diaphanous micro 2.9: Adrift | Jonathan K. Rice — Paintings & Poetry

Adrift acrylic on canvas 15” x 45” ©2015

diaphanous micro
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diaphanous micro 2.9: Adrift | Jonathan K. Rice — Paintings & Poetry

Introduction by Krysia Jopek

I fell in love with Jonathan K. Rice’s paintings on facebook several years ago. He is one of my favorite contemporary Abstract Expressionists, whose paintings seem to be a contemporization and furthering of the paintings of Klee, Kandinsky, and Pollock. I admire his ability to create exquisite compositions of color, texture, and depth. He is a sculptor with acrylics on canvas.

Because he is a poet, his titles are quite beautiful and deepen the viewer’s perception of his work. I came to know his poetry also, especially his collection Killing Time (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2015).

I am the proud owner of four of Jonathan’s paintings. It is with great pleasure that I present this virtual art show and selection of his poetry: Adrift.

How to Meditate
acrylic on canvas
10” x 10”
©2017


Querencia
acrylic on canvas
20” x 20”
©2016


Quantum Excursion
acrylic on canvas
20” x 20”
©2016

Xenophilia
acrylic on canvas
20” x 20”
©2016

Permission to Forget
acrylic on canvas
12” x 12”
©2015

Raven Liturgy
acrylic on canvas
14” x 14”
©2015

No Sacrifice to Offer
acrylic on canvas
14” x 14”
©2016

Saliences
acrylic on canvas
10” x 10”
©2015

Mending Time
acrylic on canvas
10” x 10”
©2016

Marginalia
acrylic on canvas
20” x 20”
©2018

I’ve Been Looking Everywhere For You
acrylic on canvas
10” x 10”
©2017

Plight
acrylic on canvas 11” x 14”
©2018

Nostomania
acrylic on canvas
20” x 20”
©2016

Sojourn
acrylic on canvas
20” x 24”
©2014

Broken Promises
acrylic on canvas
9” x 12”
©2018

Sovereign Waters
acrylic on canvas
10” x 10”
©2016

Adrift
acrylic on canvas
15” x 45”
©2015

Artist Statement

Image, color, composition, and texture are all informed by what I read, what I listen to, and that which surrounds me. I work with acrylics and mixed media, creating primarily abstract paintings and assemblage.
Through my art, I explore the relevance of the indescribable, and work toward the understanding of that which can’t always be understood. In this sense, creating art is a spiritual journey as I seek to connect the physical and nonphysical with the intention of drawing the viewer into a deeper understanding of him or herself in relation to the world and that which is physically beyond them.

When asked how I begin a new piece, I like to say that I let the canvas tell me what to do. I may start with a wash of one color and build layer upon layer of blended washes. I may take a palette knife or trowel and spread on a layer of thickly textured acrylic medium. I may begin by gluing various papers to canvas or wood panel. I like quiet time late in the evening. I often paint while I listen to music. On occasion I work on more than a few pieces at a time. In the end though, the canvas tells me when to stop as if crying out, “No more!” That’s when I step back and say, “It is finished.”

Jonathan K. Rice

* * * * *

Finding

There we were
in a bamboo
labyrinth
near a river
bending time
and desire,
holding hands,

finding our way
as the afternoon
leaned into dusk,
an undercurrent
of uncertainty
yet nothing abides
like nightfall
and how earth
embraces it,

how the sun rises
each morning,
how we find
ourselves

©2018

* * * * *

Anchored

You’re anchored
lightly to the earth

it slowly turns
as you dance

upon its meadows
through forests and valleys

as dervishes in deserts
and mosques

as dolphins and whales
leap, breach, do figure eights

through cresting waves,
dive gracefully to depths

where ancient anchors
lie and rust amid coral,

barnacles, crustaceans,
otherworldly creatures

that gently move
in rhythm with currents,

the moon and tides,
salt and sand,

the sun that warms your face,
your hands that reach for mine

©2018

* * * * *

Letters

I write
letters
I never
mail,
explaining
myself,

sometimes
apologizing,
sometimes
defining
words
like soul
and never,
avoiding
love
and infinity,

although
I always
liked
the idea
of infinity
and how
it exists
between
0 and 1,
how
there are
larger
infinities
between
0 and 2,
0 and 3,
and on and on
ad infinitum

and how love
can be
unrequited,
unconditional,
undeserved,
undisciplined

so many
possibilities,
so many
letters
left
un-composed

©2018
* * * * *

Saliva

We take it
for granted

the stuff of taste,
spit, life

double helixes
in every kiss

venom of snakes
silk of caterpillars

glue of nests
for certain swifts

Jesus’ spittle
to heal the blind

Pavlov’s anticipated
conditioning

the mouth’s
protector

our natural lubricant.

