Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary.

Category: Ink drawings

Too Late


I realized (too late)

We had left alchemy

Out of the equation


Stars, pathways, and


 I hastened to manipulate

The voluminous footnotes to my


Rounding and pulling

Like working with clay.


Like working with love.

My apologies began

To glisten.

It is never too late

To listen.

1 again23

Inner and Outer Worlds Permeate Poetic Pulse and Melody

afternoon in paradise 3afternoon in paradise 4.afternoon in paradise 5

The streetcar stops beneath a railroad overpass

Snow still on the ground.

Melody stirring a pot of homemade soup

In the apartment she shares with her mother

Near the courthouse.

afternoon in paradise 7afternoon in paradise 8

A scratchy sofa

Something forgettable on TV

afternoon in paradise 6

I pass through her kindness like a boat cut loose.

afternoon in paradise 11

How can I prevent

What I don’t know will happen?

afternoon in paradise 13

Her eyelids lower

Contemplating a surreal image,

Her laughter like the northern lights,

Her smile

A Maya Deren film.

afternoon in paradise 9

 Jealous ghosts

Lay in wait on darkened country roads

Rising against immortal young gods

Speed-yearning into the future.


Does one simple gesture reconfigure a timeline?

Take the second bowl. The cauldron of vocation.

Leave town with her though you hardly know her.

Study poetry or dowsing,

Wash the ghosts away,

Listen to the northern lights sing into her,

Singing blacktopped roads into a charcoal labyrinth.

afternoon in paradise 1with detail bwith detail bwith detail bwith detail b

Rattle by Maureen Hynes


There’s a new rattle in the wind, a new texture to what blows

around the continents. Spinifex bushes dot the outback’s

blowing sand, its slopes and hollows. Mixed in with red


sandstorm dust: gum wrappers, foil bags, plastic water bottles,

empty tinnies. In the old days, says the Uluru guide, the desert

and its people were self-sufficient – what they discarded


enriched the land. A second Gonwanda is emerging, the mid-

Pacific Gyre’s garbage patch, mirror to the four thousand pieces

of space flotsam hurtling through the stars. Daily I trouble myself

17.dialing beginning

with the household’s petty excess, jam jars and junk mail,

a bag from every airport I’ve visited. I carry twenty unmatched

lids and eight containers to the bin, the half-life of glass

7.feathered 4layered 3copynew layer 2

nearing that of plutonium. Why not create something of value

with all this carboniferous energy? Yesterday a thick grey

cloudbank was towed across the evening sky by a thousand


invisible strongmen hauling in the snowstorm, obscuring

the sunset. I have finally decided that my preference is cremation.


Maureen Hynes is a past winner of the Gerald Lampert Award and the Petra Kenney Poetry Award (England). She has published three books of poetry, Harm’s Way, Rough Skin, and the most recent, Marrow, Willow from Pedlar Press. Maureen is poetry editor for Our Times magazine. http://www.maureenhynes.com


I modified a photograph from Wikipedia Commons (in images 3, 4, and 6) of descending stone stairs in the ruins of Vlotho castle, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany, posted by Wiki user Tubs, GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2.



a soloa nightwhen the night comes fallingstereoedball*




grey scale





*grey scale


Crown Island by Catherine Graham

crown island 1
I am surrounded by Crown Island,

a weave of rock and sand; the waves

lap against me, sizzling white strings.

crown island aa Read the rest of this entry »

Brume by Cristina Castello (translation Pierre L’Abbe)

and alwaysthe calling twoo

 The planet is a little outraged girl

With its days without dolls and its eyes without pupils

Her bundle awaits on a strange train platform

Next to millions of sadnesses without reply

A train that will carry to the tomb her gloveless heart

depth organnand seafaceand and french tunnel

A plucked nib on my chest, this is the world

Stone hole, empty gap

All the chalices converge on my blood

I am a fountain positioned to offer

But the wound passes through the mouth of the poem

Abandonment resists the sky

And rattles the soul of the earth.

Or perhaps, is God dead?

