Le Lapin

A soul composed of courage seeks redemption through faith in life.

Contents

. dispose . despair . denigrate . denounce

Despair

to lose hope

to lack courage

to perform recklessness

TRANSLATIONS:

Eyes in the world looking, but can they see

what’s there or only memory of who made it before when photography was beginning to become primary

claiming languages and culturelle variables

communication as visibly digestible

succinctly demanding literacy of the psyche

such non-verbal forms as visual

another loss in translation.

Experiences are known as not tangible

yet present and dominated by written words

tugging on underlying currents

levying popularity into translated analysis

as coded by experts of historic and cultural contexts

these mediums of academic concepts

relent as raindrops upon

a drought of towers and titles

standing cold before flocks, yields and lives.

Translations become their own art of the mind

a responses to the power of images

abdicated to story telling

through grapevines of dialogue

and relationships, heightened by the image, all the mightier

a frame all the more frightening

forging alleyways to marry symbols

smelting variable dimensions as malleable

as hot individual parts

barely summarising life.

Translations were poems originally written for Urbanautica, at the time, an online website dedicated to art and photography. Founded by Steve Bisson, these poems were written as translations of the contents of the photographic images. The names in which the words reference have disappeared. Though much of these poems were edited from their original form, these are as they were published online (with some spelling corrections). As an experiment, perhaps the words may conjure images in your imagination.

#1 Mercy

Tradition may play more games here than we can behold. All signs set sights on results-ending in passing, the ammunition that unbinds our homes. May we stand before our own senses without entitlement. May we walk among landscapes free from sensationalised stench. May there remain plenty mercy to go around. In these soft shadows emerge a faint pulsating beacon of reason, just a bit beyond a nudge-please may these inklings be enough to drive nails traversing through pages unwritten unto a dissolution of commonplace reoccurrence, the forbearance of this is just how things are acceptance. There is course for blessing-make way.

#2 The Last Line

A peculiar affirmation will strike

when forcing oneself to simply breath

in and out-

Whether seated in a situation of rest or motion

the present tense holds no limit

we travel deeper-

Prior or beyond a vague confinement

that can only arise from potential weight

the heart holds-

A ballet of stillness offers consolation

illustrative in the counterbalance of

the right now-

Turning inward to face a landscape

scarcely navigated we uncover what are just

portraits of time-

For whatever deplorable circumstance arise

from the sureness of an unknowing self we find decency

defined in uncertainty-

What to do with what we are questions

illuminates without answer the absolution

of external manifestation-

To find the unanswered beyond acceptable

the infinitely viable selves and paths are

only a transition.

#3 By Some Grace

Behind, before but never just there. The docile anonymity of spirit remains untethered, uncaged, incapable of rearrangement. Grecian Goddesses of attainment and human delight take form amidst the domesticated plight of mammalian life. A warm body to warm the body of another-transportation of the wild to the inhibited. What nature calls for this disgrace? A simple look upon such eyes of purity speaks stories of a creature innate by the origin of the word create. Perceived forms of them, us and we do little to dispel the truth that lies within. Unbridled amore and renewed trust, our lives await an impassioned existence to not be sought after, but shared. The wilful desire to dominate by force, contain the greatness scares and manifests all that stands separate in awe vanishes before the facade that once upheld suggested ideals. One day the spirit of unity will call upon us revealing the unity of all is by no means defined by any word or book.

#4 Observer of beautiful forms

Iconographic determined destiny-

and what a better board for drawing than blue sky, puffy cloud 

hovering above sandscapes of arresting beauty. 

Romanticising about reality creates a sense of urgency-

a season for desire. 

Invariably leading towards a cycle 

of dissertation resuscitation revealing a lust 

for tangibility only limits imagination. 

Gaze toward setting sun, lids nearly half open. 

Awash in spectacular bursting rainbows of light-

in every beam, ray and rounded plumb of incandescence-

Sense a reflective emanation of an essential vibration. 

