Paul Evans (British, b. 1954, Sussex, England, based Lavenham, Suffolk, England) - Hoar Frost, Paintings: Acrylic on Canvas
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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art blog(derogatory)
trying on a metaphor
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Paul Evans (British, b. 1954, Sussex, England, based Lavenham, Suffolk, England) - Hoar Frost, Paintings: Acrylic on Canvas

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“sing and pray, cry and sway”
inertia
pushes us
through the loop
Resolving the
unknown

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Marcin Cienski (Polish, b. 1976, Krakow, Poland, based Berlin, Germany) - Colorado, 2018, Paintings: Oil on Canvas
misleading superlatives
but also a particular truth
to disregard pride
for a few hours
and think about change
a tired look over the shoulder
back down the mountain
Love is an act of discipline
a study
a song
like everything else
both good and not
Approaching close
to an answer
steady and regular orbits
can just as well
be assumed endless
while holding only one truth
Imminent Collision
The beginning
down the road
the home of anxiety
the night awake—alone
and busier than you know
I don’t know anything
except the woman in her yard
looked suddenly
concerned

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Spring Moon at Ninomiya Beach, 1932, Kawase Hasui (Japanese, 1883–1957). Courtesy of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Creed
I believe the chicken before the egg
though I believe in the egg. I believe
eating is a form of touch carried
to the bitter end; I believe chocolate
is good for you; I believe I'm a lefty
in a right-handed world, which does not
make me gauche, or abnormal, or sinister.
I believe "normal" is just a cycle on
the washing machine; I believe the touch
of hands has the power to heal, though
nothing will ever fill this immeasurable
hole in the center of my chest. I believe
in kissing; I believe in mail; I believe
in salt over the shoulder, a watched
pot never boils, and if I sit by my
mailbox waiting for the letter I want
it will never arrive—not because of
superstition, but because that's not
how life works. I believe in work:
phone calls, typing, multiplying,
black coffee, write write write, dig
dig dig, sweep sweep. I believe in
a slow, tortuous sweep of tongue
down the lover's belly; I believe I've
been swept off my feet more than once
and it's a good idea not to name names.
Digging for names is part of my work,
but that's a different poem. I believe
there's a difference between men and
women and I thank God for it. I believe
in God, and if you hold the door
and carry my books, I'll be sure to ask
for your name. What is your name? Do
you believe in ghosts? I believe
the morning my father died I heard him
whistling "Danny Boy" in the bathroom,
and a week later saw him standing in
the living room with a suitcase in his
hand. We never got to say good-bye, he
said, and I said I don't believe in
good-byes. I believe that's why I have
this hole in my chest; sometimes it's
rabid; sometimes it's incoherent. I
believe I'll survive. I believe that
"early to bed and early to rise" is
a boring way to live. I believe good
poets borrow, great poets steal, and
if only we'd stop trying to be happy
we could have a pretty good time. I
believe time doesn't heal all wounds;
I believe in getting flowers for no
reason; I believe "Give a Hoot, Don't
Pollute," "Reading is Fundamental,"
Yankee Stadium belongs in the Bronx,
and the best bagels in New York are
boiled and baked on the corner of First
and 21st. I believe in Santa
Claus, Jimmy Stewart, ZuZu's petals,
Arbor Day, and that ugly baby I keep
dreaming about—she lives inside me
opening and closing her wide mouth.
I believe she will never taste her
mother's milk; she will never be
beautiful; she will always wonder what
it's like to be born; and if you hold
your hand right here—touch me right
here, as if this is all that matters,
this is all you ever wanted, I believe
something might move inside me,
and it would be more than I could stand.
By Meg Kearney

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“There is no knowledge without sacrifice.”
“The answer, my friend”