polvo magazine

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Archive for February 2010

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El silenci trenca la calma de la nit
L’absència de la teva veu
el sospir embriagat
cigarreta en mà
fum que fuig
del deliri ególatra.

Les mans que un dia es varen aferrar als teus braços
han quedat buides
i es perden tremoloses
a la foscor del meu cos nú

Rememorant l’excitació
d’una nit d’estiu
quan els teus llavis vestien el meu sexe
i els nostres halès es confonien
en una tremolossa passió.

Em sento empresonada
en aquest llit que un dia
va ser nostre

Víctima de la pròpia melangia
em sento caduca
ha fugit el somriure perenne
i el fred de la solitut
cobreix els somnis
que un dia varem compartir.

-Rakel Delgado


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February 28, 2010 at 9:57 pm

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At an exhibition of Felix Gonzales-Torres
black and white
clouds on paper
bleed to edge
the slow drift and pull
of clouds soaring across the horizon
weather forecast
over Stieglitz’s Lake George
overcast with breaking
poster sheets
stacked half a foot high
the removal of cloud layers
from cube
the whole –
What you touch,
with you
a piece of hard green candy
` gathered from a spill
on the gallery floor,
portrait of a friend
the qualities he gave those
he loved
transposed into sweet pile,
please keep
with you
this sweetness,

– Shin Yu Pai

Shin Yu Pai is a graduate of the MFA Writing Program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She has published poems, translations, and photos in several small press journals such as her poetry collection EQUIVALENCE (LA ALAMEDA, 2003) and her chapbook of Chinese translations “Ten Thousand Miles of Mountains and Rivers” is available through Third Ear Books. She currently resides in Watertown, MA .

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February 26, 2010 at 1:21 am

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Chirurgi: Lindsay Obermeyer

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Suture – a joining of the edges of a wound with stitching. One’s skin is essentially a living fabric, a leather of sorts. The surgeon and the embroiderer skillfully mend the tears and cuts in their respective fabrics with needle and thread, leaving behind little
evidence of their activity.

Both surgery and embroidery have histories that are thousands of years old. A brief look at linguistics illustrates their link and intersection. The Greek root for “surgery” is chirurgi, which translates to “hand-work.” In contemporary times, this phrase refers to embroidery.

The voice speaking in my work is female. The embroiderer has practiced the traditional stitches of darning, but educates herself in the craft of surgery. She studies medical manuals. She records the patterns she sees under the microscope. She has no patience for sentimental hearts and flowers, but finds beauty in the body’s interior landscape.

My investigation into the intersections between the surgical and textile crafts began with my own struggles with cancer. I returned to this work in 2003 after an emergency appendectomy. The surgeon used a vertical mattress stitch to suture my abdomen. As an embroider I could not help but admire his needlework skill.

Photos by Larry Sanders

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February 26, 2010 at 1:11 am


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By Megan Rodgers

Elska rolls the apple around in her hands. The fleshy part of her left palm, at the base of her thumb searches for the highest hump, testing and turning until it finds the proper place to brace. She inserts her right thumb into the depression near the stem and tears the apple apart. The break is clean, effortless. “Like bone crunching,” she says when it splits in two. The sound has the urgency of biting into an apple, but without the juicy slurping and chewing, it sings more clearly.

Elska cracks apples before she eats them. Her grandfather taught her how when she was a kid on his farm in Germany. He gave her small apples then, ones that fit her hands. She says the fit is more important than strength, but there is no denying she is strong. She has shed that envelope of fat even thin women are supposed to have, and sinewy muscles ripple plainly under her skin. She is sometimes mistaken for a man, yet both men and women find her sexy. Is it her muscles? Is it how she can intuit the one weak point in the apple where it will let itself be ripped? Is it the way she always offers you half of her apple? You stop thinking, like Adam, you do not question, you take the fruit and eat of it. “If you can pull an apple apart with your bare hands, you can have any girl you want.”

