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August 29th, Anno Domini 2026
"Usura slayeth the child in the womb
It slayeth the young man's courting
It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth
between the young bride and her bridegroom"
No matter the state of the world, art prevails, the many wrong things of the world usury, war, hate, murder, peaceful hedonism, inspire art, Pound himself was much inspired by WWI and the pains it caused, some of the best poetry came out of the trenches with those broken men. Many people claim pain and suffering are the main drivers of poetry and art, a broken or unquiet mind, but in this issue you will find art inspired by both pain and beauty, and beauty sits beside itself alone, existing for its own sake, nature exists, beautiful and timeless, uncaring of our personal dramas and faults.
Il Vate
Il Prosista
Il Prosista
BOOKMARK
By Tamás Mihályi
On the garden table, a bouquet of sunflowers in a vase. Bees occasionally visit the heads. Beneath them, a cup of tea. Pollen falls into the tea. It floats, then settles to the bottom. It mixes with the tiny tea leaves at the base of the cup. An open book. The yellow dust spares this, too. A frequently read letter serves as a bookmark inside the book. A distant country on the stamp. It is already in the last third. A girl is sleeping on the bench in a small, yellow-flowered dress. She had time to put the book down, she didn’t let it fall. Disciplined. The sun filtering through the linden leaves warms her face. The tapping of a woodpecker wakes her. She takes a sip of tea, lifts the book. “I will finish it today.” She places the bookmark on the bench, blows off the pollen, and immerses herself in the story until dusk.
In the evening, she goes into the house, straight to the library room. She puts back the finished book and takes down the next one, inserting the bookmark. She goes back for the cup. Takes it into the kitchen, rinses it, dries it, and places it on the shelf. She goes to bed with the book in hand, reaching the middle by dawn. Sleep overpowers her, the book drops from her hand onto the blanket. The bookmark waits on the nightstand beside the bed.
Upon waking, the book falls from the blanket to the floor, face down. The pages bend, leaving a crease on the paper. She picks it up, smoothes it out, checks the page number. The bookmark goes into the book, the book back onto the nightstand. She glances at the calendar. “He comes home today. I’ll wait for him with lunch.”
Plum dumplings. With sour cream, because that’s how he likes them. Noon has passed. Slowly, the afternoon too. The dumplings are dry and cold. She looks at the letter, looks at the calendar. She pulls the plate toward herself and slowly eats the dumplings, reading the letter as she eats. She doesn’t put it back into the book; instead, she slips a yellow flower petal between the pages.
Il Profeta
Il Profeta
Toktogul Reflections
By Matthew M. Ployhart
On March 19th, I descended into the valley from Toktogul, making my way towards the
reservoir. The walk was but a few hours, but what I found at its base proved to be one of
the most fantastic sights I’ve ever seen.
Yawning into the great reservoir is a small stream which, widening, delivers its dribble
of water into this vast oasis. To be here, at what feels like the edge of the world, but
what is in some sense its very center, amidst the colorful rocks of the coast of the
reservoir, beneath the snow-capped peaks of the jagged mountains surrounding, feels
like a privilege that I may never have again; and, indeed, is one that I suspect very few –
likely even more few than I suppose – have ever had the opportunity of witnessing.
It's so quiet. I can hear the birds rising out of the water after diving for fish. I can hear
the ripples from the stream as the water enters the reservoir. I can almost hear the wind
moving through the canyon formed by the mountain peaks on the other side…
It’s so…Large.
It reminds me fully of my insignificance, and the insignificance of every living thing to
have ever walked this planet. There is something reassuring about it – knowing that,
long after I am gone, this place will have remained unchanged.
So too of the birds flying over the lake, none of them aware of their predecessors, and
none of them aware of who will come after they have gone, just existing now, today,
and not yesterday or tomorrow.
Of predators, I assume there can be none in this great reservoir, and of prey I assume
there are plenty. To be a bird on this lake, with no past and no future, but only the
tranquil blissfulness of present existence…Might it be the case that I’ve stumbled into
heaven?
It provokes no small degree of introspection, seeing all the beauty laid out before me,
knowing all the while that this is but one drop in an ocean which nature has crafted
meticulously over millennium. And yet this little pocket, as it is, scarcely appearing to
be touched by humans and yet formed by them all the same, is no doubt more unique –
or at the very least just as so – as nearly every other geological, biological, and volcanic
formation on Earth.
In no small part due to its vastness, the awe inspired by being at this pristine reservoir is
simply indescribable. To be completely surrounded by mountains, yet at the same time,
generously layered in a sheen of pure blue, smooth, uninterrupted water, is a
combination which scarcely touches many other places in the world. And yet at the
same time it sits open, wide, and spacious. It is very difficult to overestimate with what
immense beauty any traveler venturing here could interpret this vast landscape to
possess.
The spectacle before me is simply so breathtaking that it would almost not be a stretch
of the imagination for me to believe that the fisherman – the lone fisherman out on the
lake – is himself Charon the ferryman, here to take me and all others who venture here
to that world of Hades, where the soul may finally be at rest in that blissful indifference
given by the River Lethe.
It is not an innocent site, and its very creation was the product of the dislocation of
others. Entire communities and sites of archaeology sit beneath its waters. Yet beauty
persists even in humanity’s humanitarian blunders, and the effect of this particular
tragedy carried a façade that nevertheless captures the image of immense serenity, as in
eternal reflection on the peacefulness which much reign here in tribute to what had once
been.
But alas, the hours passed, and I soon made ready to leave.
Sparing a few glances back at the mighty reservoir, I found myself wondering why I
was voluntarily departing from this pristine place. To willingly walk away from such a
picturesque environment seemed to me at the time nothing short of madness.
Today, I am still not so sure that it wasn’t.
Il Fabbro
Il Fabbro
This issue we have work from Madison Economides for the art section. this the first time we have had photography filling Il Fabbro, but it wont be the last, as you will see here, patience and the right eye in the right place can bring still art from nature and life, just as a hand and brush on canvas do.
Thank you for reading the fourth instalment, this installment has reached further with the many talented Writers, Poets and Artists, we were only able to achieve this through waiting and lots of reading, because of this we are departing from bi-weekly and settling on monthly, aiming for the second Saturday of every month, but if we do not have the right submissions, it will be delayed rather than compromising the quality we strive to share. Publia Cantos is new and small and intends to stay small enough to maintain our vitality, one good piece at a time. If something in this issue moved you, check out the artist who did the moving. If you have work, send it to us.
None of this exists without the writers and artists who trusted us with their work. Our gratitude to Anthony David Vernon, Tamás Mihályi, Matthew Ployhart and Madison Economides. Find more of their work at the links below.
Anthony David Vernon https://medium.com/@antmanvernon305
Matthew Ployhart https://sites.google.com/view/venera13/home
Madison Economides https://substack.com/@maddjbirds
All works published in Publia Cantos remain the sole property of their respective authors. Republication without permission of the original author is prohibited.
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