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From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Alone, By Edgar Allan Poe
Art: Eleni Nikologlou; Photography, “In the Shadow of Memory”

contorted by silence

pummelled and spent

he writhes against

the beast

unseen and unheard

surrounded by thorns

he bleeds away

all hope


Art: Francis Bacon



Bells ring

Snow falls

Dogs on walks

Life goes on

Christmas here

And gone

Loneliness forever



Art: Mika Suutari


I didn’t know I could breathe without air

See with no eyes

Speak without words

I didn’t know I could stride with no ground under my feet

I didn’t know my heart could beat with no rhythm to follow

And my thoughts to wander beyond the now

I didn’t know I could sleep with a quiet mind

I didn’t know I could live without you.



Suspended between here and now

In a non-existent space

I hover

and weep in frustration

Inert and idle

Unsure and forlorn

I hover

and wait

Centuries and galaxies

pass by

Unseen worlds beckon

But time has stopped for me

Only the ticking sound remains

and counts down

ad infinitum.


Art: Salvador Dali


I have a job. I have had it for a while, but now it has become full time. It starts first thing in the morning, and carries on late into the night. I have not asked about remuneration. I am afraid to. It would validate it. The job is demanding and does not leave much space for doubt. Although doubt is at its very root. This is one of the tasks of the job. Fight the doubt. From the early hours of the morning to the fading light of dusk, I work. It seems these days that I am employed non-stop, and with no hope of a vacation. Frankly, the job I have leaves no room for free time. It is all consuming, eternally demanding, and with no recompense of any kind. Oh, forgive me, there is a small bonus. It is called: I survived the day, but it comes with no accolades or rewards. It just means that the job continues, that I am not out of work. As long as I show up.

My job? Working every day not to kill myself.

So far, I have been successful. Maybe I’ll be promoted.



ART: Francis Bacon, Study for Self-Portrait, 1984



What to pack when you are leaving with no hope of return?

What to leave behind for others to pick?

How much can I carry?

How much do I need?

Do I say good bye?

To whom?

A list flutters in a corner of the mind?

“My suitcase holds:


compassion & empathy


my father’s love on a gold chain

my mother’s love in every cell of my body


space for the unknown


Where do I deposit it?

How long till the whistle blows?

I wait.




I heard a woman crying in the middle of the night. Her rhythmic sobs broke the silence, undulating like waves of time… I stopped breathing and listened. She kept on crying, softly, steadily, endlessly… her pain like a shadow on my soul. Like a reply. Like an echo. I lay in my bed and listened as she cried somewhere in the darkness, beyond my sight and touch. Close by, close enough to feel, her tears cascading from my ceiling. Minutes ticked by, the night breathed in and out, and I still heard her cry. On and on, as the night slipped away and the morn hovered behind my eyelids. And then the darkness ebbed, dissipated, and I opened my eyes to a murky light of dawn, lifting my head from a pillow saturated with tears…




Don’t go.

I am still here.

I want to say something.

Hear me.


For a moment.


To me.

I am.

I am you.

I am not you.

But we could be one.

Or one of many.


Listen to me.

I speak your language.

I am you.



Art: Wait for Me

By Benjamin Chee Chee

Benjamin Chee Chee, artist, of Ojibwa descent, born Kenneth Thomas Benjamin at Temagami, Ontario 26 March 1944; died at Ottawa 14 March 1977.


The television set hissed nervously. She turned her head and noticed the Black Spot for the first time.  It was sitting there on her pale satin cushion. She tried not to look at it but finally, with hesitation, she extended her hand towards it. She felt the cool surface of the fabric. Nothing more. It had vanished. Turning back to the television set, she switched her mind off.

She woke up in the dark. The meagre light seeping through the blinds seemed dirty. It was one of those horrible mornings when the night lingers on, trailing behind it the soiled veil of suffering. She stretched painfully, her thin arms yellow in the reluctant light of the dawn. On her left palm she noticed a net of opal veins, tiny streams labouring towards the fingernails. With a sigh, she sat up and her glance fell on the worn rug by the bed. The Black Spot was balancing on the edge. Carefully avoiding stepping on it, she shuffled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a long time, seeking consolation.