©2018

* * * * *

Loose Thread

She teaches me the importance
of knowing where to cut the loose thread,

where it’s from, where it may lead.
She knows the secrets of fabric,

what cloth teaches us about ourselves,
how it hangs from our bodies,

learns from how we walk
from how children roll and tumble.

There behind a button or a zipper
underneath a hem or seam

like the meaning of a parable
it is there to understand.

from Killing Time (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2015)

* * * * *
Rearranging

You bashfully disrobe
by the settee
and coffee table
laden with flowers.

There is comfort
in the dim studio lighting,
a decorative pillow,
a knitted throw.

I direct your pose
but you rearrange yourself
as I explore the curve
of your being,
your half-closed eyes,
your mysterious smile.

At the easel I adjust
the small light to my side
not knowing
where to begin.
Your horizon unknown,
your landscape unexplored.

from Killing Time (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2015) (

* * * * *
Biographical Notes:

Jonathan K. Rice edited Iodine Poetry Journal for seventeen years and served as a co-editor for Kakalak in 2016. He most recently co-edited Of Burgers & Barrooms, an anthology published by Main Street Rag Publishing in 2017.

He is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Killing Time (2015), Ukulele and Other Poems (2006) and a chapbook, Shooting Pool with a Cellist (2003), all published by Main Street Rag Publishing. His poetry and art have appeared in numerous publications, including The Aurorean, Cold Mountain Review, Comstock Review, Empty Mirror, Gargoyle, Levure Litteraire, The Main Street Rag, Wild Goose Poetry Review and the anthologies, Hand in Hand: Poets Respond to Race and The Southern Poetry Anthology VII: North Carolina.

His art has appeared in a number of group and solo exhibits in the Carolinas. Most recently his show Excursions: Paintings by Jonathan K. Rice ran through June 2018 at the North Charleston City Gallery.

He is the recipient of the 2012 Irene Blair Honeycutt Legacy Award for outstanding service in support of local and regional writers, awarded by Central Piedmont Community College. Jonathan lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.

author photo by Yajaira Vazquez
©2015

Jonathan K. Rice’s paintings, including the seventeen here in this virtual art show, are available to purchase. Please contact Jonathan via facebook, if interested!

Jonathan’s website
Killing Time (book of poetry)
Jonathan on facebook

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diaphanous micro 2.8: Alexis Rhone Fancher  | Photographic Memory

Apprehension In The Back Seat May 8, 2018 2048 x 1546 pixels

diaphanous micro
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diaphanous micro 2.8: Alexis Rhone Fancher | Photographic Memory

My Dead Boy – A Ghazal

Eleven years after, my boy’s still dead.
(I hold him in the rafters of my head.)

His photo’s propped at the side of my bed.
(I kiss it on the nightstand near my head.)

A letterman jacket hangs in his stead.
(I shelter him, deep inside my head.)

Are you over it? my heartless friend said.
(I nail her to a grim place in my head.)

Each night I tell myself that dead is dead.
(But there he is, the gallows of my head.)

Awake, I relive the terrible dread.
(I shut myself to sleep inside my head.)

I still can’t bear to hear his name said.
(It echoes in the chambers of my head.)

Sweet mama! Stop turning everything red.
(I want to shoot myself in the head.)

©2018

* * * * *

Caged

“Birds born in cages think that flying is an illness.” Alejandro Jodorowsky

He loves me because I look like his mother at 30.
I discover her photo in a secret drawer,
the same rounded hips,

and dark, wavy hair,
her pale, off-the-shoulder blouse an exact
duplicate of one he’s given me.

She has bigger breasts, deeper cleavage.
You eat like a bird! her son chastises,
passing me the cheesecake.

Suddenly it all makes sense.
Like when he cries Mama! in his dreams.
Awakens empty-armed. Abandoned.

He does not cry out for me.

Shoved under our door, a flyer:
“If you find a dead bird, call 1-877-WNV-BIRD.”
Lost between the bed and the mirror, I look and look.

He hides his obsession in a stack of magazines
in the bathroom. A blur of a girl, naked,
disappearing in a doorway. It could be his mother.

He locks the door.

Plump bird. Feathered nest.
Force-fed. Fois gras.
Fattened up for slaughter.

Someone’s dinner. Someone’s daughter.

When he hits me because I look like his mother,
he pulls back his fist, takes aim at her caged facsimile.
I hold perfectly still.

We both know he could never hit his mother. 

©2018

* * * * *

Eat

Your open ‘fridge is the floodlight
at a Hollywood premiere,
a beacon for gourmands,
a newly-minted saint.
It lights up Sunset Blvd. from Olivera Street
to the beach.

Your smile is the blancmange of my sugar crave.
It bowls me over,
makes me gluttonous, ravenous,
makes me eat gelato, and pomme frites,
lick pasta with prosciutto in red sauce
from the hollow of your throat,
makes me want to eat pussy,
and cheesecake, and macaroons,
wash it all down with a robust Amorone,
tamp it down with unfiltered, brown, Sherman cigarettes,
makes me want to eat my way
down your menu.

