—Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lake Eliot, Ontario, Canada
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
UNSUNG
My father had this old record player.
With a glass case over the top.
I would sit on the floor beside him.
Looking at all the old album covers.
Making noises that my father must have thought nonsense.
As I unsung all the songs on his records.
Each word backwards until the song was over.
Then my father would put a new record on.
I looked through the liner notes.
Unsinging this new song as well.
If my father was disappointed or worried,
he never showed it.
My early report cards were far from promising.
He probably just figured that his child was dumb.
No one wants to think that, but I’m sure that he did.
My knobby little knees shooting off in all directions.
My father had this old record player.
With a glass case over the top.
I would sit on the floor beside him.
Looking at all the old album covers.
Making noises that my father must have thought nonsense.
As I unsung all the songs on his records.
Each word backwards until the song was over.
Then my father would put a new record on.
I looked through the liner notes.
Unsinging this new song as well.
If my father was disappointed or worried,
he never showed it.
My early report cards were far from promising.
He probably just figured that his child was dumb.
No one wants to think that, but I’m sure that he did.
My knobby little knees shooting off in all directions.
HINGES
The door is open to suggestion,
this door that has been cursed sarcophagi closed
for over 3000 minutes except for a crack,
your sketchy illusionist horrors enough to pan for sympathy
instead of gold and all the promised riches such fictions hinge upon
which is to say a human being need just turn the soil
to worm his or her way back into anything, nothing is as hard as
you think except waking up feeling good about the world,
that one is a toughy; losing teeth to the chatter,
but the sound of crackling bacon helps,
anything in the meaty carnivorous pan, really!
This idiot clairvoyant way I hold my head, you can tell it hurts.
Never enough for the hospital, that is where mamelukes go to die
if you are to believe the more Italian among us
while I sit downstairs after dark with the back door open
watching a family of raccoons act like a real actual
family for once.
The door is open to suggestion,
this door that has been cursed sarcophagi closed
for over 3000 minutes except for a crack,
your sketchy illusionist horrors enough to pan for sympathy
instead of gold and all the promised riches such fictions hinge upon
which is to say a human being need just turn the soil
to worm his or her way back into anything, nothing is as hard as
you think except waking up feeling good about the world,
that one is a toughy; losing teeth to the chatter,
but the sound of crackling bacon helps,
anything in the meaty carnivorous pan, really!
This idiot clairvoyant way I hold my head, you can tell it hurts.
Never enough for the hospital, that is where mamelukes go to die
if you are to believe the more Italian among us
while I sit downstairs after dark with the back door open
watching a family of raccoons act like a real actual
family for once.
KNIT PICK
She chose a new sweater off the rack.
Knit wool and a little long in the arms.
Cream-coloured which went with her complexion.
$20 from her mother in her back pant pocket.
She had been eyeing this sweater for almost a month.
Coming into the store when she didn’t have the money
so that she could hide it on other racks in the back.
This was the one she had picked and now it was hers.
She asked the lady at the cash if she could remove the tags
so she could wear it home.
A proud smile so wide her mouth hurt with happiness.
As the saleslady looked out her scissors.
She chose a new sweater off the rack.
Knit wool and a little long in the arms.
Cream-coloured which went with her complexion.
$20 from her mother in her back pant pocket.
She had been eyeing this sweater for almost a month.
Coming into the store when she didn’t have the money
so that she could hide it on other racks in the back.
This was the one she had picked and now it was hers.
She asked the lady at the cash if she could remove the tags
so she could wear it home.
A proud smile so wide her mouth hurt with happiness.
As the saleslady looked out her scissors.
BLACK FUTON
Sitting on the bones of this black futon
that creaks with sudden movements.
Whoever invented the bed is the greatest
person alive, bar none.
All those pillows and blankets
after so long.
Old wax stains across a second-hand wood table
in the basement that houses
my few valuables.
Staring at the closed venetians
hours before first light.
Then drifting off again.
Only to be woken by some strange dog
with a cone on its head.
Licking the balls of my feet
with a tongue that would be dead
in two months.
Sitting on the bones of this black futon
that creaks with sudden movements.
Whoever invented the bed is the greatest
person alive, bar none.
All those pillows and blankets
after so long.
Old wax stains across a second-hand wood table
in the basement that houses
my few valuables.
Staring at the closed venetians
hours before first light.
Then drifting off again.
Only to be woken by some strange dog
with a cone on its head.
Licking the balls of my feet
with a tongue that would be dead
in two months.
GRAPE TOOTH
graceless skin peel, enamel collected under nail,
over-protruding red-swoll cuticle, seedless green sheath
in freshwater croc death roll, that fraudulent murkiness of
tea leaf readers of at least three known aliases
and that is how grape tooth sits carousing in front of the boob tube,
flipping through old tv guides as if propelling some freckled child
into first laughing somersault, green grass stains over the knees
of discount rack denim; late summer, a farmer’s tan
at least 200 miles from the nearest homestead,
lipstick tissue bunches trying all the colours, spinning ballerina
snow globe atop forgotten regalia mantle;
too soon to the shallows, a bubbling white foam over
vein and blood and knuckle.
graceless skin peel, enamel collected under nail,
over-protruding red-swoll cuticle, seedless green sheath
in freshwater croc death roll, that fraudulent murkiness of
tea leaf readers of at least three known aliases
and that is how grape tooth sits carousing in front of the boob tube,
flipping through old tv guides as if propelling some freckled child
into first laughing somersault, green grass stains over the knees
of discount rack denim; late summer, a farmer’s tan
at least 200 miles from the nearest homestead,
lipstick tissue bunches trying all the colours, spinning ballerina
snow globe atop forgotten regalia mantle;
too soon to the shallows, a bubbling white foam over
vein and blood and knuckle.
