Poetry Issues

Friday, 14 February 2020 00:00

 

Poetry Issues is a poetry project that began in 2016. Until early 2019, on a monthly (issues 1-12) or bimonthly basis (issue 13-21), a small pamphlet of five to six poems was being printed along an online publication, and distributed in several European cities, starting from The Hague and reaching regularly Leiden, Malmö and Lund, and occasionally Liverpool, Berlin, Prague, Copenhagen and Athens, thanks to the invaluable help of good friends. The project has been the topic of an interview and the pamphlet has also been exhibited. The first 21 issues form now an e-book to complete the project's first great cycle. 

 

From January 2020 the project changed shape. Issues 22, 23 and 24 were published on a quarterly basis – following the seasons – in the course of five weeks, were five poems would be published along five visual artworks. Together they formed one poetry issue. Printed materials were handed out again – this time not in the form of pamphlets but as postcards – as the experience of a different platform is too important and too diverse to give up (and of course it's an excellent way to reach new audience).

 

In issue #25 I'm already exploring new publishing formats and much experimentation will follow.


Here you can read poetry issues #22, poetry issues #23, poetry issues #24 and poetry issues #25.

Enjoy!

 

 

 

Published in poetry

Poetry Issues #4

Monday, 13 June 2016 19:55

 

Poetry Issues #4 is out there, and in here too:

 

 

Education

 

Under embalmed squirrels and framed Jesus Christs

vast world maps with the USSR and Czechoslovakia,

under roofs that leaked on glossy hospital-pistachio walls

child eyes rolled outside tall windows on the concrete yard

where allies were chosen and enemies constructed

as demanded by parades in mid-length skirts

and blue-white flags so big that only boys could lift them.

By the blackboard the chalk flakes still landed like snow

on the thyme-honey-haired girl with the red barrette:

I will never climb on the fig tree again.



The Dying Art of Restoration

 

I don’t know for how much longer

I will be able to fix things.

 

My swift fingers are cemented

in the once dripping glue.

 

Now I’ve only got my thumbs left –

a true crustacean with hard-shell woes.

 

I will crudely mend another gimcrack

before some mishap makes me watch

 

tacky friendships smash like bibelots

in my life’s living room.



The Shakespearean Prophecy

 

You will raise your children on free-range ambition,

lull them in the cradle with sonatas of success.

Like race horses, they’ll have a taste for competition

but you will find that their minds quite often digress

and bend under the brewing threat of mediocrity.

Concerned, you will then use your means to devise

a stratagem rooted in sincere parental hypocrisy

as your offsprings will hunt a vacant glittered prize

or seek arduous relief in codependent relationships.

They’ll spend small fortunes in mindfulness remedies

make gods of psycho-gurus trying to come to grips

with panic attacks and other acquired emergencies.

Your greatest investment will lose much of its equity

but you’ll always save face with industrious charity.



Balance

 

Those twilight moments,

when neither here nor there saves

you stay still and hark.



Temperature Rising

 

I am the grumpy one.

The one who flinches at the sun.

 

Hot summers should be banned

along with bronze tans.

 

Since all association was removed

from counting ice creams and dips in blue

 

in the sunswept nooks of memory resides

the transparent smell of the moribund.

 

And I – I keep my dead roses in the vase

unwilling to accept or to part.

 


Next issue: September 2016


Published in news

Poetry Issues #3

Saturday, 07 May 2016 17:00

 

May’s Poetry Issues is out, including “Platamon” by Alexandra Mouratidou.

 

Along with The Hague and Malmö, I am pleased to announce that a small number of copies of the current and previous issues are distributed to a selected audience for the first time in Berlin, thanks to the publishing professional and co-founder of Litdocs and the Literary Field Kaleidoscope, Dr. Sandra van Lente, and in Liverpool, thanks to the curator and visual artist Jenny Porter, some of whose work you can admire here.

 

And if you can’t get your hands on a copy, you can still enjoy the content of Poetry Issues #3 right here:

 

 

The end of our affairs

 

We’d like to fold them up in a neat

bedsheet-in-drawer manner

but they’re a roomful

of hopelessly knotted yarn.

 

So we set them on fire in the yard.

 

We resume our conversations

with ashes-on-mantel earnesty

then stuff them in shoe boxes

at the back of the garage.

 

So we get to keep the advantage.

 

In cardboard urns we align the has-beens

the would-be husbands we never miss

but then we judge it inefficient

as it all comes down to mass.

 

So we finally throw them in the trash.



Unfastened

 

I asked him to tell me once again

about the death of stars.

He went up and down the room

and I stayed focused on his arms

that broke into a dance against

the stubbornness of time,

tracing harmony and flow

back to when

each loose moment had the stamp

of the movement of the sun.




 

Platamon

by Alexandra Mouratidou

The evening leans

the sea shies behind a fan:

geranium red.

 



A Child’s Solace

 

A memory of

forever invincible

young parents laughing.

 



Mirror Image

 

It took me years of staring

at a flat map

 

before I saw

the night’s stereogram

 

as firefly lights descended their strings

one by one

 

and surfaced to the unlit soul

of the one staring.

