Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary. Often posting 1st drafts and editing in (almost) real time.

Month: January, 2013

WATER CHILDREN by Ellen S. Jaffe


Buddhist women may sometimes have special prayers and shrines for babies

who are miscarried or aborted, whom they call “water children.”



Water child, I bring you

chrysanthemums, ripe pears,

  coloured ribbons to tie up my prayers.

You live, still, floating in some sunless sea

out of reach       out of reach.

I call you by name, but you

are too far away

and you have not yet learned

how to hear.


ocean floor


I am the water child.

I am a lump of sugar dissolved in a bowl of green tea,

next to these white chrysanthemums and red ribbons.

I am a small pool, with one goldfish swimming in circles.

I am a humming-bird’s tongue, double-dipped in nectar.

Do not be sad.

I am not angry at you.

See, I will kiss you there, there,

nectar-wet kisses so another child

can begin.

My kiss is a tiny moth,

 a mayfly that lives only one day.

Someday, you will forget me

but not yet, not now.

I need you to water the white chrysanthemums.

I need the red ribbon connecting us, heart to heart

as it did once,

while I lay sleeping underwater

inside your skin.



I will sing you a lullaby,

braid the prayer-ribbons, red and green,

around this pear.

You could be the child inside the peach-pit

who accomplishes great deeds,

kills the raging monsters causing havoc

in the kingdom of my dreams.

Timimoto, Tom Thumb, Thumbelina

my bushel of tears           my water child.

water sunday

Ellen S. Jaffe writes poetry & fiction and teaches writing, and makes her home in Hamilton, Ontario.


Down The Pipe by Angye Gaona

of this wall

I follow the way of the sternum,
I search for the origin of thirst,

new visionsome walls
 I go to the bottom of a pipe of silver walls,
solid due to time,

shadow court
moving when the flood,
when childhood, was freezing.

strange godstrange being
I collect the rootlets of thought.
I carry them on my eroded back
next to the wild oblivion falling from me.

spark 2mountain

They look out
from small caves,


the signs of pain,
and fast elude the looks
and hide again in the skin of the pipe.

river wallopen eyes v
Inscribed on the walls
are the undecipherable coordinates
of the prehistoric ray
that formed my face.

shadow bluropen eyes v
It is a time of depths,
a time without syllable,

small shadow
when I am only a sound
in transit to fatigue.

torso shadowspark 2
I search for a spring
to bathe the question affixed on my history.

shadowed mothernewly
I search for a new-born life
and I find thirst.

plaster - shadowedstrange being

 I follow the way of the sternum.


Translated by Nicolás Suescún

Angye Gaona is a Colombian surrealist poet facing politically inspired legal difficulties.

“How goes the night, boy?…” by Michael Hartnett


The night before Patricia’s funeral in 1951
 I stayed up late talking to my father.


How goes the night, boy?
The moon is down:
Dark is the town
In this nightfall.

How goes the night, boy?
Soon is her funeral
Her small white burial.

She was my three-years child,
Her honey hair, her eyes
Small ovals of thrush-eggs.

How goes the night, boy?
It is late: lace
At the window
Blows back in the wind.

How goes the night, boy?
Oh, my poor white fawn!
How goes the night, boy?
It is dawn.


 Michael Hartnett (1941-1999) is an award winning poet from County Limerick, Ireland. Poem courtesy of Niall Hartnett.