these words by Khatira Mahdavi were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
You asked me if I thought
you were pretty.
Pretty is relative only to
everything besides oneself.
When I stare deeply into the mirror
I become confused.
There are two versions,
one always melting into
the other.
The first: a goddess,
black magic turned blue.
A garland of roses
atop my head,
pure and perfumed.
The second: relative.
A wise aunt who shares dark eyes.
A brave father who shares resilient,
smooth skin.
You liked the idea that beauty
is ancestral and proud.
You asked how you could come to wear
a garland made of roses.
Together we looked in the mirror
and I removed my garland,
delicate as a newborn.
I let it settle on your head.
I let it bring you balance.
these words by Ivana Velickovic were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
Someone once told me not to make homes out of human beings but with you I
couldn’t help it—
your body cradled perfectly against mine,
as if we were built to rest with our limbs intertwined.
We forged space for each other where there was none to be made.
I’d feel your heart as you held my head to your chest
I wanted to merge your body with mine.
But you were indestructibly you.
You lingered in the air, irresistible.
Exquisite, as you lay back, stretching out
beneath the sunlight of your bedroom window that splayed sparkles upon your cheeks.
As you unequivocally made yourself a part of my world.
these words by Annie Rubin were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim
Forgive me
For not coming any closer.
You remind me too much of my father,
And the type of men
Who destroy
Women like me.
these words by Nahomi Amberber were inspired by the work of James Gilleard
This poem by Taisha Cayard was inspired by Audre Lorde’s “But What Can You Teach My Daughter,” published in Lorde’s 1978 collection, The Black Unicorn.
‘See you later,’
I say to you
as I leave you for the last time.
I do not know it yet, but when I return
our pool will be dry.
There will be no evidence
of our glorious summer days
soaking in the sun;
nor remnants of our gin-soaked laughter,
as we trudge through the snow in the winter.
You are gone; I wish I were.
I see telephone lines as they reach through the countryside,
searching for you,
and I feel your voice vibrate through your body,
while I rest my head on your chest.
I see the curve of an arch,
and I remember how miraculously our bodies fit together.
these words by Jess Goldson were inspired by the work of Mairi Timoney
The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.
Sometimes you wish you could forget your body,
walk away from its needs and all the ways you believe
it fails you. You are not always kind. Just now
you are scrambling up a canyon. The rock is red
and the sky is blue. This is your first time in the desert
and you had not expected to be so in love
but you are. You love the deep blue sky
and the yellow and orange and red sandstone
and the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
you note with curiosity that the beauty doesn’t
make you less aware of your small self,
it doesn’t take you away from your body. No,
instead your body is a marvel, too, a marvel
that carried you to these other marvels, the sky,
the rock, the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
now, finally, to the tinaja, this natural basin
carved by wind and filled with rare desert rain. It is
uncommonly wonderful: cool and green and quiet.
Your own body took you here. It is wonderful, too,
to notice your body in this way, when so often
you notice it only when you are hungry or thirsty
or tired or too hot or too cold or you have to pee
and you’re miles from the nearest rest stop.
Your body will be inescapable for your entire life
but you will not be ungrateful. You will press
your hands onto the smooth sandstone
and feel where the wind has come and gone
and will come again and slowly change the world.
these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the art of Sonia Alins Miguel
The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.
i.
No one in the village will tell her. The repossessed house. Her childhood home. The rotting wood. Four rooms. Iron stove. A table. A mother and a father. Two sisters, little brother. Grandmother. Sand dunes, grasslands, reed-lined backwaters, tiny white farms. Disassembled.
Poïesis clangour. Percussive bowing. Scavenging emptiness. Improvisation, nomadic process. Obsessive. The marginal and maimed. That which is cast out. A place of no place. Into the nothing. Riffing off these lines. Her mother reporting the bad news. Or retelling old bad news. Keeping track of shapeless, violent births; confessions and letters; the omen unfolding in real life. Shuffling. Slurring. Inept.
A purple iris. Faceless, carrying her. Name folded into another name. Put black paint back to its unblemishedness. Unbruised.
ii.
Wading in warm mud. A womb. Tales of sexual predation. Cruel loneliness.
these words by Ilona Martonfi were inspired by the art of Sonia Alins Miguel
Growing up
I never lived
in houses with lawns or little gardens or backyards,
with weeping willows or wooden benches.
I lived,
sometimes,
in a city
where pedestrian walkways,
‘footpaths’ they were called,
were resting places for those who couldn’t afford rooftops
over their heads.
I lived in apartment buildings,
boxes stacked one on top of the other
to save space
in overpopulated cities—
in lands
dominated,
sliced up
with sharp blades of politics, religion and language
and distributed
like a decadent dessert (not enough)
amongst gluttons, never satisfied.
But these spaces for living?
They constructed and constricted
and made it difficult to breathe
in boxes,
with each wall
closing in,
a divide,
made of those very same blades.
Now these boxes stand
stacked one on top of the other
with one wall, standing tall,
the wall of class
(check box: rich/poor)
one wall, standing tall,
the wall of gender
(check box: male/female)
one wall, standing tall,
the wall of body
(check box: abled/disabled)
one wall, standing tall,
the wall of beauty
(check box: fair-skinned/dark-skinned)
one wall, standing tall,
the wall of knowledge
(check box: valid/invalid)
Mighty walls, standing tall, solid
with edges like blades.
I lived,
sometimes,
crossing over to the other side.
But these walls with their sharp edges
would cut into my flesh
so I grew up
wounded,
bleeding.
And these boxes?
They worked
for those who lived in black-and-white worlds.
Lazy minds, refusing to see colours or greys,
fitting themselves into moulds
as others saw fit,
gift-wrapping themselves in societal expectations
and presenting themselves
(happily?)
to a world
that was ready
for no more.
But not you and I.
You and I
stood either somewhere in the middle, bleeding,
or outside,
in a corner
of a verandah
looking at the skies, limitless,
using boxes with pinholes,
projecting realities,
our own,
to capture the essence of life.
Breathing.
these words by Shagufe Hossain were inspired by the work of Marcin Wolski
CW: sexual assault
Like anyone else, I spent time & energy imagining how 007 I could be.
Like anyone else, taught on reflex to look both ways before crossing
my street
but that’s where our shared experience ends. No daily business ends
of martini goggles for me. No living through exits—lucky for them if it
never happens; also guilty. Also, odds are good
it will happen again, so
memorize that hotkey. No inept guard. No
Paintball Mode. Nights, stacked with antagonists. Every human. Every are. Seems
badass
except with no agency at all. Not like how wrestling’s fake, either. More like
when it’s dark, we’re walking home together & I flip off a car of strangers being rude
she’s not impressed. That’s a grimace. That’s a grimace because
she’s an operative with no security. Raised a spy but treated as an eavesdropper.
More like her opposite of FIGHT isn’t FLIGHT. It’s raped.
these words by Pete Gibbon were inspired by
the art of Pasha Bumazhniy
wordandcolour 
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