HeyJaredASH PAGES
ASH PAGES is an art-revering project by Nadia and Sofia, twins devoted to artistic expression. A space for dialogue and exchange, philosophic and poetic musings, and all the spiralling threads of the labyrinth that is the world received as Art.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Aug 12, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 23, 2026
Latest issues
Of A Morn (opens the original)
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Leaves blushing crimsonWoe upon the devil’s headI run on to the mouth of the forestLet the dewdrop gleam on its bedFor now the jackdaws have quietedTongue-tied with the dawnBut silence too has its memoriesBlessed and forlorn<source type="im
Monday Milonga (opens the original)
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Pulse of the bandoneon pulls the cautious nest of a passion tightly strung asunder–, from above and below, a stone that splits to spill and flow. I watch the dancers clung in twos, like dew against glass, shadows seeping and splitting from the body of which they are born. And truly, it can be no other way, a being is never welcomed into a world alone– a pool of ash will without fail trail the limbs and curves of the one who walks the world into becoming– a mirror, an echo, the shadow assures you
Of A Noon (opens the original)
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Head bent beneath the black blessed sunHe leans on the wall for his ‘lungful of fun’Eyes a-jumping, poised for diamondsAll that awaits is a handful of pineconesNo matter, says he, with a hollow grinGather them up ‘fore my blood runs thinSmoked to the filter, the town is scorched dryHe ambles away with his chin raised highSomewhere the alchemists turned lead into goldI’ll do what I will ‘til the night turns cold<a class="image-link image2" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Xiia!,f_aut
Interregnum (opens the original)
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In Valleys stitched with clematis liesThe remnants of a half-cooked taleRobbed from tongue before it could gasp its first breathYet nary a soul could forget Such a shadow it left upon the snaketrail valleyTread lightly, Stranger, and take heedEven now the still born tale seeks without ceaseFor another tongue to tell its sordid storyA Mountain stirs beneath the soilAwaiting the hour whence it can arise to meetThe crown that waits, ordained to kiss the headA consummation devoutly to be wishedIf th
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