You've got to dig to dig it, you dig?
Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!
Wild nights – Wild nights!, Emily Dickinson
Writing is a kind of loving. Loving sticks a widget into the machinery of doubt.
The End Is the Beginning, Mónica Gomery
I cringe when he curses my heros
I cringe when he talks like nero
Sodden
Sweepin his puddly tears
Crying like he been sweepin for years
But I hear him
And know
Somewhere
He’s not entirely so wrong
But I cannot blame him
And I will not shame him
Only holyest praise
Like stilts or boat boots
So he can ride in with the tide
If he need him some rest
Or to confide in the horizon
Because some people have shadows
But I got Broom Sweeper Man—
Resentful and honest
from Most People Have Shadows But I got Broom Sweeper Man, Basie Allen. Iterant, Issue 8.
Palm-Lined with Potience. Ugly Duckling Presse, 2025.
But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats—
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these—
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
Voices of the Air, Katherine Mansfield
When I am feeling depressed and anxious sullen
all you have to do is take your clothes off
and all is wiped away revealing life’s tenderness
that we are flesh and breathe and are near us
as you are really as you are I become as I
really am alive and knowing vaguely what is
and what is important to me above the intrusions
of incident and accidental relationships
which have nothing to do with my life
when I am in your presence I feel life is strong
and will defeat all its enemies and all of mine
and all of yours and yours in you and mine in me
sick logic and feeble reasoning are cured
by the perfect symmetry of your arms and legs
spread out making an eternal circle together
creating a golden pillar beside the Atlantic
the faint line of hair dividing your torso
gives my mind rest and emotions their release
into the infinite air where since once we are
together we always will be in this life come what may
Poem “À la recherche d’ Gertrude Stein“, Frank O’Hara
Onajide has prepared a solo exhibition set to open on 31 May, 6 pm (18 hr) at 101 NW 79th Street, Miami, FL. If you’re in town please accept this as an invitation to stop by. The exhibition is titled, Murmur.
In the beginning, there was your mouth:
soft rose, rose murmur, murmured breath, a warm
cardinal wind that drew my needle north.
Magnetic flux, the press of form to form.
In the beginning, Donika Kelly
My birds in freedom & captivity, Hubert D. Astley, London :J. M. Dent, 1900.
biodiversitylibrary.org/page/13687960
The Avicultural magazine, Being the Journal of the Avicultural Society for the study of British and foreign birds in freedom and captivity. Edited by the Marquess of Tavistock. Fourth Series, Volume II. January 1924 to December 1924.
biodiversitylibrary.org/page/56200435
Gray lady and the birds
New York,The Macmillan company, 1907
www.biodiversitylibrary.org/item/45945
Evelyn Sosa and Legna Rodríguez Iglesias, an interview in Artishock Revista.
¿Cuál fue el objeto que más te impresionó y el que menos?
Hasta ahora el objeto que más me ha impresionado ha sido el del hombre que trajo solamente la foto de su madre envuelta en una bolsa de nylon guardada en su bolsillo, cuando vino en balsa. En algún punto del viaje él se tiró al mar lleno de tiburones, nadó hacia un helicóptero y la foto sobrevivió. Con eso fue con lo único que llegó y ahí estaba treinta años después.
Otra persona que entrevisté me enseñó el peine que hizo su abuelo a mano, a partir de una plancha de metal que se había encontrado en los años treinta, y que su abuelo antes de morir pidió que se lo dieran a él, que en ese momento tenía once años y que ahora lo narra prácticamente sin que las lágrimas le permitieran hablar. A veces se repiten objetos, como las fotografías o, por ejemplo, el libro Distintos modos de cavar un túnel de Juan Carlos Flores. Aunque el objeto se parezca o se repita, las historias que cargan son diferentes. Es realmente sorprendente y maravilloso.
¿Había diferencias de emociones entre retratar el objeto y retratar a su dueño?
Siempre hay diferencias. Incluso de persona a persona cada entrevista se conduce de manera diferente, es improvisado, impredecible. Hay quienes dan más valor a la entrevista, hay quienes lo toman más ligero, y eso influye en mí para hacer las fotografías. Aunque no se pierde la esencia de la manera en la que me gusta retratar, cercano, medio intrusivo y con compasión, si cabe eso.
Para hacer las fotografías de los objetos yo me separo, monto un set y ahí somos solo el objeto y yo. Es diferente. Para mí el objeto tiene extrema importancia y yo quiero magnificarlo; quiero, sin modificarlo, hacerlo bello. Me interesa que se vea bello, que se sienta que es algo importante. Yo me arrodillo ante el objeto cuando lo estoy fotografiando.
California gardeners plant native species in parks to prevent wildfire spread. The Guardian. terremoto.la