Desired unity manifest in seeking approval beyond-

May stillness permeate or never be found. 

Allow the dreaming; carry on.

#5 A Reading to the Evening

A canvas to intercoastal regions of illumination

half opened or closed, the pain is entirely see through

it’s a something we scurry by

glance at and pretend to ignore-

but there’s something imminent in this form

this new wave of palette to explore, 

in these hours the minutia pass 

beneath the breath of sidewalk gawkers.

There’s a poetry to this-

this style of residence 

keeping in mind 

a coming out to play remains

more than a memory inside-

In an auric blend of mystery and intrigue

looking towards a direction of manifestation

intangible moments are realized in real time

emitted in the vapours of exhalation. 

These sights shout such tall orders

even in these hours a deafening vacancy 

interpreted unkindly pleads subjectively

for invariably the ephemeral does fail- 

And from this form we meet 

neither from within, or outwardly

pacing, stirring and finding forward

on repeat.

#6 True to Form

Distinguishing the commonplace from the regulatory   is all but easy -

Still uncommon is the nature to nurture   the desire to please -

Decorated abstractions as basis for evidence   an existence for amusement -

Lets us refrain for making any sort of pattern   gone from treaties -

These climates were devised to control   a greener mound to call home -

Stretch a toe out long across deserving textures   a reach for understanding

Something true to form.

I am seeing all of my superficiality.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL II.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A soul composed of courage seeks redemption through faith in life.

Contents

. dispose . despair . denigrate . denounce

Dispose

to give a tendency to

to come to terms with

to settle in a final manner

GOODBYE SEASONS

Which seasons are those

that go by four names

when there were civilisations that know

spring often sees more snow than sun

in more hemispheres than one

as the growth of green

not quite ready to be shone

becomes routed through

temperamental zones

sweetened nibs of time

bits from our bones

in an aching damp

from moulded souls

reaching deeply

to make hard to breathe

flow more readily

squeezed forced exhale

pressed out-of-bodily

a consciousness of

the finality of stories

the many that came before

or have yet to come beyond

swirl as idealogical stories

comforting seasonally bound minds

the great mystery

undressed before us everyday

and yet who has not seen the great figure

who bestowed great moments of richness

despite becoming an ocular object

desiring eternal summer

never arriving for only you.

ASSIGNMENT OF MEANING

On meandering walks I wonder

what the world would be

if we could come to

some sort of bereavement agreement

about letting go of age old ideas

about life beyond control

How very well can there be

peace on any planet

when populations believe

others are going to hell? 

Or that one man deserves a plight

bent on self-convicted right

due to his insatiable appetite

for money, power, control or fame-

while another is pitied for begging

just the same.

We surmise such beliefs about life

as beyond theory

when theory motivates the body

philosophizing facts

into some kind of make believe glory

where only a few take trophies home-

competition or compassion run a fair game

with each other

but the limits are goalied

not by heart but with our minds.

Isn’t it time we see each facet of life

holds some kind of story

where meaning is made up

as we go along?

In ways responses are conjured

from feelings as forever

ideas tickle

with the promise of clever

accumulating a mighty sum of self-esteem

no one I know can cash in on…

but just right there, between you and me

we fantasise how much better

it could be, to dissolve the whole thing

due to our limitations with words

I reach for imagery

to find myself amidst the all and nothing still the same

whether life gets called

meaningful, poetic, challenging, or just a game

forever life remains a mystery

for those limited by sensory perceptions of body.

Our signs are hinting at a home everywhere

for whatever you want to hold

will tend to be become held up

in another person’s memory.

And to the stars we look to read,

systems of numbers and constellations

to repeat

theories to test

with their own rules to uphold-

yet might we face our follies

as attempts to trick mortality 

due to that which we may find

much as a prism refracts

the kaleidoscope delights

the light

may temporary be blinding

and yet enterally inspiring. 

A CHORD AS AN ODE

How quickly these months depart us

Time as pages-some crumpled, or torn

folded and scorned-circled and adored.