So I went to Whole Foods to get a chicken,
cooked it just the way you like it,
with mushrooms and onions and truffle oil,
stuffed it with wild rice
and naked photos of Ursula Andress,
served it in the kitchen of my high-rise on Spring Street,
watched you eat it,
wolf it down, the same way
I’d like to eat you.

©2018

* * * * *

Gold Star Lesbian

Once, in a moment of recklessness, I fell in love with Phoebe, an older, yet still delicious lipstick lesbian, who swore she would spoil me for any man. My first ex-husband was shacked up with my ex-best friend; husband #2 was lurking, just around the corner. It was a window. Phoebe, a buyer for Bullocks Wilshire, that art deco building gleaming on Miracle Mile, used her employee discount to clothe me in style, bought me silk blouses, linen trousers, tailored suits. She liked her women sleek. Understated. Wild hair tamed into a lacquered updo, secured with antique Japanese combs. I was a whole new me. Squelched. Ladylike, but for the four-inch stilettos and the fuchsia corset sequestered inside my high-buttoned faux-modesty. I reveled in how it arched my back, my breasts thrust forward, an offering. Phoebe liked it, too. She’d trace the corset stays encircling my ribs with her index finger, her eyes glued to mine like Mesmer. Underneath all that polish and restraint beat a frenzied heart. You would not believe how fast that tailored suit hit the floor, stilettos kicked off like a pesky persona. She was a Gold Star lesbian, untouched by men, although plenty must have pursued her, her golden hair and haughty beauty an irresistible lure. I was all in, worshipful; I followed Phoebe around like a dog. She swore she’d been alone for years, that I was her re-awakening, that no one had ever made her come so good. But that night, at her favorite club, the fresh graffiti on the toilet stall wall told a different story:

Phoebe
has the
most pleasurable
vagina this side
of Saturn except
4 your mom

©2018

* * * * *


For The Russian Waitress at the Yorkshire Grill Who Reads Akhmatova on Her Break

She’s a sloe-eyed Madonna in a black uniform, refilling napkin holders, topping off salt shakers, funneling ketchup from one half-full bottle to another. I, among the faithful, come to worship at her station, always sitting in her section. I’m convinced she’s secretly the Virgin of Feodorovskaya, venerated icon of the upper Volga, the way she must have looked first thing in the morning, brewing coffee, sans Byzantine jewels and heavy crown.

She’s the patron saint of diners, the dispenser of special orders shimmering behind the counter, a saint tethered to the linoleum by tired booths and chipped Formica. When she takes my order, I bow my head, genuflect; her tangled, familiar accent a benediction. When she sees me eye her worn paperback, peeking out of her pocket, The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, she fingers the author’s cover photo with reverence.

I want to remove the pins from her hair, loosen the tight bun, let the blunt wisps fall to her chin, narrowing her high-cheekboned visage. I want to worship at the pout of her lips, nuzzle at her neck’s altar. I want to slip her uniform off her shoulders, bury myself in her Russian-ness, pull her down next to me in the booth, feed her bits of brisket, dill pickle, baklava, give her sips of my tea.

You’re beautiful! I’ll tell her, but she’ll shake her head. She has no faith in platitudes. I’ll take her photo when she’s not looking. Print it as proof of faith, an 8×10 glossy, then bring it to her, an offering. I, too, am Russian (on my father’s side) I’ll say. I, too, carry Akhmatova in my pocket.

It will be the first time I’ve seen her smile.

©2018

* * * * *

Amsterdam, Red Light District
September 9, 2004
1600 x 1200 pixels

Head Over Heels
July 1, 2008
1804 x 2256 pixels

Stella
Hand Tinted March 29, 2012
2350 x 3415 pixels

Apprehension In The Back Seat
May 8, 2018
2048 x 1546 pixels

Screamer, Redondo Beach, CA
December 18, 2017
977 x 1179 pixels

Movie Star Dreams, Venice, CA
June 9, 2018
1321 x 1758 pixels

We Are Open… Emotionally, San Rafael, CA
April 29, 2018
4032 x 3024 pixels

* * * * *

Three Poems from JUNKIE WIFE

why i prefer injectable narcotics

(the truth that impales me each time i get straight.)

it’s all cake once i’ve found a good vein.
i surrender to the dazzling foreplay
loosen the belt, ease back the plunger
watch my blood flood the syringe.
the gasp, the breath-catch just before i jam
the plunger down, just like
you plunge into me (my cheeks flush)
and the rush? the ride? the afterglow?
better than sex. correction: better than sex with you (i mean).

first published in Public Pool, 2016

* * * * *

Divorce Court Barbie™ (Ken™ Drives Away With All of My Things)

I was no Fairytale Bride™ but
I came with a Barbie Daybed,™ A Bath Fun Playset,™
and a large, pink Desire Barbie Dildo Vibrator™
for when Ken™ forgot to come home.

