Ataraxia Vol. 10

selected literature with illustrations

Ataraxia

Vol. 1 0 • Feb/201 5

selected literature with illustrations

In Memory ofRoger Ebert (1942-2013)

(A found poem based on his last blog post, written the day before he

died)

by Josh Medsker

Through articles, books,

I admired fi lm.

Now, I am the universal fi lm,

Some part critic,

someA part of a. . .

separate entity.

Some 1 967. . . '77

some now.

Now I wil l be able to

be me, or youA

or a fi lm, bri l l iant and

transporting.

Thank you all ,

greatly.

My Picture Book Days

by Robert Leeming

You lined up empty metal fi lm canisters, l ike bul let casings,

across the glass dresser top and fi l led each one with paper

scraps ripped from your notebook covered with bits and pieces,

patterns of thought, observations of endless fields

through train windows, nothing special, nothing particularly

revealing, just l ittle written trinkets ready to be given away.

After each one was loaded you would pass a dozen to me

and keep a dozen for yourself and we would duck below the

wooden window ledge of our fourth floor room in the Bristol Hotel

and toss the canisters out as gifts to the city. Christ Almighty

people don’t half kick up a fuss when confronted with the milk of

human kindness, consumed by the unruly nature of the

presentation rather than the contents, hammering at the door,

summoning porters and night porters who would flee their

elevator homes throwing back the cage doors with a flourish

call ing for explanations and room keys.

You were all frowns and vapour in the wardrobe mirror

as I threw you your overcoat and you threw me back an

inflatable beach ball and you told me to let it down or leave it

behind because we couldn’t move quickly with that and I

decided to let it down.

In the street I sl ipped on our own canisters and you

cursed me with one of those words you’d picked up while

working the zeppelins in that brief period during the twenties

when you could make an honest l iving checking tickets up

there.

And I seemed to be recognised in the street, you weren’t,

but I seemed to be, everyone seemed to be looking at me

and I didn’t know why. Perhaps they recognised me from my

television days? My radio days? My Kinetoscope days? My

picture book days?

You waved your hands and gestured towards me to hurry

up and I did and then I fel l backwards and I sl ipped away

again.

n

THE BLACK SPELL MAGIC

by George Zamalea

At the foot of Wichita Mountains

Where wolves and coyotes and foxes

Grew fat from human fleshes and hearts

A Savanna’s eye reproduced an enormous

Screen of tropical meadow; a face

Lit up l ike gold underneath a bright shadow

Fascinated by the comical unborn sigh

Or the affection of an equal l ine:

Iodine l ips total ly visible come to me

Dancing in multiple but unusual fingernails

Beware!

This isn't God I am talking about.

I t's the Mind.

The Beauty of Being Humans!

As they turned fastest without faces

Less weight than a body with a throne of cloud

Detesting the picture fi l led with Wonders

Their hands then hoof along their bodies

And shake them with large tongue and cracked heads.

I think they're ghosts or pieces of dead flesh

Coming with it! But wait!

The finite winter emerged from the emptied holes

Of their faces, looking around, as I was asking:

"Are you Isis's maiden goddess from Egypt?

"We're the Black Cloud. . . !

The Spell ! "

We are the mutation

We are the salutation

We are the dilatation.

We are the sickened love as tooth-l ike

projections! ! ! ! ! !

What do they want? Or have they just arrived

From vacations to visit the tribe of Azteca:

Non-human here nor yellow toque or white

Snake who wished to gallop beside me. I 'l l not al low it.

"Oh, no," they said. "We're the possessive snake!

The underworld journey and the breathing Grief

Eventual ly it wil l bind upon you!"

And when they kiss my lips (hundreds of them!) these

inflaming l ips

Under the cold water of this fal len afternoon,

In a reverberation wave below my kindl ing tunic

I saw the transparencies of the stone

I received all the embraced ashes as an absolute

Night shifting into memory. . .

The racing Mind!

A memory for a day or so

Fil led with passion in its possession

By the rumble gl itter tits

Tits of Velvet ants

Tits of my own shadows.

from Correspondences

by John Lowther

Asking about summer stock and choice cuts of botany.

I t al l started after I decided it was time for a return to the

body.

Where have all the flowers gone?

That's where I think discussions actual ly operate.

I t adds invisible exclamation points.

I have done nothing but write and translate, and when I

finish what I have to do

for the day, the last thing I feel l ike doing is writing or

translating.

Sense of what, or why, is a different issue.

I go at it entirely in the dark.

Whitefish and kipper snacks with too much treble on off-

balanced headphones.

And my friend and I looked at each other and went pale.

Please do.

Enough, this is not real ly pertinent, but it's an interesting

periphery.

Nor am I trying to win.

I can sort of see your comment about that taking some of

the fun out of it.

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