The Colander Canon vs. I Don't Know What Everyone Else Did This Weekend

So. Let me start by saying I find a certain sexiness in the art of colanders - the word itself, too. I no longer have my grandmother's star-patterned aluminum colander; the one on my wall is more modern with clean lines, marring only visible from discreet angles. That's not why we're here, but it matters to the narrative.

We're here because I've found myself entangled with a Gordian knot of poets on Twitter. Nothing edifies my strangled artistic octopus-heart more than volleying word-games. NOTHING. The weekend took a circuitous route through winter synaesthesia, poetry readings, and book-shelfies, ending with two important things:

1) Pablo Picasso published a book of poems while he was on hiatus from art. The surprise is not that he did it, but that I didn't know about it.

2) Colanderesque as a word is in use, mostly outside the United States.

Somewhere in the middle of the knot was discussion of juggling muses, in which I was called brave.
There's a fine line between brave and insane ;) also, I think that line is permeable. - me
...and that's where it all blew up. #Colander-esque, he said, and we declared that a poetry prompt. Please enjoy the following fruits of our maddened and leaking minds. This is the post that just keeps going. Note that our first selection doesn't actually use the word.

a thought i held: slipped 
my fingers, left behind a palmful 
of tea leaves

débora Ewing

my heart wakes, colanderesque
dreams seeping through

stains on the carpet
a path through the door
puddles in the gravel
next to the magnolia

-what did we find
looking up
into the eyes of Orion
sending us back to bed?

I'm too coffee for soon.

out of leaves
comes the stream
eddies of cloud
rolling and pink
picture on a
glass-water lake

They might say
we’re weak
full of holes
from which flows
all that
we contain
who knows
they could
be right

he fell from the sky
impaled by the
Luxor Obolesk

he died at the tip
of an Egyptian structure
residing in the heart of Paris

a flood of blood
laved the pavement
art met madness
the city’s mood was
separating tragedy from history

she repaired the spindle 
in her grandmother’s 
dining room chair 
she sat on this chair 
as a little girl, solid oak 
now her date was at 
Thanksgiving dinner 
he had sturdy hands 
& good posture 
they washed the dishes 
soapy hands in deep colanders

Colanderesque realities
Distilled in
pointillistic ontology.
Lagrangian futures sieved
In coffee shop idioms
Entombed by
Kafkaesque societies
crisscrossing boulders
Foretold by
chalkboard smears
& nihilistic fears
Seeking truth
In quantum fluctuated

Breathless young diva
Takes to the stage
Bright spirited
Dangerous blue-ringed
Octopus mind
Dance beats
Her heart meets
A partner to find
Quick step
Twister spinning
Waveforms malfunction
Coherency blind
UV her spectrum
Boldly she writhes

My mind, the sieve
Memories wind their way
Through like
Viscous rivers
Through rapid-rocks
Neurons and tracts
Grasping at past joys
And pains
But they filter
Through colanderesque

I sit patiently
Fingers tapping on knees
A window-widow
Awaiting their return

Further Reading:
Writing by Aepha Deus

Melinda Smith
Science. Fiction. Sometimes both. 

Science With Friends 
Okay, technically this Apple Podcast is Further Listening. Check it out.

Coming Into Balance - a Blog 
Read the journey of an autistic mother of an autistic child. 

Pablo Picasso's poetry - Open Culture 


  1. "Couplandesque
    Couplandesque (adj.) To be philosophical about pop culture; to view aspects of mass media and cultural consumption as trancendental; to find meaning in that which is normally viewed as shallow or mundane. Derived from the works of Douglas Coupland, wherein pop culture is analyzed and celebrated on a personal level.
    Coca-Cola, Legos and McDonald's all in one film? How Couplandesque!"

  2. "That last even includes poetry, to which Picasso announced his commitment in "1935, at the age of 53. At that point, writes Dangerous Minds' Paul Gallagher, "he began writing poems almost every day until the summer of 1959," beginning "by daubing colors for words in a notebook before moving on to using words to sketch images," ultimately producing hundreds of poems composed primarily of "stream of consciousness, unpunctuated word association with startling juxtaposition of images and at times an obsession with sex, death and excrement.""
    I like the poems that they cited in the article. And I GET the using daubs of color for words. It's like a shorthand language.

  3. For me, yellow is happy, like a warm sun coming up, and brown is disturbed -- orange even more so. Black is that last restful peace of the dead. Greens are tricky. They range from a pastel green that means new ideas, creativity stirring to a dark, murky green that is the transition from brown to orange, somehow. Cloudy and murky, nasty. Blue is calm, also reflective of daylight and ocean water. Warm to cold. A painter's palette.


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