But he couldn’t keep it in his Ken Fashionistas Trousers.™
He parked his Glam Convertible w/ Silver Rims™
in Skipper’s™ driveway,
stashed his GPS in her Long & Short of It Pants.™

Then he drove out of her Dinner Date Playset™ and back to
our Barbie Dream House,™ packed a few things in my
Store-It-All Carrying Case™
and dropped me at the Barbie Grand Hotel™ like I was
so much Euro-trash.

Look, Your Honor, nobody came with a warranty,
but unlike Ken,™ my intentions were pure; I lived up to my
Good Housekeeping Seal.

The Ken & Barbie Have Sex Before Marriage Playset™
made sure Ken knew what he was getting into.
Then he got into Skipper.™

I know what you must think, Your Honor.
There are names for dolls like me:

Bad Luck Barbie™
Throwaway Barbie™
– the one Ken™ swears he wouldn’t love if I were the
Last Girl On Earth Barbie.™

The one who’s rendered worthless once you trash the box.

first published in Vox Populi, 2018

* * * * *

Quiet Candy

After you kicked me out,
and moved Vicki in,
I spilled my guts to the Armenian drug dealer
at the Glendale Galleria.

He told me he’d fix
my Porsche, pay off my credit cards, keep me
in cashmere and coke,
if I’d let him.
He’d dress me in silk that grazed my ass,
said he liked the whiteness
of my thighs, said if I were his, he’d keep me
out of the sun.

There I was, strung out on dope,
all lanky, pale-skinned
need.

The Armenian drug dealer bought me
4-inch Louboutins and a leash,
bought me
a Stetson to shade my face.
I let him move me
into his condo in Glendale.

The Armenian drug dealer liked to drive
the freeways, had business
in San Diego and Oceanside
and San Juan Capistrano, liked the top down
on the Beamer, liked the way my hair whipped
in the wind. He liked fucking me
in his 3-car garage, pinned
against the hood. He could do it for hours
when I’d let him.

The Armenian drug dealer liked candy on his arm,
quiet candy
that was loud in the bedroom. He liked my ass
raised on a pillow, legs spread
like a Gullwing Mercedes.

I let him do anything he wanted.
He wanted me to tell him about you.

I told the Armenian drug dealer
how you wrapped Vicki in my mother’s embroidered shawl,
how you gave her my grandmother’s amethyst ring.
How you used a rifle to make your point.
How you could only come if you tied me up.
How you papered our bedroom with lies.

The Armenian drug dealer wanted to storm your house
wanted to tie you up with the same ropes you used on me
wanted to rip my mother’s shawl from Vicki’s shoulders
wanted to take the rifle out of your hands
wanted to bring back my grandmother’s amethyst ring.

So I let him.

first published in Plume, 2017

* * * * *

Statement of Poetics
My writing is predominantly confessional. I look at my life as material. Time as ammunition. I write daily, always at a computer or keyboard. Minimum 4 hours. I edit mercilessly. I think of my poems as product – as flash – as communication. As permission. As life raft.

Writing Influences: Dorianne Laux, Sharon Olds, Louise Gluck, Frank O’Hara, Michelle Bitting, H.D., Jack Grapes, Ellen Bass, Joseph Millar, Catullus, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Jack Gilbert, Rita Dove, Richard Jones, Anna Akhmatova.

Artist Statement
I shot my first photos at age ten. My father thought I had talent and bought me a Nikon. I’ve always had a camera in my hand. Another way to interact with the world while keeping myself at len’s distance. I shoot “street” photos with my iPhone 10. In the studio I shoot formal portraits with my Nikon D810, using an 85mm lens. In both worlds, my focus is on revealing my subject, sourcing the humanity that connects us all.

Photographic Influences: Dorothea Lange, Mark Ellen Mark, Diane Arbus, Irving Penn, Lisette Model, WeeGee, Walker Evans, Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand, Nan Golden, Herb Ritts, Helmut Newton, Jan Saudek, Cindy Sherman, Sebastian Salgado, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Arthur Tress.

Biographical Notes
Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry 2016, Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily,
Plume, Tinderbox, Diode, Nashville Review, Duende, Wide Awake, Poets of Los Angeles
, and
elsewhere. Her books include: How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen & other heart stab
poems
(Sybaritic Press, 2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies (KYSO FLASH Press, 2015),
Enter Here (KYSO FLASH Press, 2017), and Junkie Wife (Moon Tide Press, 2018), the story of
her first, disastrous marriage. Her photographs have been published worldwide, including the
covers of Witness, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Heyday, and Pithead Chapel. A multiple
Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. She lives
with her husband on the cliffs of San Pedro, California, a sleepy beach community, 20 miles
from her former digs in downtown L.A.