Love likes to scent the air

with a springtime sort of perfume

blasting through, remnants of autumnal nostalgia

melting a slumbering soil

a wet madness so deafening

the din of holiday idealistic dystopia

finally forgotten until next year.

We shift through, unto, paired down lives

the shirked responsibilities of brilliance 

resound through the bellows of accordion waves

often such frequencies begged to stop

street performers with such melancholic rot

struck joy in a few

as angelic animal howls

biding the beg and cry for reprieve

of such warped mortal domains

yet strung between passageways

and between memories of I or you

brings the span of time here into view.

The witness transition relative to

individual positions catching glimpses

of invite wonder beauty in expanded awareness

cascades as a splendour fall of water from our eyes

the bestowed gifts unspeakable

slowly ripped as droplets in larger bodies

of currents making wake.

DYING LIFE

While all who know I have a hard time lying

I always still feel words are falsifying

existence as my intentions are clouded

by the inter-dialoguing

positive overpasses bind fate up from getting past

those monoliths of why’s standing in the way

since there’s no sense elaborating what’s known

hollers already pose an impasse

You must not ask to do as so pleased

for such is the dying life

to arrive to fight instead of breath a little into the

truth be damned so simple and how funny

the illusionists proclaim it dark and scary

for they cannot see but only feel into

where they place a seed they believe is theirs.

Owing lives to tragedy are for those subject to

the illusion of pretty words getting past such lips

or hips cast by petty phone tricks

I don’t need a sunrise to guide my way back

as I already forged a way through the night

forgiving the hurts I took upon myself

to make other people feel alright.

That was a saying life. To arrive to hear for a fight.

He got too close to breath his little lie into me

tried to dictate my heart and woo a world over.

The simple turret is always full of plenty

So oh what a waste, a dying life

There’s rich beyond such ways of strife.

I rip free from torn branches

scratches whip no sharper than ice storms

for long have I been free from

the suffocation of night terrors

attempting to own my own form.

So expected from the addicts

expecting my smile to sooth

and surprised by the weather when I decide to choose —

Of course it will all be alright

tears give us the clarity dried eyes feign

for the densities of life remain

suspended in forms of liquefaction

This need not be our dying life.

We can come here and forget the fight.

Sing a little truth into thee

losing the world over real smiles

damning the complexity

for the sweetness of simplicity

the freedom of truth wages waste your time prying

so funny they’re here

like I am for you

to keep you from the dying life.

As tides shift as seasons

sifting weights and binding roots

the reaching for new ground expands the plausible

there’s no going back even I you say you won’t

so there’s only everything ahead now awaiting.

TWO LANES

This comes out sounding a little strange

as unspeakable things do in written metaphor

that’s what people claim artists are here for

so the plumbers get down to their jobs

while others can get seen driving down a one-way smiling

I see that man making sure the waste is flushed away

I see the woman ensuring ever invisible emotion tended

I see the invisible labor

that inspired bored leaders to have a hobby

And for the love of hope beyond which they lobby

I’ve built explanation in rhythm, rhyme and reasons

my interpretations of astrological manifestations

as a means to speak in mythological presentations

our affectations unionised by a source

to which we can all point with different meanings.

While science claims to have discovered dark matter

we all know it was really there

so who’s destiny is rewarded for pointing out the obvious

when the poet says the same thing?

We are each creating our own energy

owing something up or rather out through our fingertips

what power above, or below knows it’s compounding

through the heartbeat within each of us—

the seeking for gurus and metaphorical indignation

who insistently point back to that source we all point to.

Each of our byways resides the alchemizing

of power residing within

perhaps scary and so the fear  to claim

ownership of such a thing—

be not misled

by the owning such a might

the burden of such responsibility

of carrying such resplendent light.

While each situation

in every moment of existence

appears mind blowingly simple

the pearl divers see deeper still

by their mind dissolved by the weight of which

the solidarity of each of our existence

begs us not to lose a sense of who or what is

but remember in context

freedom comes with it a paralysis

to the conditions that which we are around.

