by Basil King

1)

A Triangle dreams
Of having a tail
A striped tail
Like a sergeant
It walks a straight
Line

2)

When he was a young man Walt Whitman had a short beard.
In the Civil War Whitman has a long beard and he fed pie
to the wounded. Whitman’s Leaves of Grass stings America’s
being, its worth and its person. America learns to live and
die.

3)

Triangle 2

There is no poem
In these triangles
There is heat
And a heart
Beat
That will not
Destruct

Three angles
Go up
Three sides
Come down

4.

Oh Black Mountain, wonderful place,
desperate place. I was blown to
where light abstracts the smallest thing,
into the core of a vernacular, into
the heart of the abstract. No wind but the
stillness blows me, no reason; no
existence blows the shapes that have lost
their edges. Oh, Black Mountain,
wonderful place, desperate place. Blow your
feathers and your worms. Your
mulch protrudes the surface. Your bravery
blows forgiveness. Your anger
blows freedom. Oh, Black Mountain,
wonderful place, desperate place. I
was blown to where light abstracts the
smallest thing, into the core of a
vernacular, into the heart of the abstract.
No wind but the stillness blows
me, no reason; no existence blows the
shapes that have lost their edges

5.

Give

Before there was charcoal
There was fire
And naked bodies
Are heard
Give me a home
And something to eat
Give me water
Give me sex
Give me before you
Give
Give me a painting
With four corners
And a center
To keep me warm

6.

Necklace

Pride being true
To what is said
Can only be said
On land
Stretch the canvas
And
Size the Atlantic

My mother’s eyes are the
Necklace of my childhood
And I wear
Pride being true
To what is said
Can only be said
On land
Stretch canvas
And
Size the Atlantic

7.

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson made it very clear to her family. She was
not interested in the King’s English.

With language I am me — without it I am yours — and that
can never be. Verbs, nouns and articles, Emily Dickinson
conjugated a language that became the furniture in her
bedroom. With language I am me — without it I am yours —
and that can never be.

8.

Drawing

Inside
The Red bricks
Of Bruges
Modigliani
Found
Africa
In Paris
He spoke French
Was he never paid

In Paris
He coughed
And spoke
To
A bird’s eye
A nipple full of
Honey is a shawl
For
The desert heat
Remember
She too
Is inside
The Red bricks
of Bruges

9.

Dinner for Two

When Dante
Saw Beatrice
He told her
They would have
Breakfast in New York
Lunch in London
Dinner in Paris

Important Notes:

All these poems (except for #2 and #4) were published in Afterthought /Paintings and Poems, a special limited edition of only 20 copies facing reproductions of Basil King’s paintings published by Granary Press in 2022. The copies now reside in specialty libraries in the U.S. For more information, visit the Granary Press website.

#2 Walt Whitman was deleted from the Granary edition due to technical problems with the image.

#4 This poem was part of Basil King’s narration in the BAM production of Richard Reed Parry and Bruce Dessner’s Black Mountain Songs in 2014. Baz was not used as The Narrator when this production was later presented in England or at Black Mountain College. It was first published as a poem in Learning to Draw /A History, UK: Skylight Press, 2011, in Part II of “The Real Thing Has Four Parts.”

#7 Emily Dickinson was published as a stand–alone in Talisman Journal in 2022.

Basil thanks editors Steve Clay, the developers of Black Mountain Songs, Daniel Staniforth, and Ed Foster for their support of his work.

by Mosab Abu Toha

You Came into My Dream
a letter to my brother Hudayfah (2000-2016)

All I know is that you came. I paid no attention to your clothing,
whether you were holding something in your hand. A letter from
There?
Are your hands still small? Could they carry a heavy letter written
by Fate? Fate, whose sharp fingernails scratch open my back’s skin
every time it misspells my name.

I knew I was dreaming. But why haven’t I even conversed with
you? Maybe ask if you saw Grandfather up There? Maybe he is
still stuck and planted in Yaffa somewhere, tending an aging
orange tree?
What kept my mouth from opening? (Silence makes my mouth
sour) Was I put inside a glass medicine bottle on which They
wrote not “Keep out of reach of children,” but “Keep silent in
and out.”
who/what are They?

Your sight was fresh and sharp I felt you could see through me,
onto my bleeding past. I am crying, but my tears are cold. My
tears are falling on my feet, they burn the tiny, dark hairs on my
toes. My feet are bare. I have been walking for a long time, and
the road is strewn with fear.

by Mosab Abu Toha

First time boarding a plane, first
time seeing my city shrink as if a belt is
fastening around its waist, first time
my feet getting far from the earth.

From the plane’s window, a big lake: a drop of rain.
Clouds swim beneath the plane. I hear a young cloud say
Oh, look at that boy! It seems
it’s his first time boarding a plane
and seeing us from above.

Words of a flight attendant tap on my ears
What would you like to drink, sir?

I’m not a sir. I’m just a refugee who’s
travelling for the first time at 27 of age.

Pineapple Juice, please! Oh, and how long until we land?

The attendant consults her watch.
Oh! Sorry! The watch is not working.
I forgot to have the battery changed.

She pours me some juice, leaving me
think of the remaining time.

I look out through the window again.
The sky clears up.
I could hear the steps of some clouds running
behind the plane’s tail.
A toilet flushing.

The plane slightly shakes. I look around at people.
I feel scared. Some people
are still reading, others sleeping.

I busy myself, flip through photos on my phone,
photos of sunset, of Gaza’s sea, of flowers
in our home’s small garden, of my parents picking
olives, guavas, and oranges.

The plane finally lands. I grab my carry–on,
wait until the passage clears.

I hail a taxi. A driver, in his forties, a cigarette in his
mouth, opens the trunk.

At the last stoplight before he turns, he puffs
away at his cigarette. The thin white smoke soars up, drifts into
a slightly open window of a small house on the corner.

The fire alarm in that house blares out.
It was a kitchen window. The girl inside freaks out.
Smell of cigarette smoke fills up her lungs. She peeks through
the window, sees the smoker, thoughtful driver, eyes on the red
light.

She catches sight of me, in my suit after my long trip.
She gazes at me, her eyes inviting me
to share dinner with her. I feel she’s lonely and away
like me.

Smoke from factories and cars
makes the city strange to birds
in the sky.

A very big truck blocks our sights.
The car, the truck, everything moves.
But I still think
What is she cooking for dinner?

It’s vacant here except for hundreds of stone boxes
above a yellow floor of sand.
No trees anywhere for a bird to perch on.
Inside each box, two hands,
or maybe one,
or maybe no hands;
one leg, two legs
or maybe no legs;
a head, or none; a chest,
or a smashed one;
or none at all.

All of the body parts
we learnt about at school
or touched with love.
A box may fit the size of a corpse.
It may be bigger. It could be empty.

My grandfather, I don’t know where your grave is,
but your wheelchair is surely not inside.
It must’ve rusted or was sold as steel and plastic.

My brother, I know you’re sleeping in one,
but I’ve never searched for it.
Not sure if I will.
Your heavy breathing once
led me to your place when electricity was cut.
But not anymore.
I cannot tell if they inscribed your name
on your gravestone, if there is
a gravestone, if you’re still in your grave.
I’m not sure. You could be watching us,
watching me
writing this.

But what is this?
Not a poem.
This may be a gravestone
for someone not yet born.