Self-portrait
March 2018

JUNKIE WIFE
ENTER HERE: POEMS
STATE OF GRACE: THE JOSHUA ELEGIES
HOW I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO MICHAEL COHEN
Interview with Alexis in Gyroscope Review
Alexis’ website
Alexis on facebook

310
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diaphanous micro 2.7 | Higher Clouds: Poetry by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

Leeway

Now that you’re swimming the light, tell us
what you ink.
Are you fired up by the radiant mouth
of yesterday’s ashes? By the handheld thunder
amid ejected objects?
Oh, how we like your ubiquitous unpredictability!

In the court of awe, a gem losing its case.
The burnt umber of the day.
Magnets operate compasses.
“Don’t mind my stultitia,” says the purpose.
“Don’t mind course edits,” say the eddies.
Long time, no ask.

Now our “else” wants to be something else. Perhaps,
a thermal mystery. Or strawberry stars.
There’s more confusion underwater
than above the clouds, more history
in the mirrors than in the eyes.
Deviate, reflect.

* * * * *

Once in a Brazen Moon

Shadow of an arrogant ship…
How can I hear them speak? Not the dead
but the raucous pines.

Medusa would have been amused
by our hairy seaweeds. There would have been
many more hot air balloons
if it hadn’t been for this war.
What’s left in celestial clefts?

Collective mind is a giant grouper
that follows near-bottom flows;
individual mind, a suckerfish.
The draught of confusion, the warmth
of embarrassment. Give us all
or give us none. Who’s writing history
in spent ink?

I’d do it for the light in which a loss blossoms.
I’d do it for eww.
Only the rusted are trusted, why?
I pluck at loose dulse. The flooded bed,
the torn casing of time.
Then we all fall
through a rainbow of layers.

* * * * *

Scraping over a Sandbank

A boneless helicopter is always there
to pick you up. Hold on to your inner
Baron Munchausen.

It is summer. Some hairy souls smooch
pseudoaluminium saxophones.
At every crossroad,
the dust of the concrete Isle of Crete
relapses into a silent poem of adversity.

Criteria of crumbling are a labyrinth.
The Minotaur is a cloud, rigid
as a mammoth skeleton.
The kill bull bill has just sifted
through “as if”.

Shoreline is a shrine. The century
has been left dark side up;
doubts wing their way over it.
Pullulating fish mouths have all the answers.

* * * * *

Higher Clouds

An earthquake? It can be squeezed
out of your mind tremors.
Exaggerate your egg bubbles, agglutinate
a glowing necklet of spherules and satellites.
I tell you fear is blood,
we drank it all.

In your line of killing, life
already is a skeleton.
We’ve sudetenlanded
in ten lands. We’ve
1939ed our 2014.
Such fun!

As the garden shrinks
into a kernel, complacency
rocks itself in a chair.
Your day drowns trust
in lunar dust. Where the sky
plays possum, your hands blossom.

Soft-spoken biro.
Madness machine.
You are the exiled graphite
of trees.
The world will rotate
around your rusty axis.

* * * * *

Branching Knowledge

Having seen the fruits, we replant the roots,
a pretty scientist chants
into self-infused obscurity.
She’s a cleft squirrel, and there are
speech bubbles in her glass.

Other squirrels have shadows for tails; they’ve
cut themselves loose from the vine of cognition
aeons ago. Ideals surrender to necessity
(expect trumpets at every itchy moment.)
It’s a story of growth told by an axe.

Dr. Frankenstein, Head of Research,
scoops walnut brains with his silver spoon.
Trust them usefully in a narration.
Pale writing. Petals of a misty blue flower.
Mystery can never be amiss.

Ink-blot monsters are in no hurry to sink
into the ink-pot of oblivion. Background volcanoes
have spoken in the language of flame;
the sulfury breeze is infested with sugary voices.
So this is how it is going to be . . .

And yet again, somebody grabs the axe handle
covered with notes of praise and admiration.

all poems ©2018
* * * * *

Interview with Anatoly

Do you agree with Adam Zagajewski who once said the following: “While writing a poem I am a poet, whereas at other times I am an ordinary man”?
Is a poet an ordinary person? I would say, yes and no. When I write, I try to create an alternative reality, which sometimes results in me finding myself in some kind of “poetic space.” These periods of complete disconnection with real life leave an imprint on you, noticeable rather to others than to yourself. Sometimes you see astonishment in their eyes!

What triggers your writing process?
Sometimes a particular phrase gets me going, sometimes I mishear something, and the metamorphosed sentence, or a combination of words, sounds marvellously fresh and appealing. If I can’t come up with a good opening line, there’s no point in continuing. But if I do, I just try to develop it. Sometimes I have a feeling that the poem writes itself, I just need to jot it down on paper, or type it.

Your poetics?
Surrealism, mainly. As Octavio Paz once put it, Surrealism is not a kind of poetry; it is a poetics and a world vision. In the 21st century, we know the meanings of words and things only too well. A surrealist cuts the ties between things and their meanings, and then rearranges such ties, or draws new ones. A Surrealist is always a creator, because for him there’s no given reality.