Here the mind focuses

either overriding the sense or rising within them

revealed in the need for air is a two way street my friend.

Whether you drive in your lane or flow through streams

of etheric or sea water currents

we each have at least a vehicle to set courses on

paths connected to sources or headed

straight for a course in collision.

May we awake to st…

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A soul composed of courage seeks redemption through faith in life.

Contents

. dispose . despair . denigrate . denounce

For a loss to occur first before the value of life is understood shows a gross negligence to the invitation to inner richness. The depth of life awaits any one who goes searching for beauty and truth.

To discard that which is not understood because of the belief in illusions is to transfer a malaise slowly, at first, as mould spores can undetected to the eye. The mould spores job is to decompose life.

Through the allegories of Hercules and Gilgamesh, the mind is shown the difference between altruism and coveting. The denial of the difference stems not from indifference, but from the fear of the weight of responsibility knowing carries with it.

Somewhere between our entry to the world and booming adults we forget to nurture and cherish the responsibility to knowledge. The pain of thrusting our inner trust into others runs deep throughout the ancestries of many.

And so many great weights are sewn into the fabric of our lives. Therefore, the intention though these words, as rivers of light and dark are before your eyes, invitations to remember. The invitations to linger on the discreet maturation processes different for every body, and yet to remember that inner call each of our lights’ carries.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Ignorance

to fail to notice

to avoid understanding

to lack and to want

BEAUTIFUL MESS

Spirit coaches coax the self contained to

let yourself go and pour your heart

through this chaotic life and pay them for it

see a world from their eyes

you have yet to be seen

so you can hang your woes on their words

it’s not worth the temptation

to say you’re scared and miss out

on whatever it all is they say everything can be

remember I will be there

when you think you may fall

stand up for you

when you want to crawl

beneath the covers

do not you dare hide from a mess

as it likely ends up being the best thing

like exactly what happened to me

you see

because you are imagined to be another me

you become less of you and more as I see

your mind maybe light off

getting the permission you didn’t need

to tell that f****r you’re not so happy with him

ah, doll, what a beautiful mess

let it go

let it be

whatever those dungs sung before we

went ahead and let clothes pile

upon the floor

let the dishes stink up the sink

so long as the lock was fixed on the door

Ignore

the world of responsibility

to unlock your mind

with some time bending fungus

can reform you to

give less order to the beautiful mess

Nevermind your face red and swollen

my shoulder here for your eyes to run dry

my veins are roots of a plant

you can weep to feed, alright

see now, it’s just better to cry

your spiritual doula reminds you

what you want will find you much more appealing

when you forgoe your senses

toss them with the wind

and smell the traffic

the hot paved street

toward the life coach

giving you a place

what a beautiful mess

this temptress of control

has found your lost soul

to sell you on

a pyramid scheme

for a pink car you never wanted to drive anyway.

Indignity

to enact baseness

to conduct unworthiness

to impatiently dominate

BEAUTIFUL, IS A WORD

He called me beautifulwith a serpentine hissa lock hold in his eyesheld me beneath my human rights

wanting to be brazen

and hold back of mind what I knew

of a moment too soon to unfoldbut I sighed

and said thank-you through my lipsand pulled my body away with my hipsand pleaded, I screamed so loud insideand hoped he could hearbut later at night half asleepI heard words through my pillowshocked frozen I could not speaka little louder my pulse beatthrough my body (the echo beautiful)vanity as broken mirror nowfractured my demeanoursuch a relationship could never equatethe transcendence from soul to mateas he used my soul as meat—an aesthetic match everyone remarkedwas simply striking out to mesince beauty requires no speechjust the appreciation upended by truststriking commentary

between breaths of seasonal wind

unwavering,

songs with a rhythmno mouth attached to a bodywho can perform such a deedcan form the realness of a wordhe was better off never saying.

