Ka-sing’s two photo columns in the mid-eighties<br />

• Seeded by a studio promotional publication: WORKS MAGAZINE (1988-89)<br />

• And it began, with a transparent and translucent journey (NûNaHéDuo ZERO and GLASS issues)<br />

• The first year<br />

• NûNaHéDuo 1992-1995. 48 issues, 4 annuals and an index issue<br />

• Fair Deal. A playground at the backyard<br />

• Free-wheeling and Seeding<br />

• The OP Print Program and OP Editions (1994-1999)<br />

• The second stage (1996-1998), a new format<br />

• The idea of Three: Beijing, Hong Kong and Taiwan<br />

• DIGI zine, a side track<br />

• OP fotogallery and NCP–the NûNaHéDuo Centre of Photography<br />

• A tale of the other city, the OP fotogallery in Toronto (2000-2005)<br />

• Closing of the second stage of NNHD 1999<br />

• This side towards lens, FOTO POST and ebooks<br />

• DISLOCATION as an ebook, Volume 14<br />

• Landscape in flux. The Missing Volume 15, Geography issue<br />

• The Second Life of DISLOCATION<br />

• Recapturing time<br />

• Thirty years<br />

• The Unfinished. Hong Kong Streets issue


Leads to the Books published<br />

by OCEAN POUNDS<br />

DISLOCATION (1992-1999), and Beyond<br />

books.oceanpounds.com/<strong>2023</strong>/04/dislocation.html<br />

Poetic Liaison<br />

books.oceanpounds.com/<strong>2023</strong>/02/poetic-liaison.html<br />

City Mirage Snow<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/cms.html<br />

The Painter The Photographer The Alchemist<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ppa.html<br />

The galloping jelly pink horse with pea green spots<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/phgs.html<br />

Reality Irreality Augmented Reality<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/rar.html<br />

The Book The Reader The Keeper<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/dd202208.html<br />

The Air is like a Butterfly<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/tab.html<br />

Still Life Still A Book of Vessels<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/bv.html<br />

The Book of The Poem<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/08/bp.html<br />

The Nearby Faraway Small Paintings on Cardboard<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/small-paintings-on-cardboard.html<br />

DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise a close-cropped<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-cc.html<br />

DOUBLE DOUBLE Box in a Valise on-site<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/05/ddb-os.html<br />

Twenty Twenty An exhibition by Kai Chan<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/09/tt.html<br />

2K 4.0 (Kai Chan + Lee Ka-sing)<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/2k40.html<br />

Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sa.html<br />

Songs from the Acid-free Paper Box<br />

Museum edition<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/10/sab.html<br />

“That Afternoon” on Mubi, a dialogue: Tsai Ming<br />

Liang and Lee Kang-Sheng<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/ta.html<br />

The Travelogue of a Bitter Melon<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/tbm.html<br />

Swan House<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/swanhouse.html<br />

“Journeys of Leung Ping Kwan”<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/<strong>2023</strong>/01/pk.html<br />

<strong>ARTPOST</strong> contributors<br />

Cem Turgay lives and works as a photographer in<br />

Turkey.<br />

Fiona Smyth is a painter, illustrator, cartoonist and<br />

instructor in OCAD University's Illustration Program.<br />

For more than three decades, Smyth has made a name<br />

for herself in the local Toronto comic scene as well as<br />

internationally.<br />

http://fiona-smyth.blogspot.com<br />

Gary Michael Dault lives in Canada and is noted for<br />

his art critics and writings. He paints and writes poetry<br />

extensively. In 2022, OCEAN POUNDS published two<br />

of his art notebooks in facsimile editions.<br />

Holly Lee lives in Toronto, where she continues to<br />

produce visual and literal work.<br />

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holly_Lee<br />

Kai Chan immigrated to Canada from Hong Kong in<br />

the sixties. He’s a notable multi-disciplinary artist who<br />

has exhibited widely in Canada and abroad.<br />

www.kaichan.art<br />

Kamelia Pezeshki is a photographer living in Toronto.<br />

She continues to use film and alternative processes to<br />

make photographs.<br />

www.kamelia-pezeshki.com<br />

Windmills Fields and Marina<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/07/wmf.html<br />

Island Peninsula Cape<br />

http://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/blog-post.html<br />

The Fence the Garden the Connoisseur<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/dd202205.html<br />

ana Picnic Stones<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/04/dd202204.html<br />

Terrain Little Red Riding Hood Rosetta<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/03/dd202203.htm<br />

Donkey camera and auld lang syne<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/02/dd202202.html<br />

The Fountain the Shop the Rhythmic Train<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/01/dd202201.html<br />

Nine-Years<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/02/ny.html<br />

Istanbul Postcards<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/07/ip.html<br />

Calendar Beauty Vintage Calendar posters from<br />

China<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2020/03/cb.html<br />

Libby Hague Watercolours<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/11/lhw.html<br />

The Diary of Wonders<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/dw.html<br />

CHEEZ 456<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/05/c456.html<br />

Mushrooms and Clouds but no Mushroom Clouds<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/09/mcmc.html<br />

CODA<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/coda.html<br />

Diary of a Sunflower, Book Two<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2022/12/ds.html<br />

Eighty Two Photographs<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/10/82p.html<br />

Time Machine<br />

https://books.oceanpounds.com/2021/12/tm.html<br />

Ken Lee is a poet and an architectural designer based<br />

in Toronto. He has been composing poetry in Chinese,<br />

and is only recently starting to experiment with writing<br />

English poetry under the pen name, “bq”.<br />

Lee Ka-sing, founder of OCEAN POUNDS, lives in<br />

Toronto. He writes with images, recent work mostly<br />

photographs in sequence, some of them were presented<br />

in the format of a book.<br />

www.leekasing.com<br />

Robert Black, born in California, is an award-winning<br />

poet and photographer currently based in Toronto.<br />

His work often deals with themes related to language,<br />

transformation, and disappearance.<br />

Shelley Savor lives in Toronto. She paints and draws<br />

with passion, focusing her theme on city life and urban<br />

living experiences.<br />

Tamara Chatterjee is a Toronto photographer who<br />

travels extensively to many parts of the world.<br />

Wilson Tsang is both a visual artist and a musician<br />

from Hong Kong. To date, he has published two art<br />

books for children and four indie music albums.<br />

Yam Lau, born in British Hong Kong, is an artist and<br />

writer based in Toronto; he is currently an Associate<br />

Professor at York University. Lau’s creative work<br />

explores new expressions and qualities of space,<br />

time and the image. He is represented by Christie<br />

Contemporary.


Under the management of Ocean and Pounds<br />

Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists,<br />

art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different<br />

cities visiting and working in Toronto.<br />

INDEXG B&B<br />

48 Gladstone Avenue, Toronto<br />

Booking:<br />

mail@indexgbb.com<br />

416.535.6957

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