EYEMAZING!


EYEMAZING

The New Collectible Art Photography
by Eyemazing Susan
Thames & Hudson Publishers



p. 244  Katia Chausheva


I pre-ordered this publication in the beginning of Summer, mainly because someone dear to me is in the book.  It arrived today a month ahead of schedule.  I'm so taken back by the enormity of it, 544 pages of art at its very finest and rarity.  
This book is a collection of a decade of exceptional and utterly unique photography featured in EYEMAZING magazine an international quarterly that began in 2003.

It's available on Amazon

A quote inside it's covers ~ 

"Like fireflies they are!
I cling to them and feel being lifted.
I am holding my breath, not feeling the floor.
Not feeling attached anymore... where do I go?"

--Kamil Vojnar





Bukowski Anthology

Buk_cover1Image
Thanks to Silver Birch Press Bukowski Anthology contributors Harry Calhoun (who suggested the idea) and S.A. Griffin (who found a way to make it happen), and Jessica Wilson (who is making it happen), the Silver Birch Press Bukowski Anthology launch party at Skylight Books in Los Angeles will be available for radio listeners at this link:
Tune in at 5 p.m. on Sunday, Sept. 22 (Pacific Daylight Time) or tune in later and access the recording.
We are honored that the launch party at Skylight Books will feature readings from the collection by S.A. Griffin, Joan Jobe Smith, and Fred Voss.  For mini bios of our esteemed performers, visit Skylight Books.

WHAT: Silver Birch Press BUKOWSKI ANTHOLOGY launch party and readings from the collection
WHO: S.A. Griffin, Joan Jobe Smith, and Fred Voss
WHERE: Skylight Books, 1818 N. Vermont Ave., Los Angeles, CA, 90027, 323-660-1175
WHEN: Sunday, September 22, 2013, 5 p.m.
If you live in the area, we hope to see you there! If you live outside the area, we hope you’ll tune in.
Cover art by Mark Erickson and Katy Zartl
About tLike this:

Big Sur



Strange Sea

"Implausible fish bloom in the depths,
mercurial flowers light up the coast;
I know red and yellow, the other colors,—

but the sea, det granna granna havet, that’s most dangerous
to look at.
What name is there for the color that arouses
this thirst, which says,
the saga can happen, even to you—"

BY EDITH SÖDERGRAN
Translated from the Swedish by Averill Curdy



"Big Sur" Official Film Trailer 2013 from Edward Einhorn on Vimeo.





Neo - Classicism



Jean - Auguste Dominique Ingres (29 August 1780 – 14 January 1867)

Grande Odalisque





“The moment you feel like you have to prove your worth to someone is the moment to absolutely and utterly walk away.”


Unknown 




a poem

4:13 AM
The shift of sleepwalks and suicides.
The occasion of owls and a demi-lune fog.
Even God has nodded off

And won’t be taking prayers til ten.
Ad interim, you put them on.   
As if your wants could keep you warm.

As if. You say your shibboleths.
You thumb your beads. You scry the glass.
Night creeps to its precipice

And the broken rim of reason breaks
Again. An obsidian sky betrays you.
Every serrate shadow flays you.

Soon enough, the crow will caw.
The cock will crow. The door will close.
(He isn’t coming back, you know.)

And so wee, wet hours of grief relent.   
In thirty years you might forget
Precisely how tonight’s pain felt.

And in whose black house you dwelt.

© 2008, Jill Alexander Essbaum
From: Poetry, Vol. 192, No. 3, June, 2008

a poem

The Dead Heart

After I wrote this, a friend scrawled on this page, “Yes.” 

And I said, merely to myself, “I wish it could be for a 
different seizure—as with Molly Bloom and her ‘and 
yes I said yes I will Yes.'

It is not a turtle 
hiding in its little green shell. 
It is not a stone 
to pick up and put under your black wing. 
It is not a subway car that is obsolete. 
It is not a lump of coal that you could light. 
It is a dead heart. 
It is inside of me. 
It is a stranger 
yet once it was agreeable, 
opening and closing like a clam. 

What it has cost me you can’t imagine, 
shrinks, priests, lovers, children, husbands, 
friends and all the lot. 
An expensive thing it was to keep going. 
It gave back too. 
Don’t deny it! 
I half wonder if April would bring it back to life? 
A tulip? The first bud? 
But those are just musings on my part, 
the pity one has when one looks at a cadaver. 

How did it die? 
I called it EVIL. 
I said to it, your poems stink like vomit. 
I didn’t stay to hear the last sentence. 
It died on the word EVIL. 
It did it with my tongue. 
The tongue, the Chinese say, 
is like a sharp knife: 
it kills 
without drawing blood. 

Anne Sexton

Gabriel Pacheco ~ Artist... and a poem





What’s Left

BY W. S. DI PIERO
How often now, raging weeping for the days
love gives then takes away, takes from you
the slightly chapped hand laid on the one
you’re pointing at a tree, and the voice
that breathes coffeeberry bush into your mouth.  
The finger that taps and feathers your ear
but the giggle’s gone before you turn around.
The sandalwood scent hanging in the room,
the auburn strand like a flaw in the porcelain,
the off-course nail clipping in the carpet.
The days eat into your stomach, knife you
with longing for relief from love
that you cannot leave or leave alone,
from its rings of fire where you won’t
burn down to ash or be transformed.
You become them, and they keep burning
and have a coffeeberry voice.
           Listen how
                     their rhymes sing
                               the little deaths you live.

Source: Poetry (April 2011).

a poem

                         "finally, in its entirety 

LETTER FROM MY HEART TO MY BRAIN 

Its okay to hang upside-down like a bat,
to swim into the deep end of silence,
to swallow every key so you can’t get out.
It’s okay to hear the ocean calling your fevered name
to say your sorrow is an opera of snakes,
to flirt with sharp and heartless things.
It’s okay to write, I deserve everything,
to bow down to this rotten thing
that understands you, to adore the red
and ugly queen of it, to admire
her calm and steady rowing.
It’s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet,
to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay
without staying. Its okay to hate God today
to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you.
It’s okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself,
to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down,
it’s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed.
It’s okay to brick to fuck to flame to church to crush to knife
to rock to rock to rock to rock to rock and rock.
It’s okay to wave good-bye to yourself in the mirror.
To write, I don’t want anything.
It’s okay to despise what you have inherited,
to feel dead in a city of pulses. It’s okay
to be the whale that never comes up for air,
to love best the taste of your own blood. 

LETTER FROM MY BRAIN TO MY HEART 

This house is dirty, but comfortable.
Behind each crooked door
waits the angry weather of a forgiveless child.
I cannot help but admire this horrible
power of mine, how each small thing
can become a death: the lost house key. A spoiled egg.
A howling dog. There is no prayer or pill for this.
It is a ruthless botany; I might as well
be buried in the yard. I have no one to blame.
Not the mother who sang to an empty cradle.
Not the Dog of Spite who bit my hand,
just this long-legged sorrow
who trails my every joy like a dark perfume.
You have my permission not to love me;
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
and I’d rather burn myself down
than change the locks."


- Rachel McKibbens, 2010

mad about Alice



“I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” 





Photography by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue









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*

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A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?



Long had paled that sunny sky: