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This space is set aside for image based or written contributions pondering the theme of the show. Contributors' backgrounds range from urban planning, architecture, art making, literature, ect.
A free space made with the hopes of presenting an array of perspectives. If you have anything that you would like to add or express, send your contributions to metaxy.ck@gmail.com︎︎︎


Compiled By

Isabella Agostino


MON, MAR 29, 2021

I Learned At Least What Home Could Be

By Emily Dickinson

I learned at least what Home could be
How ignorant I had been
Of pretty ways of Covenant
How awkward at the Hymn

Round our new Fireside but for this
This pattern of the Way
Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip
Of a Celestial Sea

What Mornings in our Garden guessed
What Bees for us to hum
With only Birds to interrupt
The Ripple of our Theme

And Task for Both
When Play be done
Your Problem of the Brain
And mine some foolisher effect
A Ruffle or a Tune

The Afternoons Together spent
And Twilight in the Lanes
Some ministry to poorer lives
Seen poorest thro’ our gains

And then Return and Night and Home

And then away to You to pass
A new diviner care
Till Sunrise take us back to Scene
Transmuted Vivider

This seems a Home
And Home is not
But what that Place could be
Afflicts me as a Setting Sun
Where Dawn knows how to be

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

By Robert Browning

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

The Props assist the House

By Emily Dickinson

The Props assist the House
Until the House is built
And then the Props withdraw
And adequate, erect,
The House support itself
And cease to recollect
The Augur and the Carpenter –
Just such a retrospect
Hath the perfected Life –
A Past of Plank and Nail
And slowness – then the scaffolds drop
Affirming it a Soul –

Away from Home are some and I –

By Emily Dickinson

Away from Home are some and I –
An Emigrant to be
In a Metropolis of Homes
Is easy, possibly –

The Habit of a Foreign Sky
We – difficult – acquire
As Children, who remain in Face
The more their Feet retire.

A Poem in Two Homes

By Eileen Myles

Everywhere I go
is home
when I’m dreaming.
Creamy traffic
pouring past
the Noho Star
“I thought you were
coming to my

l am.

At my back:
all of Bleecker St.
the confusing

part of New
York life

three generations
back. Today:

fruit stand, bad
bars: Stormin’
Norman & Susie,
old cafes, Village
Oldees, depression
now, the Bleecker
interesting “film”

Become a member
of the Bleecker
St. Cinema

your first year
in town. It’s
doubtful I will
move to Atlanta
for business. To
Texas to teach.
Remember Soho. This
is Soho. There’s
just these two
bars and then

the OG where
conceptual artists
sat all day

you can hardly
hear it, my
poetry. It’s
in danger of
vanishing if
I don’t write

it down. Does
it change like
the neighbor-
hoods, yes,
if you don’t
buy it in a flash
well who knows
what’ll happen
to you? You’ll
wind up in the

lower east side,
one day all cobble-
stoned with

trolley tracks &
dairy restaurants
like some old
world. There was
a giant line out-
side that old
church on New
Year’s day. You

couldn’t get in
so you went &

had coffee
with the

guy who depressed
you, Noel Sack.

Eileen, why don’t
you work he

Noel, I sd
waving my hands.
I bought his

old speakers
& my check

That was the
last straw.
He was so

pissed. I
guess he’s
in California
or someplace.

We went to that
history of the Avant
Garde Cinema
at the Modern Art.
I didn’t want
to be
with him at
all. His teacher
Duncan McNaughton

writes me about
the “real thing”

poetry that’s not
what, language,
ethnic, lesbian

black, you
know like Charles

I packed all
of my clothes
from your

home into a
Macy’s shopping

bag. Oh gimme
that jacket, I
wanted to

wear that. And
walking up twelfth
brrr it’s

really cold. Gimme
that white tur-
tle neck.
I did not forget
the yellow legal
paper folded
with the stripes
going up. I
forgot the tan
notebook full
of numbers
I’ve got
to call. I’m
walking home

with a Macy’s
bag and one sweater
& a head band
in it. Her soul
is not a great
soul. She dwells
on domestic things:
her love. Her walk
in the cold &
even keeping to the
tiniest rule makes
me full.
My home becomes
a prayer mount
when I get
there—full of
light & dust &
the answering
machine blinking.
Hello Eileen, I am
Joel Lewis. I
am the world’s
greatest poet.

I do not seem
to be obedient
to the world
today. Since
television, there
has been

me. It has
been a tall
order to carry
out, the whole
case for enter-
taining literacy

on my back.
I was listening
to a tape of
Patti Smith yes-
terday in
my home. It was
before she had
a band & everything
in her voice
was waiting
for it.
And, even better,
oh dear god,
gynous creep
in the sky
Danny heard
Hitler. & he
says Hitler
sd bumble
bumble, not much
blurrr facts,
bull shit
& then he exploded
you didn’t
know when
& that was
what moved
the crowd. The
freedom of

in the air.
Hitler, Hitler,
Hitler pop

I want to
be Will
that’s what
I want to
be. And,
that folks
(twirl twirl)
is the
end of the
world. As
we know.
I think I will
be the anti-
christ. Rather
than simple
Eileen Myles.
Poor she. The
is me. I
died at the
age of 33
yet I

walk the
streets of
the east
village joyful,
and remorseless
like a cruel
& perfect

poem, my
butt, unsold.

I act vague

about my
No, it is
than all
I know. The
softness, the
disposition. To-
day I used
half a jar
of Dippity
Do & I
got it right.
I will put
my plastic
head on
your shoulder
& weep.
For you, but
not for
me. My

compassion is
boundless &

My mission is
not so predictable
as reverse

of the first.

I take some
of this
& some of
that, I
unlike Christ.

I’m not a
girl, nor
a boy. I

won’t bear

nor knock
you up. I
do not

come w/instructions
even to myself.
All my notions
are felt
I think, as the
strikes the

fatty part
of the

arm of

the boy martyr
I am unwounded

wet from the
well. I am
clear-eyed &

burning with

like Christ,
but different.

Zounds. I
love that word.
Zounds. It

resembles arrows.

Each panel

represents a dif-
ferent industry
or else each
panel represents
a different re-
ligion, or masonic
lodge, or else
each panel re-
presents an age,
like the awful
age of pisces
which we’re leaving
behind us as
we’re chugging
on towards
the great
new mysterious
age of Aquarius.
Everything you
can think of
that seems
to be
like that.

A sphinx would
make you

happy because
at least
a sphinx
is a fact.

We’re coming
from there,
the desert &
we’re going
right back
in. Now

more than
any other
time in
history, you
really ought
to please
in mysterious
winds a
cave inside
your soul
might be
the only
to go.
So why house
a skunk?
Once my whole
apartment is
grey I can
think this
all out.
But I’m
ever home. Hi,
I barge in,
all smiles,
the answer
machine is
blinking away
& my hands
all full of
direct mail
envelopes, Salvation

Army, gay direct
mail, poor Bowery
guys, culture.

Everybody wants
money. And
I just came
home from
a hard
day of looking
for money
for my
that of
the poet.

In your
I sing
your song.

At the end
of the
l am
my poem.

Fantastic Homes and Where to Find Them


Anna-Maire Maskova

Anna-Marie based in the Czech Republic, is a recent MSc graduate specifying in Building and Urban Design in Development. She has worked as an architectural designer and model technician. Interested in sustainability, urban design, and urbanism. Here she contributes part three of a four part reflection. Other sections soon to follow...

WED, MAR 24, 2021

Part III: London: Goodbyes

I love a song by Baz Luhrmann called Everybody’s Free. There is a line in it that I only understood after living in London — one of the biggest metropolises in Europe, equal I think only to New York:

‘Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard
live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft’

My London home gave me so so much and so did the people there and, while my home was one of the best places I ever lived, I knew it was time to leave London. I was becoming too hard and I wanted to keep some innocence that I reclaimed back home in Prague in my 5 months of living with my family again. And so in August of 2020, I came back to London to pack up my room, say goodbye to everyone and sell my bike. Thanks to looser COVID guidelines I could meet people that I thought I would not be able to and so the month of August became a revolving door of park hangouts with ethiopean food and beers with my many London friends.

