A chilled evening in August seemed as good a time as any to raise the dead, and thus we catapulted the special “exquisite corpse” Issue 9 of Minarets into the world on National Poetry Day 2018.
Among Clouds of Dust, Only Mountains—a Garden Among mountains, a memory. A memory located near a blue horizon, just visible to her from within the painting where she sits in her black dress, hands folded in her lap, in the train compartment full of green light where she turns her head away from the window. A window, a line of cut peach sky, a shade half pulled down, an unlit lamp. She is in the gallery where he gave her a home but he did not dream of giving her a life, not here in a room full of murmurs“♣ Exquisite Corpse”
Among Clouds of Dust, Only Mountains—a Garden We have dwelt here before, ὀποπάναξ in the dust, always obscured you wiped it from my eyelids with a fingertip roughed by salt and trigger the Khyber Pass, Oberjoch, just beyond Klaipaida, Valhöll, we split open our mouths and taste spit, dust, iron, blood. The Shema and Ne’ilah. Ashes, soil, flesh, the burnt petals of climbing roses, attar, opopanax hebbakhade sealing the slit of the gate of the ridge of a pass not yet passed the scent of unfeathered birds who have flown here from what they fled there is salt on your“♦ Exquisite Corpse”
Among Clouds of Dust, Only Mountains—a Garden You kneel in the damp soil of the kumara patch; catch a red breeze in your mouth. It races through your system & exits out the pores on the bottom of your feet. You see a statue of a human with a jellyfish for a head, a maze made of invisible blades, a forest of tiny kauri trees, a wrought iron chair the size of a hidden compartment. You keep digging past the deepest roots; find yourself sitting at the bottom of the hole, looking up at a green section of sky. I“♥ Exquisite Corpse”
Among Clouds of Dust, Only Mountains—a Garden You could get used to it if you drink the air enough deep in the lungs like drowning in such air witness or a vain pretense of rope dawdling from the fillet of your hand end rescued from the mountain flesh you used to eat. You’ve saved yourself, that is, inside the garden without anyone nearby, the clouds being not the dust itself but what the inside of the mountain yielded up as gift, a convalescence from your body trope carved out of the mountain’s door from where your eyes are made. I“♠ Exquisite Corpse”
“In the future (which isn’t too far off now, about fifty years or so, I’d guess), the scientists of the world will study love. Love will be the only science left to discover anything new about. The oceans, space, time, all things macro & micro, will have been measured & graphed, understood to the nth degree. But love will still mystify. Carolyn DeCarlo & Jackson Nieuwland are (will be?) two of those scientists.”
We had small little reading in the crisp Autumn outdoors in order to celebrate the release of the 6th issue of Minarets, and an end to the second volume.
In the shade of Auckland’s Mount Eden volcanic cone, the Louis Adolphus Durrieu Reserve provided a quaint miniature amphitheatre setting. On account of the 24-hour liquor ban in all public parks, thermos flasks of tea & coffee were passed around, instead of the more customary ‘reading wine’.
Minarets Journal was initially conceived as a print publication. The first four issues, comprising Volume One (2012–2013), were released as small perfect bound books in limited editions. Issue Five was the first to be produced in a web format, due to a mix of economic pressures & convenience. This month has been spent digitising the four original print volumes, which can now be browsed on this website, so now everything is happily all together.