BEAUTIFUL, IS RELATING

Slowing down doesn't lessen timemy friend, we needsomething greater than perceiving reality

or inspiration whirlwinds

to battle desperationformed by physical posturing

attempting to empty my head with limited computer time

amplified by stepping outside

every line of poetry rushing in

shrinks me back to paced dances

warped and bent timeI ran from facingas a seeker of expansionand a spectrum far awayand full of funny friendsbut his dark sense of humour should have worried me further

than my brothers statesidesince how much real beautycan be transpiring throughthis kind of transactional relating.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Iniquity

to be unfair

to perform vice

to embody wickedness

SAFE

Bloody Mary tears and Tiffany window panes hunny - you ain’t gonna find happiness in that glass clinging to a routine you’ve grown accustomed to has caused a blindness of the heartand if he returned to youwhat would you have to say?uncomfortable giggles - shy averting eyesdon’t come close to concealing the senseyou lost when you forgotthe simple pleasureof the scent of clean laundryyou won’t ever have to let be that dirty again.

JUST TALK

Pedestrians talk politics

a common commotion addition

to the grind the sidewalk buckles we walk

but look the other waythis is time for holding hands

shoved deep in our pockets lingering,

scraping for fulfillment nervous,

sweaty palmsjust need a little airfor the current generationto again become magnetic.

CHAMPAGNE OF CAMPAIGNS

This is not a hippy agenda

or a new age scheme

this is not your politics, or his, or hersthis is not about who said what

to kiss or who's ass

this is, holy s**t people

we're headed for our own self-imposed nuclear blast.

You think it's real funnyhow the sitcoms still playand you can dress up pretendto spend money on s**t no one needsso funny how the hands sewing your hidekeeping overgrown egos and asses tetheredtied, bound, locked and chainedby the powers far removed from this earthly planein wait to take the excess a capitalist society gave you

while never mind avoiding the word – slave.

But there is no better than or lesser thanthose who buy into a lifestyle of recycled tire, rubber shoes this is not a tin can of politics, p...o...l....i...ticksand doesn't sweeten up so nice like b...l...u...berries!one of natures magnanimous gifts alrightstill managed to become a clam shellplasticised marketing scheme that failed to tellthe story of how the bugs sting, and stickwhile the sun in your eyes, beats down on you sweating

when growing and picking your own.

Remember this is not about hippies, spiritualists, or politics

this is a whispered rant of a rant

with dilated pupils

searching for light with a naked heart.

What I'm saying you cannot hear with your earswhat I'm saying is if we knew half the truthwith the common education many have herewe sure as hell wouldn't be sittin' in a room complaining

my back wouldn't be aching,

your prescription bottle wouldn't be shaking

making me me wonder also about your purse.

You can bet money

I've lost sleep doing this thinking

on where to find a few words to share the truthI was given to see.

If I could get you to believeit bears no religionnor promises of hope or fearthere’s not conspirator

with secret agendas

the clandestine is in plain view!

then I'll have faith in humanity

even if it's so hard to believe

at the essence of our beingwe all want the same thing... to be aware of each other

in acceptance of the meaning

con means with and awareness of othersthen it is so chosen,

the loss of consciousness

is not a dream from which to wake

since we see without your eyes

but instead our imaginations

feelings have volition and can drive without egoembracing them then is a friend of lightto all who are standing among us in reality.

ON HOLD

Let’s face it sweet,

guitar-playing swagger baby

we’re addicted to each other’s needs

and aches sipping,

deep sleeps nearing mid-daytip toeing

towards the wee hours

last night howling past the back of your head

gaping and begging

for the neighbours to close their doors

our trespasses permitted

by consenting bodies.

After awhile our sore’d souls cuddle back

into the internet

a black hole of feigned productivitypleasant moons,

hardly any excuse

to go outside

weathering within self-erected cubist existences.