There were tears. I said goodbye to many people that I truly and dearly loved and leaving them felt like leaving a part of me in the UK. One among them stood out the most but their name to you, my dear reader, will mean nothing, to me however it means more than I could put into words. I know that because of these people that have changed me forever; it well never not be my home.


Compiled By 

Isabella Agostino


TUE, MAR 1, 2021

The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

By Wallace Stevens

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

At Home

By Christina Rossetti

WHEN I was dead, my spirit turned
To seek the much-frequented house:
I passed the door, and saw my friends
Feasting beneath green orange boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:
Said one: 'To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands
And coasting miles and miles of sea.'
Said one: 'Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat.'
Said one: 'To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet.'

'To-morrow,' said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
'To-morrow,' cried they one and all,
While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I, had passed away:
'To-morrow and to-day,' they cried;
I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the tablecloth;
I all-forgotten shivered, sad
To stay and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

The Wrong Way Home

By James Tate

All night a door floated down the river.
It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure
from its former life, like the time the lovers
leaned against it kissing for hours
and whispering those famous words.
Later, there were harsh words and a shoe
was thrown and the door was slammed.
Comings and goings by the thousands,
the early mornings and late nights, years, years.
O they’ve got big plans, they’ll make a bundle.
The door was an island that swayed in its sleep.
The moon turned the doorknob just slightly,
burned its fingers and ran,
and still the door said nothing and slept.
At least that’s what they like to say,
the little fishes and so on.
Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

An American Poem

By Eileen Myles

I was born in Boston in
1949. I never wanted
this fact to be known, in
fact I’ve spent the better
half of my adult life
trying to sweep my early
years under the carpet
and have a life that
was clearly just mine
and independent of
the historic fate of
my family. Can you
imagine what it was
like to be one of them,
to be built like them,
to talk like them
to have the benefits
of being born into such
a wealthy and powerful
American family. I went
to the best schools,
had all kinds of tutors
and trainers, traveled
widely, met the famous,
the controversial, and
the not-so-admirable
and I knew from
a very early age that
if there were ever any
possibility of escaping
the collective fate of this famous
Boston family I would
take that route and
I have. I hopped
on an Amtrak to New
York in the early
‘70s and I guess
you could say
my hidden years
began. I thought
Well I’ll be a poet.What could be more
foolish and obscure.
I became a lesbian.
Every woman in my
family looks like
a dyke but it’s really
stepping off the flag
when you become one.
While holding this ignominious
pose I have seen and
I have learned and
I am beginning to think
there is no escaping
history. A woman I
am currently having
an affair with said
you know  you look
like a Kennedy. I felt
the blood rising in my
cheeks. People have
always laughed at
my Boston accent
confusing “large” for
“lodge,” “party”
for “potty.” But
when this unsuspecting
woman invoked for
the first time my
family name
I knew the jig
was up. Yes, I am,
I am a Kennedy.
My attempts to remain
obscure have not served
me well. Starting as
a humble poet I
quickly climbed to the
top of my profession
assuming a position of
leadership and honor.
It is right that a
woman should call
me out now. Yes,
I am a Kennedy.
And I await
your orders.
You are the New Americans.
The homeless are wandering
the streets of our nation’s
greatest city. Homeless
men with AIDS are among
them. Is that right?
That there are no homes
for the homeless, that
there is no free medical
help for these men. And women.
That they get the message—as they are dying—
that this is not their home?
And how are your
teeth today? Can
you afford to fix them?
How high is your rent?
If art is the highest
and most honest form
of communication of
our times and the young
artist is no longer able
to move here to speak
to her time…Yes, I could,
but that was 15 years ago
and remember—as I must
I am a Kennedy.
Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys?
This nation’s greatest city
is home of the business-
man and home of the
rich artist. People with
beautiful teeth who are not
on the streets. What shall
we do about this dilemma?
Listen, I have been educated.
I have learned about Western
Civilization. Do you know
what the message of Western
Civilization is? I am alone.
Am I alone tonight?
I don’t think so. Am I
the only one with bleeding gums
tonight. Am I the only
homosexual in this room
tonight. Am I the only
one whose friends have
died, are dying now.
And my art can’t
be supported until it is
gigantic, bigger than
everyone else’s, confirming
the audience’s feeling that they are
alone. That they alone
are good, deserved
to buy the tickets
to see this Art.
Are working,
are healthy, should
survive, and are
normal. Are you
normal tonight? Everyone
here, are we all normal.
It is not normal for
me to be a Kennedy.
But I am no longer
ashamed, no longer
alone. I am not
alone tonight because
we are all Kennedys.
And I am your President.

Fantastic Homes and Where to Find Them


Anna-Maire Maskova

Anna-Marie based in the Czech Republic, is a recent MSc graduate specifying in Building and Urban Design in Development. She has worked as an architectural designer and model technician. Interested in sustainability, urban design, and urbanism. Here she contributes part two of a four part reflection. Other sections soon to follow...

THU, FEB 11 , 2021

Part II: Prague: Family, Boundaries and Lockdown

I think most people want to be home in a time of a crisis — I was no exception. I am one of the Czechs who returned home from living abroad in London. The UK recorded its first case on the 31st of January, several weeks before the Czech Republic recorded its first patient. Personally, I did not know what to make of the fact that my home country shut everything down including its borders while everything in the UK was running like nothing was happening. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that I could be stuck in a country whose government was willing to risk people’s lives only to keep the economy running. And so, I packed my bags to return home - my ancestral home and the country of my foremothers — if you, dear reader, allow me to add a touch of drama.

In March of 2020, I came back from London to complete the unit of two parents, my brother and his girlfriend, and last but not least two tomcats, in a small bungalow with a big garden. By an ancient forest, my home feels a thousand miles from the bustling city centre of Prague. A mere five minutes from my house you can encounter a deer or a wild boar or a hare hopping across a forest path or a field.

My ‘home’ is a home of morning rituals and crystals. However early I wake up my dad is always reading in the living room in his armchair waiting for my mum to wake up to make her an espresso in one of his million coffee cups. He knows exactly which ones she likes most. When mum wakes up we often have breakfast together as we are the only two people in the house that eat at a similar time and the exact same thing.

Of course that is the romanticised version of my home. The first lockdown was not as smooth as I may have led you to believe. With everyone working from home the space felt very cramped as you can imagine that lead to some disagreements but honestly at the time I was so busy that I hardly noticed and most likely stepped on toes at times without stopping to notice. Whenever I come ‘home’ I am reminded of what I am missing by not being in Prague but also the person I have changed into while I was away. I notice it in the way I communicate versus what my parents expect me to communicate but I feel that my coming back to Prague for a long period of time helped redefine these trodden paths.


Linda Zhengová


SUN, JAN 31 , 2021
People say that you truly get to understand the value of things only when you lose them.

I moved out from home relatively early, when I was 15 or 16 and started going to college in Prague. Then I moved to the Netherlands for my bachelor’s and master’s studies where I am still currently located right now. I never had the problem living abroad since generally, my family has been dispersed all over the globe, and it was something I was already used to since I was a child. Particularly, the thought that you can always return back home kept us all going and made living apart quite comfortable and compromising.

However, in 2020 this feeling has drastically changed, at least for me. In March, I had booked tickets from Amsterdam to Prague and couldn’t wait to go home to see my family, yet there was this tsunami of a global pandemic pouring in at the same time. Two days before my flight, lockdown measures have been announced in the Netherlands, and suddenly the vision of seeing my family became very blurry. As the months went by, I counted every missed birthday, celebration and special event, especially Christmas and the New Year’s Eve.

By not being able to travel home, I realized that to call a certain place “home” is a luxury and a privilege and definitely not something to be taken for granted. I became grateful to have a place that I can call “home” and I hope to return there soon. 

FEB 05 ︎︎︎ 12th 2021

 FEB 05 ︎︎︎ 12th 2021