Filed under: WRITING | Tags: bhagwad, culture, european, german, gita, golden, india, kaul, letters, magazine, mythology, our, parable's, philosopy, poetry, pop, premise, prologue, samara, sparrow, the, to, troubadour, writing
Troubadour Kaul is a collaboration project between the two people exploring poetry, travelogues, prose, photography and music. Their art-words have appeared in various magazines and journals. Their poetry is forthcoming in print issues of Full of Crow, Pyrta Journal, Redaction: Poetry & Poetics, Alligator Stew, Micro Poetry Anthology, Mud Luscious Press and elsewhere in Fall 2012. Troubadour Kaul is also a Guest Editor and Poetry reviewer at Cha: An Asian Literary Journal and will be the on the masthead of the Golden Sparrow Magazine’s upcoming ‘Best of’ print edition.Despite a 2011 Best of the Net + two Pushcart Prize nominations + winning the Golden Sparrow Poetry Prize 2011 and being shortlisted as a finalist in the Best Short Writing in the World in 2012, their ranking in the Indian arranged-marriage-market remains dismal. An MFA in Poetry and promoting their first full length collection of poems seems to be the modus operandi for a happily ever after in 2012.The series “Letters to Samārā” are excerpts from Troubadour Kaul’s first collection of prose-poetry. His body of work explores the themes of existence, love and identity through the headset of a wayfarer writing to his beloved back home. The work draws its allegories from the Bhagwad Gita, German philosophy and pop-culture precepts with an occasional foray into European mythology.
Filed under: THE WEEK/THE WEEKEND | Tags: 19271947, 60, Abet Working, ACTIONS ON, AGAM, am, and, AND TONY, art, Art CHASE, Auteurist, BEMIS, Bouffes, break, century, Cherry, content, Curiously, Curtains, DAY Simon, Decisions Behind, DennyCorporate, des, du, experience, Film Dead, Flora A, for, from, GRANOFF, Höller, history, international, INTUITION, INVITATION, is, jackson, jason, jerry, jim, laptop, letters, MIGRANTS, modern, monday, murals, Museum, my, Narrative BRAIN, NGOs Sonnambula RON, night, Nord Fragments A, of, Orchard OPEN, over, Pollock, preceding, pub, Rivera, roots, RUCKUS VideoHubertus, scenes, sculpture, Sinister, Smith ANDRU, SOULIÉ Rona, Stephen’s, STONE American, tactile, the, theatre, UNDERSTANDING WHERE, Video, visual, Walden Aid, with, work The, XXI, year, Yefman THE
MONDAY:From #occupy to revolution Robert Ashley:That Morning Thing The Oven: AND HUMBABA CAME FROM HIS STRONG HOUSE OF CEDAR TUESDAY:Citizen Cartography Workshop: Build a Virtual Atlas of New York THE STORY COLLIDER: BODIES IN MOTION The Underdeveloped and Overexposed Life and Death of Deena Domino WENESDAY:ANDRU BEMIS @ROOTS AND RUCKUS THURSDAY:FRIDAY:Metropolitan Talent Presents PUSCIFER ONGOING:Jack Smith PERFORMA 11 Aid and Abet: Working With NGOs UPCOMING: |
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: 22, art, brooklyn, cano, drop, lemon, letters, love, magazine, new, ny, nyc, poetry, stifling, SUNS, the, valentina, writing, york
To hold your name
should not conjure up
days of stifling suns.
It shouldn’t mean hands
that fold themselves
over and over
like obsessive handkerchiefs.
Your name shouldn’t be a red dot
blinking in some warehouse,
warning of an open door.
I should feel no spider crawl,
hairs gluing and ungluing
themselves up my arms.
No.
Your name should be flour or sugar.
Substantial. Spotless. Filling.
It should carry the taste
of a lemon drop,
rolling and moist
on my lapping tongue.
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia’s Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling, Popshot and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World. You can find her here: http://coldbloodedlives.blogspot.com
Filed under: ART | Tags: 22, a, and, brooklyn, camera, eyes, film, henard, letters, magazine, nameless, new, padua, pat, photography, photos, placement, pussycat, sculpture, shape, the, times, title, yeast, york, you, your
Filed under: ART | Tags: 22, a, brooklyn, camera, film, henard, letters, magazine, nameless, new, padua, pat, photography, photos, placement, sculpture, shape, the, times, title, yeast, york
Filed under: The 22 | Tags: 22, brooklyn, father's, letters, love, magazine, my, new, ny, sakellion, the, yana, york
My love for letters as objects started even before I could read. The first time I saw one was at the very tender age of 4. I knew exactly what I was looking at because my family collected correspondence (postcards, letters, cards and scraps) sent by my father from Greece. Every time a new addition arrived, my mother and grandmother would gather around and read it aloud so that I could hear. Long at first, the messages got shorter and shorter as the “Father-pile” grew. Nonetheless, those envelopes were still carefully placed in a specially allocated drawer and kept, more or less, in chronological order.
Sometimes I would be allowed access to the “Father-pile”, although someone else would remove of the letters and put them back in place. There were a small number of holiday cards, the most beautiful things I‘d ever seen on paper by that age. They seemed impossible compared to the poorly produced, plain, unimaginative postcards we got from our relatives from Ukraine; not for the lack of taste on their part, but due to the decline of print industry funding.
I remember one card in particular. Even till this day the image is very sharp in my mind.Printed on a snow-white heavy weight paper, there was an embossed illustration of a spring cherry grove – flowers blooming, petals falling, little birds flying. Under a tree stood a young beautiful couple, holding hands. A handsome dark-haired man, and a fair woman with a delicate profile were looking into each other’s eyes, smiling tenderly. Everyone at home (my mother included) noted that those happy lovers looked just like my parents. It must have been an anniversary card my father sent. Devoid of cynicism in those days, I loved picking this card out of the pile, examine the watercolor illustration and every bit of the glitter on it, open the cover and feel the insides of embossed cavities with my fingers.
Not being able to read yet and having forgotten the context of the letter, I just let the intricate weaving of blue ink wash over me. Starting at the very first symbol I’d follow each thread, letting my eyes flow with the curves or jump over mysterious obstacles left by my father’s pen. Once I reached the end of the letter, I would start right back at the first mark again. It became a sort of a meditative practice.
Somehow I believed that by the sheer repetition of this process and my good sense, I would be able to will the meaning into existence. I can’t recall if it actually ever happened, but I did experience waves of euphoria whenever I seemed to have recognized something familiar in the lines of ink. It was real to me, and that was good enough. Eventually, I stopped my love affair with the “father’s pile”. It happened in a space of a year or so of those imaginations, when I finally learned to read, or perhaps when I saw my father that same year on his first visit back, which lasted a few days and left no significant memories.







