All abandoned


and textured doubleand old gold

Why do they, my eyes, look at them inside?

And why do they inside these beings look at my eyes?

No one but the Absolute answers.

Crystal and steel I am, but everyone sees the sword

And no one could imagine my crystals in shards

and cool depthsand alabasterand another sphere

I will resist in an armour of poetry

I will resist swinging from the murmur of the stars

I will resist perched on the peek of a blade of grass

Attached to this moon of snow sailing through the mists

Who stare at me from the branch of the tree, that they cradle.

I can still open my hands to Those about me

village woman xx

I will not die without seeing that in the bundle Christ sings

I will not die before the compass foretells an epiphany.

and loyoroand overlap

Cristina Castello is an Argentinian poet and journalist now living in France. Her work is committed to peace and beauty against all social injustices. Her poems are always a commitment to the dignity of life, beauty and freedom. They have been translated into several languages. Her books include, Soif, (L’Harmattan 2004); Orage, (Bod 2009),Ombre (Trames 2010) and “Le chant des sirènes” / “El canto de las sirenas” (Chemins de plume, 2012).

and where you are

Pierre L’Abbe is a Toronto translator, publisher, ebook designer and author of both poetry and short story collections.

and full scaleand thumbprint

Deep Sea Diving


 Blake’s ocean

A gas station

Black medicine

In a vial

You said I thought I was Jesus

deep sea divedeep sea detail b

You said I thought I was Jesus

In exile

We handled snakes

I was yours truly

deep sea divedeep sea detail c

I was yours truly

I swallowed a shot of ink

We faded

deep sea divenee
We faded


In retrospect we were children

deep sea divedeep sea detail e

In retrospect we were children

At the carnival

Deep sea diving


Lao Tzu: On Love


Being deeply loved by someone

gives you strength


while loving someone deeply

gives you courage.


You left when I told you I was curious, 
I never said that I was brave

 So Long, Marianne, Leonard Cohen



book of mirrors

Curving a slow corner

twin eyes

You pass through

your own



Your mirror image

original spiral ink

Picking up speed


Speaking in code

face 3

ghost crest

 Spirit animals

beneath the northern lights

drag what has fallen

meter bird spirits


and flung



A spherical puzzle

delivered you


Does the wind agree

sky pieced

new bird meter


I was reflecting on personal things with this post. Changes, new directions, letting the past go, that sort of thing. There was no poem to begin with simply ideas & words I’ve been thinking about.


My attraction to twinning these two images was in discovering similar design motifs. A centre circular repetition. The lines on the sides of the meter resembling folded wings. The art deco, industrial perfect for a prison design of the meter contrasted with the wild bird hemmed in by a border & religious orthodoxy.

Although I suspect the early illuminators of manuscripts had druidic sensibilities and conveyed within their images the beauty of pagan relationships with the earth I can’t find anything similar to say about the parking meter. Although it does have a certain Dracula’s Castle type charm.

The parking meter imposed order upon free space. We might even say ‘wild’ spaces occurring in a common setting if we want to draw an analogy with pagan spirituality being ‘tamed.’


The first parking meter in the United States was installed in 1935

(during the Great Depression & dust storms)

in Oklahoma City.


The Book of Dimma is an 8th century Irish illuminated manuscript now

housed in Trinity College, Dublin

featuring the symbol of an eagle


John the Evangelist.


Row Back by Michael Gallagher

burma new

Petulant sun quarrels with crabbed sky

sky lyre

It probes, prods, sneaks

Through gaps in broken cloud,

stele new

Catches the crests of waves that roll

In deep swells across the estuary.

anewnettingfire faceinkwith

Gales lash the craggy headland

Pummel long-stemmed grass into submission;


Rain shards pierce weathered faces

While wrens search out the whin’s snug core.

new Egypty

It is midsummer’s day and Nature rages:

Brother Man, row back, row back,

Our world is not, is not, yours to destroy.


Mike Gallagher lives in splendid isolation in Lyreacrompane, County Kerry, Ireland. His collection ‘Stick on Stone’ is published by Revival Press.