perhaps not a word

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AG2026_1144564a

Open Call to artists of Haitian descent: Collaborate with the ALAN LOMAX audio archive of Haiti in the 1930s. Due : June 15, 2026. (Haitian Cultural Exchange)

Specific Cultural Projects Deadline : July 10, 2026 (Florida Division of Arts & Culture Grants)


A glimpse through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,

A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

A Glimpse, Walt Whitman

Array’d in glory from the orbs above

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AG2026_1170516a

O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness
, say what I shall call thee,
To give an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day!

On Virtue, Phillis Wheatley

Every day steeling ourselves against it.

Being called all manner of things
from the Dictionary of Shame—
not English, not words, not heard,
but worn, borne, carried, never spent—
we feel now a largeness coming on,
something passing into us
. We know
not in what source it was begun, but
rapt, we watch it rise through our fallen,
our slain, our millions dragged, chained.
Like daylight setting leaves alight—
green to gold to blinding white.
Like a spirit caught. Flame-in-flesh.
I watched a woman try to shake it, once,
from her shoulders and hips. A wild
annihilating fright. Other women
formed a wall around her, holding back
what clamored to rise. God. Devil.
Ancestor.
What Black bodies carry
through your schools, your cities.
Do you see how mighty you’ve made us,
all these generations running?
Every day steeling ourselves against it.
Every day coaxing it back into coils.
And all the while feeding it.
And all the while loving it.

We Feel Now A Largeness Coming On, Tracy K. Smith


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AG2026_1222301a or Here, hylomorphic, composed from a heap of parts

the gleam of my eye; Beauty

(Belleau Wood, 1917)

“A soldier waits until he’s called—then
moves ass and balls up, over,
tearing twigs and crushed faces,
swinging his bayonet like a pitchfork
and thinking anything’s better
than a trench, ratshit
and the tender hairs of chickweed
.
A soldier is smoke
waiting for wind; he’s a long corridor
clanging to the back of a house
where a child sings
in its ruined nursery…
and Beauty is the
gleam of my eye on this gunstock and my spit
drying on the blade of this knife
before it warms itself in the gut of a Kraut.
Mother, forgive me. Hear the leaves? I am
already memory.”

Alfonzo Prepares to Go Over the Top, Rita Dove


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AG2026_1211969a

Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end, an exhibition

Exhibition Statement

Modern society suffers from a temporal crisis, not a shortage of time, but a slip in our hold of its fragrance, texture, and meaning. Today’s accelerated, atomized time, structured by productivity, efficiency, and constant stimulation has deemphasized temporal duration and depth. Yet the essence of the human condition lies in the slowness of the mundane, the everyday, the gradual changes, and in being almost there. Our lives consist of experiencing a series of “on the ways,” and impending anticipated arrivals. Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end, a solo exhibition of new works on paper by Adler Guerrier, contemplates textures, spatial structures, and temporalities within the notion of “pending.” The word derives from the French preposition pendant (“during”), tracing back to the Latin pendere, meaning “to hang” or “to suspend.”
 

Pending, for Guerrier, is a mode of being with its own interiority, its own spatial and temporal elasticity, articulated as a survival strategy of the not-yet nor fully liberated, deployed for its generative and freeing potentiality. Through drawing, photography, collage, and mixed media, Guerrier explores how this temporality, as it emerged within compositions and arrangements, might offer a kind of spatial strata, one where everyday survival is posited as life long goal and the easy reach for forms of goodness.
 

Art discourse readily addresses beauty, sublimity, truth, and the uncanny. Goodness, by contrast, has seemed too earnest, too unguarded, too simple to sustain critical attention. In this body of work, Guerrier challenges this, proposing that goodness is the very end for pending, weathering, and moving through the affirming conditions under which survival becomes livable. He distinguishes two registers. The first is expansive: goodness as totality, utopian, or paradise. The second is quotidian: as in the well-wishing of a good morning, or the mood enhancing of a shared joke, the settled calm contentment of simply being. The latter is threaded into the complexities of life, prompting us to wonder how we each inhabit and move through this temporal space.
 

In Untitled (This here moment propels and guides) and Untitled (California poppies, Los Angeles) i, Guerrier explores the spatial and temporal dimensions of being and pending through the subject of wildflowers. Wildflowers operate in a spatial asideness from structured and urban modernity, following their own botanical life cycles and abundant colorful forms of goodness, thriving amongst piles of trash, exhaust fumes, harsh concrete, and reduced biodiversity. Guerrier’s formal choreography of drawing, collage, and painting, as seen in Untitled (Field Guide–exposure to enchanted forms) xvii and Untitled (A will to adorn; détourné) i, intentionally calls attention to the forms’ substructures, varied mark-making, and materiality. The exposed underlayers of paper, edge lines, and splashes of paint reveal the works’ coming into being, creating and sustaining the conditions for durational observation. This emphasis on materiality underscores the works’ medium-ness. In doing so, it counters the contemporary prioritization of immediacy (without anything in between), and ultimately reasserts art’s place and power as both medium and mediation. 
 

Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end endeavors to restore the scent and depth of time. The exhibition reminds us that human beings are often shaped less by the act of arriving than by the particular way they inhabit the interval before arrival, forged in how they travel between the ground that holds and the horizon that keeps, always, its patient distance. 

re.riddle

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The tree outside my window is committing plagiarism for the twentieth year in a row

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AG2023_1120326a

It is spring again, spring so astonishingly familiar: so why is poetry choking on itself? The tree outside my window is committing plagiarism for the twentieth year in a row, adding green leaves to green leaves. The flowers of the cherry tree are no different from the first cherry tree; the same smell as yesterday permeates the air. And—though old people say this is tedious—my sister is kissing someone under the same tree where I used to kiss, ?endlessly plagiarizing the first kiss. I could still tell you about the grasses, all the grasses that sprouted from seeds faithfully and persistently, the same, the exact same grass as months ago. The world is not afraid to ?plagiarize when making new life, and always equally astonishing and monotonous in its stubbornness is death. Why then condemn poems of love, why blame them for their lack of shame and their primitive, chaotic groans of pleasure, faithfully replicated for centuries, indifferent to who reads them?

It is spring again, Halina Po?wiatowska, Translated from the Polish by Karolina Zapal & Ryan Mihaly


my heart is an autocrat
ach! how it runs rampant
obscuring the world

it silences the fountains
and flies up to the eighth floor
quicker than a pigeon

then from the parapet
it gazes for hours
delighting in tiny people
basking in its greatness

my heart is an autocrat, Halina Po?wiatowska, Translated from the Polish by Karolina Zapal & Ryan Mihaly