How do you frame a poem as in, what is the framework?
I am a former musician, and I know very well that a poem shapes itself; you just have to cut off the surplus. Then I put the first draft aside for a while—and come back to it later to look at it with fresh eyes. If it is the right moment, the poem shows me its flaws, and I begin to think how to improve it. Then I put aside the second draft – and so on. Finally, the moment comes when I realise that I am happy with this particular piece and don’t want to change anything in it. Like in music, the framework is the audible. I sometimes read my poem to myself, just to check if it sounds right.

Who are your influences / poets whose work you admire.
My influences? Almost everything you read affects your writing. I can go as far back as Shakespeare, William Blake, Saint-John Pearse, André Breton, Paul Celan, Gabriel Garcia Lorca, Samuel Beckett, Dylan Thomas, Zbigniew Herbert, Thomas Tranströmer, and the Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun; and on the other side of the Atlantic—Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Stephen Crane, Carl Sandberg, William Carlos Williams, Jack Spicer, Mark Strand, Philip Lamantia, James Tate. I would say, their works were examples for me rather than sources of stylistic borrowings. The poets I admire? All the aforementioned, and many more, including our contemporaries, such as Charles Simic, Stephen Dobins, and Dean Young.

How did you find out about Diaphanous?
I was trying to google Jennifer Juneau in search of her latest poems – and, as it happened, I found them in Diaphanous Review.

Biographical notes

Anatoly Kudryavitsky is living in Dublin, Ireland. He has published a collection of his poetry titled Shadow of Time (Goldsmith Press, 2005) and three collections of his haiku, the latest being Horizon (Red Moon Press, USA, 2016). His poems have also appeared in Oxford Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, The Prague Revue, Plume, The American Journal of Poetry, The Honest Ulsterman, Cyphers, The SHOp, Stride, Otoliths, etc. His new (second) novel titled The Flying Dutchman has been published by Glagoslav Publications (UK) in July 2018. He was the recipient of the Maria Edgeworth Poetry Prize (Ireland, 2003), the Mihai Eminescu Academy Award for Poetry (Romania, 2017), and multiple international haiku awards. In 2016 and in 2017, his poems were nominated for the Pushcart Prize by The American Journal of Poetry and Shot Glass Journal. He is the editor of SurVision poetry magazine.

Anatoly’s website
recent poems
SurVision magazine
Anatoly on facebook

©1999

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diaphanous micro 2.6 | An Open Secret: paintings by Hiva Moazed

Introduction by Krysia Jopek

I was introduced to Iranian painter Hiva Moazed’s amazing artwork by Stefan Bohdan after working with him on diaphanous micro 2.3. Hiva and Stefan are currently collaborating on a book of her paintings and his poetry.

Hiva’s paintings move on the two-dimensional plane with the buoyancy of dream and dance. She manages to balance semi-representational images and figures with an abstract background, usually imbued with bright colors. This sequence and the years each painting was created show her evolution from charcoal to bright colors.

She would like viewers to find pleasure when viewing her paintings and to be lifted up and happy. Her paintings pay homage to the tradition of painting—homage to Miro, Chagall, Matisse, Monet, Kandinsky, Kahlo, and Gaugain.

It’s been lovely working with Hiva who resides in Iran. Please enjoy this virtual show of her artwork.

You are a masterpiece
mixed media on canvas
120 x 90 cm
©2017

This dream reminds you
mixed media on cardboard
29.7 x 42 cm
©2018

My heart is my paradise. What is yours?
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Breed
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Freedom
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Guests at the party
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Be realistic
mixed media on paper
29 x 40 cm
©2018

Where is your turban?
mixed media on cardboard
30 x 40 cm
©2017

The pink dream
mixed media on canvas
100 x 80 cm
©2018

I need your glasses
ink on cardboard
29.5 x 32.5 cm
©2016

You say “brushing.” I say “buckling.”
ink and charcoal on paper
30 x 45 cm
©2017

SShhh. . . . It is me.
ink and charcoal on paper
30 x 45 cm
©2017

We saw the heart of the sweetheart on the glass
mixed media on paper
29 x 40 cm
©2018

I need some electricity
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Which one is my hand?
mixed media on cardboard
30 x 40 cm
©2017

Come back to me!
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018

Miracle
mixed media on paper
29 x 40 cm
©2018

My heart is my paradise. What is yours?
mixed media on cardboard
38.5 x 29.5 cm
©2018


Artist Statement — July, 2018

All my artwork is made completely impromptu. When I start to paint, I don’t know what it will be in the end. I communicate my thoughts and passions by painting.

Usually people have different reactions when looking at my paintings, which I like. I would like people to take their time in front of my art and have their own impressions.

My paintings come from my inner world, my soul and heart. I use some codes and symbols in my artwork to express my thoughts and emotions.

