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

Month: February, 2013

constance by Joanne Arnott

constance new

when i was pregnant, she told me

reaching back more than twenty years

for the memory

constance f

constance k

i put sunflower seeds on my belly

i used to read aloud to my son

so he could hear our bones

constance j

i love our voices, she said

constance b

chickadee & sparrow flutter down

lured by the seeds and undisturbed

by our voices


i put your hand on my belly

i invite you to read this aloud

i want to listen to our bones


& to love our voices, for a little while


final hand

Joanne Arnott is a Metis poet living on Canada’s west coast.

No Hard Feelings by Paul Eluard – translated by Nancy Kline

dddd-swarmed temple

Tears in the eyes, the sorrows of the sorrowful,

Dull sorrows, dreary tears.

He asks for nothing, he isn’t unfeeling,

He’s sad in prison and sad if he’s free.


The weather is sad, the night so black

You wouldn’t put a blindman out. The strong

Are sitting, the weak hold power

And the king stands near the seated queen.

Smiles and sighs, insults grow rotten

In the mouths of mutes and the eyes of cowards.

Think nothing of it: this burns, that blazes!

Your hands fit in your pockets and against your brow.


A shadow…

All the bad luck in the world

And my love above it

Like a naked beast.

warmed temple

Capital of Pain, Black Widow Press, 2006

translated by Mary Ann Caws, Patricia Terry, Nancy Kline

originally published 1926.



[The image of man] by Paul Eluard – translated by Mary Ann Caws

eluard magic

The image of man, not now underground, is resplendent. Plains

of lead seem to assure him that it will no longer be reversed,

but this is only to plunge it again into this great sadness which

gives it an outline. The former strength, yes, the former strength

used to suffice unto itself. Any succour is useless, it will perish by

extinction, a death gentle and calm.

eluard celuard aa

She enters the dense forest, whose silent solitude hurls the soul

into a sea whose waves are lamps and mirrors. The lovely star of

white leaves that, on a more distant level, seems the queen of the

colors, contrasts with the stuff of gazes, leaning on the trunks of

the incalculable incompetence, of harmonious plants.

eduard beluard's eye

Not now underground, the image of man wields five raging

sabres. It has already unearthed the hovel housing the black reign

of the enthusiasts of begging, lowliness, and prostitution. On the

largest ship displacing the sea, the image of man sets out and

recounts to the sailors returning from shipwrecks a story about

brigands.: “When he was five, his mother gave him a treasure.

What to do with it? Except calm her down. She crushed with her

hellish arms the glass container where the poor marvels of man are

sleeping. The marvels followed her. The poet’s carnation sacrificed

the skies for a blonde mane of hair, the chameleon lingered in

a clearing to construct there a tiny palace of strawberries and

spiders, the Egyptian pyramids made the passerby laugh, because

they didn’t know that the rains slake the earth’s thirst. Finally, the

orange butterfly shook its seeds over the eyelid of the children

who thought they felt the sandman going by.”

here eluardEluards 4

The image of man dreams, but nothing more is hanging on

his dreams than the unparalleled night. Then, to recall the sailors

to some semblance of reason, someone who had seemed drunk

slowly uttered this sentence:

“Good and evil have their origin in a few errors carried out

to excess.”


Capital of Pain, Black Widow Press, 2006

translated by Mary Ann Caws, Patricia Terry, Nancy Kline

originally published 1926.