 



Interrogation Triolet

 

The empty pages forced me to confess

to all the murders that I didn’t do.

The pen is now resting on my chest.

The empty pages forced me to confess

insisting that we made some progress

before the late-night shift was due.

The empty pages forced me to confess

to all the murders that I didn’t do.




Published in news

Poetry Issues #2

Friday, 08 April 2016 13:51

The second issue is out, featuring the Greek poet Alexandra Mouratidou, who lives and creates in Malmö, Sweden. Again, if you can't get your hands on a printed copy of the pamphlet, either in The Hague or in Malmö, you can still enjoy its content here:

 

 

Panorama

 

Oh, I get the Flemish masters, now. Why

it’s always three quarters rampant sky or

a biblical sea crashing ships filled to

the gills with apples from China. I get

the art-nouveau postures of disfigured

trees reaching towards the promise of a

future sold through foolproof far-fetched words like

bioscoop and magnetron, and regal

swans chasing seagulls in rainy cobbled

streets – a mental note of life’s absurdity –

the rulers of the waterways losing

feathers like pillows dusted with long rods

letting off shrills carried through loud, defunct

chimneys. This is the place I’ll learn to miss.

 

 



Intentions

                by Alexandra Mouratidou

 

I’m scared of secrecy, silence, and sighs

the muted thoughts, the faceless sounds

and what does the unuttered hide.

Do words die out with time like past’s incense?

Soon, “I love you” will become a shroud you wear,

forgetting when or how­.

Dad died. But since the years have passed

it’s like the phrase has died.

Words die.

Just like a fallen star, an embryo, that hope,

the tears that have gone dry, the years behind –

Words wear banalities mostly when they’re cold.

Sometimes, they’re bored and tend to lie.

Words fly. At times, they choose to abandon all

their fateful sense.

The rebellious ones diverge:

They fall from poetry’s cliff revived.




Adolescence in Small Town

 

They were coming back from the church:

None of them believed in much of anything

but it was Good Friday. From around the corner

there ringed the laugh of the easy girls,

a silver bell calling paupers to charity supper.

Eager, the boys turned their untempered backs

on the spring wind, to light hand-rolled cigarettes

bought for a copper and a half each

by some older brother. They were fixing

their baby rockabilly quiffs,

ready to make an entrance and if there needed be

a scene, when a father’s bobbing belly came panting

and chased them down the road

thrusting insults mixed with warm spit.

The poor bastards ran like demons on that holy night.



 

Morbid Sensitivity

 

The crippling effect

of human interaction:

I take it all in.

 

I’m like sunglasses

with no filter to reflect

those carcinogens.

 

No good can ever

come from a self-image clung

on passer-by frowns.




Dear Contemporary Art Gallery

 

You are unequivocally clinical,

with blinding whites and cold spotlights,

and your wine is lukewarm and papery dry.

Your Django Reinhardt live nights

are of conservatorial principle

and your well-ironed guests will kindly abide

by smoking only outside. But art is a log cabin

in the thick dark woods, not a sterile science lab

for measuring and tagging pure consumer goods

– and it’s known for being moody and quite cynical.

Published in news

Poetry Issues #1

Monday, 07 March 2016 20:07

So, Poetry Issues is out into the world! Nothing competes with paper but at least, if you can’t get your hands on a printed copy, you can still read the content of the first issue:




Job Search in Athens

 

Dreams die choked by job listings

soaked in strong communication and

numerical skills, overwhelmed by

excellent multitasking, tangled in

risk management drills.

Notably unadaptable

and lacking in combed manners

dreams cannot develop

concise and comprehensible content.

Completely uninformed on proper

social and business etiquette

and not client-oriented at all, dreams

die with near-native English

for a competitive thousand

to thirteen hundred monthly gross.



Black Cat, White Dog

 

Improbable friendships flourish

on freshly mowed backyard lawns.

Stencil flower fabrics host nightly

cuteness contests for a place

close to the lady’s painted toes.

 

We chase butterflies together

lick each other’s furs under the sun

in a mutually profitable agreement

valid for as long as you

keep your paws off my food.



Love

 

They say we are Millennials.

That’s how they flatter

us, the Big Pharma Generation

of Seroquel and Ambien

Ritalin and Risperdal.

 

Where there’s a need there’s

a way, and now you can even

tame that crude, primeval kick:

Try Adderall – They say it does

miracles for lack of concentration.

 

 

 

Refugee Haiku

 

Now trending: The trade

of man-made pain washed upon

a picture-blue shore.

 

 

 

Repressed Tanka

 

Drunken you order

a Sex on the Beach and text

your ex to let her

know your blind date is coming

oh yes, she’s cum-cum-cumming.

 

 

 

Landscape

 

when the sun

sets

 

a soft breeze

gives

 

the face of the earth

goosebumps



Published in news
Page 5 of 5
nosubhealth online pharmacybuy xanax online no prescriptionbuy phentermine online ukampills.com