People ask me why I have fish in my work. Fish have a lot of meaning and interpretations. To me, fish signify the abundance of blessings in life, the flow of life with all its bitter and sweet elements, and reproduction. These themes sometimes appear with positive and sweet sides and sometimes, bitterness and protest. Fish also represent love, hope, happiness, and vitality in life, in addition to other possible meanings. In the end, I could say that fish are also a symbol of myself because I am a Pisces.

I hope that viewers experience pleasure when they see my paintings even if I am representing a problem in life. I don’t try to transfer a huge wave of sadness and despair to my audience. I think happiness and hope are the most important things in life. We need them to continue our lives with a positive attitude.

I appreciate all serious painters in the world and respect those who came before me for just one reason: I adore art—and painting, in particular. I especially love Chagall, Picasso, Dubuffet, Francis Bacon. Gauguin, and Miro. These artists and many others have worked so hard to follow their passion. Seeing artwork by all the painters I love is enjoyable and inspirational to me.

Usually I create my mixed media paintings with ink, acrylics, and pastels. I rarely use oil. The choice of materials, including paints and canvas, cardboard, or paper—depends on my emotions, my sense of subject for the work, and the result I want to create. It’s like your soul is thirsty for something and you should listen to that.

I always listen to my inner voice and emotions. I believe that painters paint to satisfy their souls.

Please feel free to leave comments expressing your impressions of my paintings and to contact me directly.

Biographical Notes
Painter, Artist
Tehran, Iran
h.moazed@hotmail.com
Civil engineering, Mazandaran University, 4 years, graduation date 2010
Free and private art courses date 2012‐2015
Certificate in coaching child painting and creativity, Tehran university,2018
Hiva on facebook
Hiva on Instagram

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diaphanous micro
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diaphanous micro 2.5: Miguel Escobar (poet) & Sinaida Wolf (artist) | Four Variations of the Same Mood, And an Afterthought

Sinaida Wolf
Sunbathing in the studio
1536 x 860 pixels
photos, digital art
©2018

** 1

a promise to bring something home
something new,
something fitting

space exists
called patience
— the middle of the ocean is
not where anything
ends

the pleasant swell —
a consummate aphrodisiac
lapping on
hull

tattered map remnants with
points of departure many —
from
somewhere interior

what is loved is not hemmed in
nor subject to aging
nor quiet, nor still

what’s loved
is blossoming beyond belief
or beliefs —
vine-like and hurried

the least likely answer
demures
— the furthest premonitions
intrude
unannounced

shadows of a lone figure
promise to care —
birthed,
gaining significance
from well-placed light

& dripping
voluptuous drops

continuing
to hold on

drained of most meaning



Sinaida Wolf
Sepia no1
960 x 960 pixels
Pencil drawing, photo, digital art
©2018


** 2

inside
an unclassified style of cloud

you may not have known to
look for
the truth — little more than mist,
it doesn’t run or even hide

it waits
to be asked
the right question

days
of grey, complicated
interference

be sure
— there is nothing new
under the sun, meaning ever

a genealogy,
but not that far back

a history
somewhat watered down

a waterfall future —
one of
recovering dreams
clouded by passion

and
ones now on trial

the first year it could be said
we go back

meaning iron thread
peeking out a clearing
in the clouds

mistaken for sunlight

 —

Sinaida Wolf
Thoughts about structures
1532 x 1149 pixels
fine liner, photo, digital art
©2017

** 3

behind color, objects

underneath those, reasons

beyond explanations,
something like dreams

the shadow that grew
while no one watched

the thing laid bare
after so many chapters
— such comfort in numbers

the medium
sees certain senses dip in & out

when it’s all dry, the one remains

eternal —
one, next life fills a vacuum

with the rhythm of train tracks
and endless scenery
by and by

brush stroke
buys the next conversation

one for keeps



Sinaida Wolf
Broken layers
960 x 960 pixels
ball pen, ink, digital art
©2016


** 4

within his head
she said the thing an intuition exists for

sound of a large coin hitting the floor

whirly birds in the sky
with no earthly use —

they’re tied to the single upward gaze
of each of a million
dreamers

the dream exists
to say
wake up

she is
comfortable talking to herself
on paper

— go ahead

the voice a tool
the ear an antenna
the mind a sieve

life is a lark

but seriously..




