Many have come and gone through the doors of this salon or (perhaps more aptly named), saloon. Today I came across a scribble in last years journal dated March 30th, 2010 that read, "Zaj died." 

This blog is offered as a reminder of a fellow contributor to Open Salon that left this planet a year ago today: Zyskandar Jaimot.

In the race to read and rate that Open Salon sometimes seems to be, it is my hope that some may come here and read Zaj’s words in memory. 

I stumbled across Zaj’s poetry after he left a rather cryptic comment on one of my posts so I jumped over to his blog to see what he was all about. There I found some of the most original poetry I had read in a long time. I began visiting his post just about every morning and knew what I read was exceptional. He was an internationally published poet and we were fortunate to have him on this site.

I’m sure there are those here who knew Zyskandar Jaimot better than me but he touched my life in a short time. Because of my nom de plume, Zaj made some remarks about Scarlet O’Hara. I told him I’d never watched the movie in full. He told me I must. So I did and we discussed it, among other things. I will always associate Gone With The Wind with him.

He was a poet and artist who pushed the envelope. He pushed that envelope enough that I understand that he was ousted from OS. I am not clear on the details (maybe someone else is) but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was because he was controversial in his statements regarding gender and race. Good art offends at times and makes people think. He knew that.

One morning Zaj was gone for good. Few of us knew he was ill.

I had only been a member of OS for about five months but upon finding out he died, I sat behind my computer and cried. It was also my first experience of learning of death via cyber space. That strange moment has its own response.

In  Zaj's own words, "To me—poetry is a long summer night full of fits and starts—when dark walls come close suffocating me in my airless cubicle—and only eventually am I able to peal the sticky sonnets from my spent skin.”

As is written about Zyskandar, regarding his “academic credentials — none.  No degrees — no writing pedigree.”

I would add – he didn’t need them. He was a poet: an original.

- Zyskandar Jaimot.

 wounded BULL sketched on a bar-nap

Of all Picasso's works
i have seen the drawings the paintings
some with both eyes placed on one-sided faces

regarding us in absolute staring mania

the abstract collages of outrageous cubist colours
some with explanatory titles some not
i remember most the sketch on that bar-nap
the size of an overlarge cantaloupe
shining like some large lucent egg of intellect

A bull’s head it seemed three times normal size
almost as large as Senor Pablo's ego

No connection to body or form

Somehow tuned to the universal

At the start—the sand in the bullring
was free and clean
Much like the images of that Spanish Miura fighting BULL
This BULL'S large black bulk
ready to snort and charge
Like the 'MINOTAUR' of myth—a primal force
Then after more absinthe
the image changed in ‘blurred haze’

Lines on a cocktail napkin
A head lying there and i imagined it could be
a Dagon tribal mask of fearsome spirit
or maybe it was a Neanderthal species of sacrifice
or some succubus waiting to steal my soul
or Yorick's skull held by an invisible character
or a death's head enigma symbolizing Nazi SS nightmare

And i stared at that representation
wondering if souls intersect like lines
coming together from different dimensions
of some vast unknown hypotenuse

And as i stared the BULL seemed to pulse
but i could not touch those black furrows
cut deep into that smooth yet white linen wildness of napkin
stroked with black lines
a jagged creature or intentional desecration

which tried to release that which was buried or resurrected in blood
on that sandy bullring floor

The head—massive and then suddenly melting
deteriorating just a dark umber hole
its tongue severed which is where and how
all artists must begin in soundlessness

But we still hear the wild bellows of this beast
if only in our minds eye

For what is an artist?
if he is not to catch lightning

if he is not to create thunder

if he is not to freeze time in unravelled light

if he is not too create and then magically transform

For what is an artist of realities gained from absinthe?
lying there—a bull suspended on a bar-nap
lying there—a bull with its open wounds bled raw
lying there—a bull changed by a thousand different visions

It is a black outline at the start
marked forever by potential power and bulk
leading to lines that could be anything
stretched and protruded
beyond form as if these features
were a bird's weightless bones
a simple miracle
soaring upwards to clouds
of incomprehensible miracles

Black lines on a white linen bar-nap
Our minds trying to comprehend
your ongoing creations
that so move us all.

- Zyskandar Jaimot.

The following link is a second website dedicated to Zaj. One of my personal favorite poems here is called, Just A Man And His Dog.

I have added a song for him that to me seems appropriate. It is called Poets by Canadian band, The Tragically Hip.

Scarlett.