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February 26, 2010 at 12:59 am

Since she turned remote

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She used to come to me

and turn the control

till silence was gone.

But now she keeps a

comfortable distance.

I hardly feel the brush

of fingers, merely

the thick coats

of desire’s dust

and the occasional

kicks of hope, now

my only pleasure

the sweet revenge

of fuzzy pictures

and missed episodes,

her faults my only solace

since she turned remote.

John.G.Hall ©2003

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February 26, 2010 at 12:51 am

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Inge Hoonte

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From the series “Of Course I Dreamed About You”
Thursday, March 13, 2008

I got a phone call. On the display screen it read “Jean Alexander Frater.” I knew she might be coming to town, so I cheerfully pressed the green button in the thought we might be able to meet up. It was her mom. Calling from Jean’s phone. Jean was missing. Took her twin babies with her. She was supposed to meet up with her mom, but never showed up. Left everything behind, except her laptop and babies. Jean’s mom was hoping I knew where she was, knew something or anything, but I didn’t.

I walked the streets of a small village while talking to Jean’s mom on the phone. There were playing, screaming kids all around me, coming out of school, being picked up by their parents who were yelling after them to be careful and “how was your day.” I got home, went inside and looked through the giant glass windows into the small front yard with a willow tree in it. A woman with a young blond girl in a pink summer jacket walked through our yard, right in front of the window, over the meticulously laid out small volcanic rocks. The sound of their feet on the rocks. Kgg kgg kgg kgg kgg kgg. They walked back the same way they came and on to their own house.

I walked away from the window and was now downtown, outside on the sidewalk, surrounded by high glass buildings. Again groups of loud kids around me, which made it hard to hear Jean’s mom on the phone. I asked her if she happened to be staying at the Hilton Hotel, that I just walked into, but she wasn’t. I walked all the way to the back of the lobby to get away from the noise, where two receptionists were sitting behind a counter. I tried to hide from them that I was crying and crammed myself between the counter and the back wall that was covered with light brown mirrored tiles.

I pressed the phone against my ear so I could hear Jean’s mom better. There were long pauses in the conversation in which we were either crying or thinking about what to do, how to find her. She told me it had been strange for a while now, for example that when Jean’s computer starts up it is heavily password protected and installs all new programs and no data gets stored on the computer itself, leaving no traces. She could be anywhere.

Inge Hoonte is a Dutch multi-disciplinary artist based in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has been shown and aired internationally at Museum of Contemporary Art, Helsinki, Finland; Saskatchewan Communications Network, Canada; Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, MessHall, Heaven Gallery, Athenaeum Theatre, Columbia College A+D Gallery, WLUW and NPR, Chicago; Whitebox Benefit, New York; Neighborhood Public Radio, San Francisco; TENT., Rotterdam; Cinema Plaza Futura, Eindhoven and Lux Cinemariënburg, Nijmegen, The Netherlands.

Since 2007 she has been performing with Shua Group at various locations in New York. In 2008 her work will be included in the Whitney Biennial through Neighborhood Public Radio, and in a satellite show of the New Orleans Biennial. She received her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, with a BFA in Visual Art and Public Space from the School of the Arts Arnhem, the Netherlands. http://www.ingehoonte.com

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February 25, 2010 at 3:57 am

‘excerpts from my subconscious’

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deep breath
seems i’ve lost myself
force air through
that clogged anxiety
given in
to another’s world
thought adaptability
a virtue…
feel the urge
to run- RUN!
yet something stops me
pulls me down
disabling all motion
trapping me
(in my own cell)
tick, tick
there it goes again
shake, shake
lost control again
fuck, fuck
what am i to do?
(prague, 2007)

time is funny
time will tell
it’s the controlling factor
will bring us together
will wait forever
but in reality
forever’s too long
and time stops ticking
causes great seperation
so far apart,
yet close enough,
to walk inside
and shred me
into tiny little pieces.
(prague, 2005)

-Sit Pretty Now

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February 25, 2010 at 3:47 am