Sinaida Wolf
Tenderly
960 x 720 pixels
watercolor, ink, photo, digital art
©2015

Afterthought

the gun hanging on a wall

a living skyline —

gliding,
repeating — just often enough
to hypnotize

how both blow smoke

— both
stand in for
the stark and bleak of
culture’s evasion

society’s big time

biding time

& hallowed
the measure of fruit ripening —
with stopwatch

spin passage,
bid the good times something, anything

tilting the cut faces of a diamond
to catch light

all that we let stand in
for
breathing

the gun’s weight

having the nail cave
to gravity
of
a situation



Sinaida Wolf
Secret
1536 x 872 pixels
mixed media, silk, ink, photo, digital art
©2015

poetry, Miguel Escobar ©2018

Statement of Poetics – Miguel Escobar, June 2018
Mysterious as I might like these mysterious things to remain. . .
Robert M. Pirsig’s grand “metaphysics of quality,” as uncovered in his 1974 book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, together with the ghost of T.S. Eliot’s thought on the objective correlative in literature, how emotion is experienced in Art–both come to mind, and I believe work together, to explain my current writing process — a process of trying to discriminate and detect in, or craft into a verse object an artful taste. . . . Apply or merge that with the idea of experimentation in attempting to mimic styles of abstraction, impressionism, expressionism, surrealism — how those things might manifest in language and emanate outwards; this inside a stream of consciousness smattered with subconscious allusion or reference, even if it is only in the later discovery. . . . Is this how you come close to being able to objectify something as inherently subjective as this? Some kind of mist, smoke or invisible hand. . .




Artist Statement – Sinaida Wolf, July 2018
A rough sketch of the artist’s thoughts on her process, as described to the poet, from a very recent conversation.

The main artistic process I follow is one of layering. With digital work, as compared with painting alone, there seems to develop and manifest more of an element of surprise during the process of creation. Layers themselves are each highly individual expressions, and a relationship develops with each, between it and the artist. The surprise is felt as a sense of wonder at something new emerging from the process of layering. Patience can be said to be very much at work, as meaning is something that must be awaited, before then being able to follow or further develop that meaning, once it becomes clear enough. Concrete expression of the overall meaning is often revealed in the creation of a title or the inclusion of poetry.



Osmosis: Regarding the Influence of Sinaida Wolf’s Art on Mine – Miguel Escobar
I feel very happy and honored to share this space with Sinaida Wolf, my very close artist friend from Germany, whose works have been an influence on my art life for something over two years now. I want to share a few thoughts about that influence, since the context may be of interest when the reader is taking in and experiencing our works here.

The art of writing, like all art, stems and flows from mysterious places inside us, and staying true to that mystery, by trying to retain and reflect it in one’s art, is natural to some of us, even if it has taken a lifetime of work, or some part of it, to uncover some knowledge of that as a kind of truth, about the muse, and its process.

There has been only one work of Sinaida’s art that by itself ever moved me to write something specific, and it was, I think, because I imagined or discerned the piece of art as containing a gift. I felt moved to reflect on the piece directly, by creating a little story, as a poem, about an unusual gift being given directly to me. Interestingly, that poem has never been finished, and something about it has remained elusive to me, which I suspect is wrapped up in my own perfectionism. That particular work of hers that I associate thematically with a gift is one of the pieces I selected to include here, though my unfinished poem is not.

I mention this rather isolated artistic incident to underline the fact that the main influence her art has had on me, or mine, seems to be more of an osmosis — one of learning to work, give voice to, and trust the workings and expressions of the subconscious.

At some level, knowledge of Sinaida’s other life as a professor of art therapy, and the connection that has with psychology, made me seriously consider whether there was true, personal meaning to be searched for inside her works. Then, extrapolating that to my own writing, considering whether the same could be done with words — the creation of meaning, but by consciously trying to create and retain an abstract and impressionistic aura that might exude enigma, or mystery, and both invite and defy the discovery of meaning.

More recently I’ve begun to think, or realize, that if parts of one’s life, or psyche, needs to remain hidden, and yet there is a tension that develops because there is a natural desire to want to be open and share, then subconscious expression is a solution, and one’s art then acts as a bridge.

These particular rivers and the bridges over them operate at one level, but there is also the level of the work that is towards the perfecting of the artistic object, and operating at that level is more conscious, and in the thick of things. Both levels work in tandem as the process of creation, and may be a parallel to the kind of layering Sinaida describes as being the main feature of her artistic process.



Miguel Escobar
photo by Life, formerly Annie Escobar
©2013

Biographical Notes – Miguel Escobar
Miguel Escobar’s writing has appeared on-line at Luciole Press, Diaphanous Press Fall 2017 Issue, on Facebook since late 2015, in the WordPress blog community, and on MySpace circa 2007-2008. He resides in the northern California city of Sacramento, at the confluence of the American and Sacramento rivers.

Miguel Escobar on facebook
email: mjescobar@msn.com


Sinaida Wolf
photo by the artist’s brother
©2014

Biographical notes – Sinaida Wolf
Sinaida Wolf (her artist name), German artist, studied art at the University Of Arts, Ottersberg, Germany. She has participated in various exhibitions in Germany and abroad, the last being a group exhibition: the Seoul, Korea International Photo Festival 2018, which ran 5/31 through 6/6/2018. In her other profession, she works as a professor of art therapy in Germany, teaching digital art and art therapy. She also teaches abroad in Malaysia, China and the Philippines.

Sinaida Wolf on facebook
Sinaida Wolf on Instagram
Email: sinaidawolf@googlemail.com

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