Masterful smiles become quite the disguisefor raising hopes high

to the sound of bass

indoor smoking our throats rawignoring thoughts

of dreamland for another beat.

And the days keep passing by-begun by soft scratches of longingdeveloping a habit replacing hope

for seasonal change

these easy lazy pleasures stirring

whispers of 9-to-5ers tasted sour

as our delusional mixed elixirhaunted

like the misplaced handset tone

when those still sung from wired phone-lines.

Suddenly suspect to my place in your veinNo idealism can cure the coming painI beg you to face my eyes

and give me closure with our life

that resumed with the clack of the gate

and the last time I ever heard him say:

I love you.

FOUND HIS POEM

On this last dayof this monthI read his poetrywords sweetsoftly echoingagainst the black velvet Cloves

in the tungsten haze of evening

be my lullaby tonight

be the only memory reminder

of what was is a could never be.

Keep me quietfor my silenceis as deafening

as strong as my will seenot pointsbut momentsfrom all sides.

Be the anthemto transport us through time

to rebuild our groundfeel steady on footfeel physical distanceno obstacleto what the heart keeps.

Seconds tick like days

on our short clocks skippingreach beyond

standard comfort zonescontental amnesiawell be knownno band-aids here neededfor our inner mechanics steadyready to work

through dusk, sun, heat and cold.

There are indeed

some forces beyond our controlso why won’t it let us,

let go and feel the quiet

hear the emptinessof where you once were

ripped from my cellsand set free careeningthe sound of life's one trutha purpose of whichI suppose one day I may know

if I could just stoplooking to find the wayto where our pathsmeet again...

perhaps something elsewould be reformed from within—

but every timeI find that poemI wonder

if the next chapter refuses to be writtenas I continue to reanimate

someone as beingwhen he

was perhaps onlyan imagination.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Indignity

to enact baseness

to conduct unworthiness

to impatiently dominate

GIRLFRIEND

Green grass growsand confused birds chirpin the wee hours I'm wokebreathing in the snow dampened midnight speckled by starsI look across the roomat my friend and seewe are the women that shinea line of reflect radianceturned my head in a mid slumber gaze indifferent while wakingwe know we are what mattersto each anotherso when those boystoss out their cat callsrisking their lives for proximityto my thighsalways find themselves surprisedwhen I or she turns aroundeven as we be walkin' and talkin'taking life in stridetogether we know we goarm in arm, near and farletting the other take turnsin keeping each others’ coasts clear.

ABSTRUSE AMORE

Insecurity dictated decisions have others quick to forget when leaving said, happy placesto become acquainted by said, bad spaces

where clinging hard and pushing often results in also, two, as well as in the one painfully bruised reputation.

Fear not for friends of good souls eventually do grow- a bloom for only thosewho remained through the rain tenderly, can know.

Go on fighting, thinking, nothing across the line of neatly formed words already waiting in a rowas a hammer and coralfor the often orated codesalso known as metaphortakes great interest in the compounding poundsof hearts webbed in lies—

These qualities must not be confusedwith byway blossoms delivered via fairy tale sweet nothings eventually realising the golden splendour of everything

despite conceding—

The we aregetting along just fine

does only half but draw

what needs fully sketched out

to be known as the defining, though dissipating lines

between aches of want and needbleed

into the history of unfurling flow some histories in full gear reverse forever

unfurling the beach sandsso many climbed faraway mountainsto see—such vistas and formationswould seem auspicious

though ache

without endwithout hearing those three syllablesthe sounds that echo less as promises and mirror

more as two hearts coming home:

I love you.

