Nooly Nostrildamus, the back cover illustration from Plop! #4, 1974 by Basil Wolverton (1909-78)
Category: Art
City of Tells (Detail) — James Drake
Detail from City of Tells, 2004 by James Drake
Four panels from the June 16, 1957 edition of Charles M. Schulz’s strip Peanuts
He Enquired after the Quality — David Hockney
He Enquired after the Quality, 1966 by David Hockney (b. 1937)
There Is Something about a Man in a Uniform — Sanam Khatibi
There Is Something about a Man in a Uniform, 2016 by Sanam Khatibi (b. 1979)
There’s Only Love & Dreams — Davor Gromilovic
There’s Only Love & Dreams, 2022 by Davor Gromilovic (b. 1985)
Study for The Tennis Players — Pavel Tchelitchew
Study for The Tennis Players, 1934 by Pavel Tchelitchew (1898-1957)
Baltimore — Miles Cleveland Goodwin
Baltimore, 2022 by Miles Cleveland Goodwin (b. 1980)
Still Life with Mug, Pipe and Book — John Frederick Peto
Still Life with Mug, Pipe and Book,1899 by John Frederick Peto (1854-1907)
Mockingbird — Aron Wiesenfeld
Mockingbird, 2023 by Aron Wiesenfeld (b. 1972)
Skin Graft — Otto Dix
Skin Graft (Transplantation), from The War series, 1924 by Otto Dix (1891–1969)
Lord Candlestick’s Horses — Leonora Carrington
Lord Candlestick’s Horses, 1938 by Leonora Carrington (1917-2011)
Une après-midi — Xiao Guo Hui
Une après-midi, 2022 by Xiao Guo Hui (b. 1969)
Penelope — Glyn Philpot
Penelope, 1923 by Glyn Philpot (1884-1937)
The War Crime — Ben Quilty
The War Crime, 2022 by Ben Quilty (b. 1973)
“The Dreadful Has Already Happened” — Mark Strand
“The Dreadful Has Already Happened”
by
Mark Strand
The relatives are leaning over, staring expectantly.
They moisten their lips with their tongues. I can feel
them urging me on. I hold the baby in the air.
Heaps of broken bottles glitter in the sun.
A small band is playing old fashioned marches.
My mother is keeping time by stamping her foot.
My father is kissing a woman who keeps waving
to somebody else. There are palm trees.
The hills are spotted with orange flamboyants and tall
billowy clouds move behind them. “Go on, Boy,”
I hear somebody say, “Go on.”
I keep wondering if it will rain.
The sky darkens. There is thunder.
“Break his legs,” says one of my aunts,
“Now give him a kiss.” I do what I’m told.
The trees bend in the bleak tropical wind.
The baby did not scream, but I remember that sigh
when I reached inside for his tiny lungs and shook them
out in the air for the flies. The relatives cheered.
It was about that time I gave up.
Now, when I answer the phone, his lips
are in the receiver; when I sleep, his hair is gathered
around a familiar face on the pillow; wherever I search
I find his feet. He is what is left of my life.
Biblioklept 