Outside, the park was empty at this hour. She had the choice of fairly clean benches. The hard wood seemed uninviting though, and she slowly lowered herself onto a crispy pile of autumn leaves. The aroma of wet grass enveloped her and the mist rose around her. She opened her book and allowed the letters a moment to arrange themselves into sentences, her mind ready to discern their meaning. The dot over the ‘i’ looked out of proportion and in panic her mind got all entangled. She closed her eyes and fell into the leafy carpet.

In the phone booth, she searched impatiently for a coin. Her purse seemed bottomless and filled with completely useless objects. Finally she felt the tiny metal disc and pulled it out carefully. There was dust under her fingernails.


They met in the Café. They sat there trying not to give in to the impersonal atmosphere. Their poses suggested nonchalant complacency with only the occasional flutter of strained muscles betraying them. She threaded words carefully at first; then letting them form their own pattern, she listened to the sound of her voice.

The hot liquid in her throat, the hum of voices, the friendly person sitting opposite her, all this made her feel warm, safe, even though she was aware of the superficiality of the situation. The tiny speck on the napkin changed shape just as she was lifting it to her lips. With resignation she placed it back on the table and looked a the Black Spot. Then they paid and left.

Until now, the Black Spot had been appearing unexpectedly, surprising her. She could still ignore it, change her frame of mind, close her eyes, laugh aloud. She woke up innocently, wandered through the rooms lightly, sat in her chair with a familiar stoop. She lived her life. But recently the long corridors of her castle looked ominous, the half-closed doors frightened her, and the white walls had dust on them. Were there flies in winter?


She was washing her long dresses in the bathtub, watching her reddened hands part the soapy water and disappear under the lather. The Black Spot was sitting in the soap dish, and every time she bent down to dip in the wash, her face would come very close to it.

In the kitchen the floor tiles were ornamented with a net of cracks. When she squinted her eyes, she could imagine it was a design. She lit a match and blue gas drew a ring of flame around the kettle. The warm smell of bread brought back memories that shielded her. They caressed her eyelids, and sometimes brought tears.


She went about without looking. If she did, she would see it. She knew. Sometimes she wouldn’t light the lamps, watching the evening draw out the colours, uncovering the black background of sight. Or she would bring out the old chandeliers and light them all, with the flames reflected in her eyes. It took a long time and tired her to brighten up all the rooms. The vibrating light from the candles filled her head. Half-blinded, she opened her eyes wide, knowing it would not be there. She still had the strength to fight.

When the brightness tired her, she went out. She dressed warmly, the big scarf hiding most of her face. Someone bumped into her and she suddenly became aware of her body. Folding her arms on her chest, she turned into the familiar street.

The doorbell rang somewhere inside the house and for a moment she regretted coming here. The Black Spot was palpitating near her left foot and with a dose of relief she saw the door open.

It was difficult to talk. She had hoped that her diffused eyes and nervous hands would speak for her, but the faces just stared back at her, meaningless morals cascading from their mouths. She wanted to cry, to put her head on a warm back and just cry in peace. But the backs that turned on her were rigid and awkward. Some she even wanted to console but suddenly felt tired, and wrapping the scarf around her, walked out and closed the door.


The Black Spot hid under the dry leaves, glided in the wind, tripped her footsteps. She tried catching it, but her hands fluttered feebly and something resembling anger rose up in her throat.

When she woke up it had spread over the walls. They were oppressive, ready to crush her. In the bathroom she gave up taking a shower. The Black Spot hovering near the drain made her nauseous. The blue flame in the kitchen gave off no heat and the tea was tasteless.

Standing on the balcony, she followed the dark clouds with tired eyes. Her hair slapped against her cheeks, loose strands getting entangled in her earrings. It was bitterly cold and she relished the sensation, allowing the shivers to rack her body. The Black Spot, wrapped around the doorknob, waited for her in the hallway. She could not see past it, and her foot found no ground.  With a mixture of fear and curiosity, she stepped in.

©aother 2012


Art by Piotr Lichwierowicz