SIGNAL SIRENS

A calm gentleman pulled to the side by an assumed unsympathetic power-trip drivenegotistical law enforcement kind distinctly blocking traffic they sat in expressionless reposeperforming the authority ritual keeping his hands visibly in fold in his vintage, nineteen seventies, puke green raven racing stripe, sparkle paint job beauty of a mobile I passed while pretendingto mind my business a waft of a thought occurred to me that more often than not good wills are taken advantage of and in so dissipating without ever even havingunderstood the slip beneath the nosesof our happiness driven selves ‘til we can't ascertain the grounds on which feel solid enough for humanity to sustain growing populous painsin instances such as these I glance upon from time to time mainly in my rear-views to keep clear of consumer messes that sway hold between the lines and simply abide the lawfor heaven's sake to motivate myself to stayoutside for as long as my skin can tan under winter sun so my eyes can devour photogenic scenes I grow flex in capacity to enjoy the seismic power of my heart still beatingwhile staying my lane.

OWN THE WORLD

They speak to me

in their slurred bum speech

sitting around talking aboutsome game

and waiting for life

to take a turn

barely elevating toward

an impression

and yet

those called bums

often talk more substancein light of those barstool boys’stories of sorrows and though

they keep trying to making it up

get up some moves

are side swiped by the swift shiny suitsyou know

those with the moneywho have also lost all hope too

droning on in happy hour dramas

walking into tight hot elevators

blinded by the wonder of light

streaming through their views of those bums

they make hold their tongues

has always made me wonderwhat walking this world offersfor the dreams high in our imaginary skies

are often like a stars waiting

dedicated by some strangerto then be yanked down into realityand held as the stone it always wasso those tired muscle excusesconceal fears and feigned personasreaching for that out there twinkleworth more as an ideal,

than the weight of the real

that glow in the despair of hope,

looking-upas a tip of photographic memory

traveling as faras endless energy

in where the everywhen

delivers you.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Intensity

to be of great depth

to strain in stretching out

to form from extreme feeling

HISTORY

I’m from the banks of a small river-valley town

where rustling trees sing morning wake-up song

citronella perfumes buzzing airs

grown pines carve evening horizons

and I can resign to the lines

of stories from stars and moons

to explain my mood—

tea tastes sweeter brewed

in sunshine heat

between my toes

and calloused feet

blushing not by evidence of the dirt

that makes garden blooms grow

but by the sincerity from which i was sewn—

something like that is where my story begins

so in the shadow of the leaves

and looming mid-morning cast shadows

across those luminous snows

I must admit

to not finding that home feeling anywhere

but in a version of history

I am unsure I remember but conjure

affords me

many riches

through such verses which must be repeated.

BORROWED CIRCLES

Never before have I highly held such a regard for

waking up in the dark amidst

the middle of light borrowing circles

of doubt from shadows of moon beams

there's no such thing

as frowning before dawn

when the space between facing

the out there performs an escaping

from the within here

for as long and deep as any love can be

that feeling has managed to escape me

evicted by the memory of dreaming of heartbeats

proven guilty of an inability to feed freedom

living amongst tall building landscapes lacking greenery.

a sensation provoking action denied and locked within

caution should be heeded when tears threaten

to wetten the silken skin of cheeks holding smiles

a brush of a touch would release them

so only in this dim lit room

accompanied by the morning dove coo

will you ever find her truth forgotten within you.

© Rachel Wolfe

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Rachel Wolfe.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Intensity

to be of great depth

to strain in stretching out

to form from extreme feeling

TWILIGHT SHEETS

Keeping flowers alive a little longer through early and late frosts, my parents would dress plants in worn bedsheets for protection. I worried the weight of the cotton would break the stems.

Instead the plants taught me their intelligence in bowing to accommodate the weight of protection. Dappled in twilight dew, the new application of the sheets I had seen for decades gave me pause.

As I long had an impulse to hug what I saw, rubs against urges to cut roses as that brings about imminent death, I refrained from the action to embrace. In a limbic pause, the sense of longing to be touched, embraced, be protected, pushed me a few steps back to look. I gazed in the tearful gratitude of the sweetness of such a gesture, I studied the sheetfold's congregations as congruent with my appreciation for lines formed through centuries in rocks.

The patterns of the bedding mimicked the very plants covered. The desire to protect what is with another form of that, the draping of the flowers with flowered textiles performs the artists' impulse to express love through performative representation.