STONEWALLED
The bricklayers had been working for many weeks.
Tanned brown under the dripping summer sun.
The wall would be complete in a matter of days.
Then the bricklayers would move on.
Beginning all over again on another part of the jobsite.
Each brick patterned red or black.
Calloused hands no longer cut on the edges of the stone.
The setting cement coming in heavy bags that needed to be unloaded.
Off the back of the truck by forklift.
Then a couple of the most junior grunts
sent to haul both the bags and the wheelbarrows
back deep into the guts of the worksite.
Past competing crews.
Trying to finish their house before the others.
The foreman paid by the house,
his crew by the hour.
The foreman won out and everyone rushed.
Which is how he could winter down in Mexico
each year during the offseason.
The bricklayers had been working for many weeks.
Tanned brown under the dripping summer sun.
The wall would be complete in a matter of days.
Then the bricklayers would move on.
Beginning all over again on another part of the jobsite.
Each brick patterned red or black.
Calloused hands no longer cut on the edges of the stone.
The setting cement coming in heavy bags that needed to be unloaded.
Off the back of the truck by forklift.
Then a couple of the most junior grunts
sent to haul both the bags and the wheelbarrows
back deep into the guts of the worksite.
Past competing crews.
Trying to finish their house before the others.
The foreman paid by the house,
his crew by the hour.
The foreman won out and everyone rushed.
Which is how he could winter down in Mexico
each year during the offseason.
PRICELESS
She could not tell how much the slacks were.
There was no sign over the rack and the price tag was missing.
The other pairs did not have tags either.
She looked around for someone to ask,
but it appeared the saleslady was on lunch.
Trudy decided to grab a few other things to try on.
The change room was full of old hangers with metal clasps.
Nothing seemed to fit the way she wanted except the slacks.
Trudy hoped the saleslady would be back soon.
The old man at the cash spoke no English.
A song she hadn’t heard in ages came over the speaker.
So that Trudy began to hum under her breath.
Those brand new work slacks folded over her arm.
Beside the mannequins that all wore sunglasses.
Even though it had begun to rain outside.
She could not tell how much the slacks were.
There was no sign over the rack and the price tag was missing.
The other pairs did not have tags either.
She looked around for someone to ask,
but it appeared the saleslady was on lunch.
Trudy decided to grab a few other things to try on.
The change room was full of old hangers with metal clasps.
Nothing seemed to fit the way she wanted except the slacks.
Trudy hoped the saleslady would be back soon.
The old man at the cash spoke no English.
A song she hadn’t heard in ages came over the speaker.
So that Trudy began to hum under her breath.
Those brand new work slacks folded over her arm.
Beside the mannequins that all wore sunglasses.
Even though it had begun to rain outside.
FRINGE
Don’t let those passing ribbons of jet fuel just hang off you,
howling aerosol coyotes back out of the fringe,
all the terrapins of cold call phone booth Maryland,
a drawer full of drawers like pulling a thermometer out of an Escher painting
and waiting on the fever, for that silly Mercury to drop back down
to handsome earth as this claw I hold over my face
becomes more of a crab than ever before
which is why another pilot cannot lose his wings
or we all go to the birds; dial 9 to get out of the hotel,
a single divisible number is not too much to ask, is it?
Don’t let those passing ribbons of jet fuel just hang off you,
howling aerosol coyotes back out of the fringe,
all the terrapins of cold call phone booth Maryland,
a drawer full of drawers like pulling a thermometer out of an Escher painting
and waiting on the fever, for that silly Mercury to drop back down
to handsome earth as this claw I hold over my face
becomes more of a crab than ever before
which is why another pilot cannot lose his wings
or we all go to the birds; dial 9 to get out of the hotel,
a single divisible number is not too much to ask, is it?
RED TRAILER, BLACK HITCH
The cars are gone from the driveway.
Only a fresh skiff of winter snow remains.
And a red trailer, black hitch.
Backed against the far fence line.
Grated siding and a larger raised grated back.
No concrete blocks in front of the wheels.
Just the weight of chains and that long black hitch.
Extending out down the drive.
Both street and trailer empty.
The sound of unseen birds.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BOOM BOX
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
an earthquake of sound
carried over shoulder like a
sack of beans
offloaded in the harbour
while this booming black box
many miles away
lets out this terrible steel-toed sound
of a controlled demolition:
snapping metal hard hats
and large plumes of
billowing asbestos
into neighbouring ears
and sensibilities
and lungs.
_____________________
Ryan Flanagan sends us greetings from Ontario today, and our hearty greetings back to him! Always good to hear from Nanook of the Far North. And it’s good to have friends check in from Canada and Great Britain during these times of trouble. But don’t be strangers, wherever you’re from.
The cars are gone from the driveway.
Only a fresh skiff of winter snow remains.
And a red trailer, black hitch.
Backed against the far fence line.
Grated siding and a larger raised grated back.
No concrete blocks in front of the wheels.
Just the weight of chains and that long black hitch.
Extending out down the drive.
Both street and trailer empty.
The sound of unseen birds.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BOOM BOX
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
an earthquake of sound
carried over shoulder like a
sack of beans
offloaded in the harbour
while this booming black box
many miles away
lets out this terrible steel-toed sound
of a controlled demolition:
snapping metal hard hats
and large plumes of
billowing asbestos
into neighbouring ears
and sensibilities
and lungs.
_____________________
Ryan Flanagan sends us greetings from Ontario today, and our hearty greetings back to him! Always good to hear from Nanook of the Far North. And it’s good to have friends check in from Canada and Great Britain during these times of trouble. But don’t be strangers, wherever you’re from.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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Just remember:
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for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
