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Month: April 2012

There is no Difference

There is no Difference

Composition VII, by Kandinsky. 1913
Composition VII, by Kandinsky. 1913

New additions to Spinozablue include poems from Kyle Hemmings and Howie Good. Both bring the uncanny and the marvelous to the fore in unique ways. Two things sorely lacking in Art, to our great sadness.


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A few days ago I mused about The Other and difference. The foreignness of things, of certain subjects for Art, of their magnetism. In a sense, that could be a sign of my backsliding from the Zennish path, because Zen teaches the overcoming, the transcendence of difference. It teaches mastery over the process of discrimination and segregation, two of our biggest delusions:

That we are essentially different from one another. . . . Read more. “There is no Difference”

Howie Good: Ennui

Howie Good: Ennui




A bird I can’t identify by its red markings visits me, holding a playing card in its beak. I feel elated to finally be remembered. But when I grab for the card, the bird darts away.

Come back, I yell, and the bird does. I realize then that its markings are actually splashes of paint or maybe even blood. The shock wakes me up.

I once took thirteen years to write a poem, if you count the mass of scar tissue that throbs in our dreams.





Sometimes we talk like characters in the kind of indie film nobody goes to see. To live, I say, dooms us to a life that’s never really ours. . . . Read more. “Howie Good: Ennui”

The Mystery of the Manga Girls

The Mystery of the Manga Girls


Manga Girls Need Love: Rebel Little Rebel


Little Rebel in denim shorts, a Tee-shirt that reads Potter Got Punk’d. Her room. I’m stranded on some outpost of love, hoping it doesn’t get nuked by mutant minds. Her face is all about innocent sex pot vengeance, her eyes of some dark artificial intelligence. On the radio, a techno beat, then gothic metal w/ screech & growl. Little Rebel flipping through the pages of Egg magazine. I’m not exactly a fan of Ganguro. “The world is ending,” she says, chewing gum, her eyes, flashes of intensity, as if scanning secret codes from page to page. “People never talk to each other. . . . Read more. “The Mystery of the Manga Girls”

The Difference Between Here and There

The Difference Between Here and There

Ophelia, by John William Waterhouse. 1894
Ophelia, by John William Waterhouse. 1894

And so I thought . . .

That Art which appears as a foreign nation over the sea, with a language all its own, with signs that point to something just hidden, just out of reach. For now.

It has an edge to it. It calls to us, but is never pretty. It must be followed. We must take the leap, take the voyage, depart for the other side. Its foreignness draws us like a sublime magnet, a masked pied piper who tugs at us like a thief of love. We go anyway.

Never pretty, never sweet, never soothing, it strikes at us, slaps us in the face, stuns us with a kind of delayed violence, both intellectual and physical, cerebral and primitive. . . . Read more. “The Difference Between Here and There”

Signs of My Valentine

Signs of My Valentine

My Valentine, by Paul McCartney.

The video is simple, basic, but yields a melancholy paradox. Those of us who can see and hear lose and gain something mysterious, wondrous and poetic. The translation of signs into words, into emotions and meaning escapes us, if we can’t sign. We just watch Natalie Portman and Johnny Depp move effortlessly, brilliantly, to the song, to Eric Clapton’s guitar, to the ever youthful former Beatles’ sad refrain. We also may wonder how the video affects those who can see but not hear. What goes through their mind/body when they “read” the hands and limbs of the two actors?

Waiting for signs. . . . Read more. “Signs of My Valentine”

Recent Additions & Musings . . .

Recent Additions & Musings . . .

Spinozablue welcomes the fine Haiku of Virginie Colline, and the poetic works of Dan Corjescu and Neil Ellmann.




As long as we are alive, nothing is complete. We define this or that aspect of art, music, religion, life itself, and we kill it. In some way, small to great. Yes, poetry can lift art; art poetry. But neither can define or limit or stifle the other. There is always more. Much more. And the best critics know this. The most attentive, aware, tuned-in admirers of all the arts know this.

Nothing is written in stone, literally and metaphorically. The stone does not last. It crumbles and becomes something else. . . . Read more. “Recent Additions & Musings . . .”

From Paris, With Haiku

From Paris, With Haiku

Silver Lining Haiku


Le Corde Sensible, by Rene Magritte. 1960
Le Corde Sensible, by Rene Magritte. 1960


a cloud for breakfast
in my hand a pearl of dew
against the sultry day



 — by Virginie Colline


Copyright© 2012, Virginie Colline. All Rights Reserved.


Virginie Colline is a French translator living in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Scrambler, The Asahi Haikuist Network, EgoPHobia, Mouse Tales Press, The Electronic Monsoon Magazine, Notes from the Gean, Frostwriting and StepAway Magazine, among others.



Dan Corjescu: Three Poems

Dan Corjescu: Three Poems


Lost Brother


Once I called you “brother”
and this stayed for a long time
But your strong legs
lay like broken brass logs
awkward upon the asphalt
A rusty hatchet
buried deep in the old heart
of another



The 5th


It is said that I should unsay you
that I deny the movements
just so
to wrap up a whole modern city
in an unread newspaper
and love
watch it
leave it
contort down
the long black sleeve of 5th avenue





I don’t know if I could uncertain myself
to your exasperating sense of
you hold all the black petals
red palms of night



Copyright© 2012, by Dan Corjescu. . . . Read more. “Dan Corjescu: Three Poems”

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