While sentiments are loathed in the artworld and often suspect in society, I hid these photos from view for awhile. Occasionally reviewing the images to resuscitate their significance, I decided recently to share them on the internet to remind myself to make prints, draw them, or perhaps paint, but why?

Such a saccharine clinging to ineffable moments illuminates this place behind my nose, animating a memory of the scent of bed clothes and damp plants. While the experience becomes delivered to the present, the longing to look back or again, just a little longer, lets the love for what is blossoming open up a bit more.

In looking, fights and hunger are forgotten. I forget anything other than these sorts of illuminated, parietal pleasures. These spaces within our bodies are invisible to the world and evident in our gestures. I invite longer lingering on these generous actions of care as nurturing to in focus for our collective psyches.

If psyche means spirit, or at least the psyche dances with spirit, then perhaps the affect of art has greater weight and stake in the longevity of our being here. Since difficulty is made in attempting to light a protected and damp plant on fire, perhaps putting out the fire in the minds of men would invite the delivery of care people are aching and crying for.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

Images: https://mariamman.net/category/images/

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Ignorance

to fail to notice

to avoid understanding

to lack and to want

EXPLORERS

Perched between the doorway and

the damp porch matching my mood

gazing upon the layer of ashen haze

covering what once was vibrant and fresh

like a nude dive into a chlorine pool

my lungs vapour stung, gasps focused averting eyes

towards the gutters’ drip of winter’s mournful ending song

puttering amongst the scavenger trucks

collecting and littering the alleyways for rare metals

my pacing rummages through what’s become

a blur of tasks and mindless to-do lists

rather belonging lost to see what the moment brings

yet clinging to the performative smile to delight others

I find myself distracted in their mouths widening

the aching membranes of 5k runner’s lungs smoking and veins drowned in coffee oscillating, my chest thumps

demanded by deep throat growls, and I swallow the howl

of dread of walking through the door of corporate drone

I splash my face to wash yesterday’s expressions off and silence the ringing in my ears echo’d by expressions of somebody needing a vacation clearly only the perpetual pay check could vouch for such an escape to momentarily pretend play of actual change, to leaving routines

for the dust of trails cowboys feigned to blaze

the right to prove we aren’t dandy clichés

incites reels of imagined highs fancied by capitalist desires so good the life barreling through cracked cloud sun yolks streaming down graces heftier in gold than paydays, paid debts, speed limits, landmarks, or feigned happiness

resigned to the brush of some blush the late winter rains don’t get anything soaked wet but mist vapours of springs’ promise for a different version of the same story.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe

A mind filled by the heart sees a world full of beauty and compassion.

Contents

. ignorance . intensity . indignity . iniquity

Iniquity

to be unfair

to perform vice

to embody wickedness

FROM A STIRRING

While I hear many advise the life I leadinto their greening stares I often wonderwhat an inability to see beyond pleasantriesor outside passing judgments would doin the way of unconfining mefrom reaching to feign a connectionin the moment I still shrinkinto a memory of knowingI’ll doubtfully ever be called upon to meet againmaybe in this moment of minuscule desireto remain unknown and not containedthere were a few times last weekso called friends promised never to forgetand yet they did while I tried to believe some truthI find instead only a few convincing dispositionsto make sense of what is found in such social feats displays of kicking, screaming, or whistlingsince time itself doesn’t care for witty remarkstend broken hearts, glue torn photographs back together you can bet your own teeth the surest fallacies foundare in each of our memoriesparticular of those made of a life lived in disguiseprone to projecting escapist temperamentsfor carefully examining self judgment with a thorough eye implies implementation never-ending in daily lifethan relying on the memory summoned by a stranger pretending to be a soul mate from another life—since talk of being here now might be new age fluffthe lack of judgment tarnishes as cotton candy doesso protect my skin as if they are the bonesI get to carry myself through in.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL I.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit lelapin.substack.com/subscribe