“Did none of us even scent the whiff of pus…”
—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
—Public Domain Photos
UKRAINE (I)
(a futile protest)
Disastrous rhythm, the heavy and mobile masses, the dance of the
Dream-led masses down the dark mountain.
—Robinson Jeffers
How, stupidly diverted by the Games,
The circus of the Olympics run by tyrants,
We gawked at lovely snowboarders chasing fames,
Ambition-doped, duped innocent aspirants,
While, curtained behind, gross-feeding barbarous
Henchmen helped Putin creep close to Ukraine.
Did none of us even scent the whiff of pus
And blood that draws the jackals—as the drain
Swirls contagion into it—toward the prey?
Careless, we let it happen, drew no line
Of You shall not pass to scare beasts back, or clean away.
So Kyiv’s roofs crumple on children. Go on, dine,
Jackals, on fresh and rotten. Behold The Impaler Putin.
Now dwindle, Ivan the Terrible, shrink, you crass Rasputin.
—Accepted for publication by Robert Hansen, second in a Poems-for-All series on the plight of Ukraine.
(a futile protest)
Disastrous rhythm, the heavy and mobile masses, the dance of the
Dream-led masses down the dark mountain.
—Robinson Jeffers
How, stupidly diverted by the Games,
The circus of the Olympics run by tyrants,
We gawked at lovely snowboarders chasing fames,
Ambition-doped, duped innocent aspirants,
While, curtained behind, gross-feeding barbarous
Henchmen helped Putin creep close to Ukraine.
Did none of us even scent the whiff of pus
And blood that draws the jackals—as the drain
Swirls contagion into it—toward the prey?
Careless, we let it happen, drew no line
Of You shall not pass to scare beasts back, or clean away.
So Kyiv’s roofs crumple on children. Go on, dine,
Jackals, on fresh and rotten. Behold The Impaler Putin.
Now dwindle, Ivan the Terrible, shrink, you crass Rasputin.
—Accepted for publication by Robert Hansen, second in a Poems-for-All series on the plight of Ukraine.
UKRAINE (II)
Ukraine! Land where workfriends of mine were born,
Vast, vulnerable as Latvia, of much flat
Terrain, rich in tough earth for raising wheat
And country children milk-fed on your platte,
Soil, one with grain tall-risen or harvest-shorn,
Where, near to my thought, young Arnold Bax pursued
Nataliya Skarzhinska, not of his mood;
Ravaged by Hitler or by Stalin starved,
Self-rebirthed, self-midwifed from defeat
Only for viper Putin to wish you carved;
Misbelieved Russian suburb, dreaming release,
Where Gogol could count the summer stars in peace.
NATALIYA
Young Arnold Bax, composer, sees Ukraine
Personified in one Nataliya,
Ice-blue-eyed, snowy-skinned, gold-haired refrain
In poems he writes, intent to rally a
Most unlikely doubtful-hopeful suit,
Pursuit. Chase her he does, clear to her homeland:
To warped obsession he’s a sworn recruit,
For in this twenty-seven-year-old some grand
Illusion has seized hold. But what goes wrong?
First met in England, where she’s entertained
By Bax’s folks; soon he’ll peg her a flirt
And jilt. Is she such? No: just not that strong,
Lacking tongue to convey how overstrained
Her merely reciprocal welcome. How exert
Her sense of feeling ensnared; or male-gazed
At, like some young pledge dreading to be hazed…?
Young Arnold Bax, composer, sees Ukraine
Personified in one Nataliya,
Ice-blue-eyed, snowy-skinned, gold-haired refrain
In poems he writes, intent to rally a
Most unlikely doubtful-hopeful suit,
Pursuit. Chase her he does, clear to her homeland:
To warped obsession he’s a sworn recruit,
For in this twenty-seven-year-old some grand
Illusion has seized hold. But what goes wrong?
First met in England, where she’s entertained
By Bax’s folks; soon he’ll peg her a flirt
And jilt. Is she such? No: just not that strong,
Lacking tongue to convey how overstrained
Her merely reciprocal welcome. How exert
Her sense of feeling ensnared; or male-gazed
At, like some young pledge dreading to be hazed…?
THE EARL OF OXFORD’S GHOST
I come to haunt your years as did my Ghost
In Hamlet: quite the devil, he would lure
Great princes over beetling cliffs and post
Them with dispatch to be dispatched, their spur
—Each gambling, dueling, skewering piece of rage—
Incumbent on that Ghost’s work to ensure
Their suction through Hell’s trapdoor on the stage,
Where demons grasp them, hale them down, past cure.
Italians with vendettas of revenge?
Suchlike assassin pranks have ever been
Since long before the Druids at Stonehenge.
But my vengeance on Time is nothing mean,
My plot, no worse than to reclaim what’s mine,
Plays issued under the false name you enshrine.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DR. JOHNSON IN SCOTLAND
—Tom Goff
Oatmeal, goatmeal,
Breakfast of Scotsmen.
Samuel Johnson could
Stomach no cheese
Stinking up toast and jam.
Lachrymatorylike,
Rotten as relics taste,
Crumbled saints’ knees.
______________________
Tom Goff is back in the Kitchen, haunting us with his solid poetry and shaking his finger at those who would do us wrong. Thanks, Tom!
The Shakespeare illustrations I have chosen to go along with Tom’s poetry are of Hamlet’s ghosts, done around 1897 by British illustrator Harold Copping; see histclo.com/art/illus/ind/alpha/c/i-cop.html/.
•••Tonight (Sat., 3/19), 6-7:30pm: Placerville’s Third Saturday Poetry Art Walk open mic in Placerville celebrates Women’s History Month at TooGood Cellars, 302 Main St., Placerville, CA.
______________________
—Medusa
I come to haunt your years as did my Ghost
In Hamlet: quite the devil, he would lure
Great princes over beetling cliffs and post
Them with dispatch to be dispatched, their spur
—Each gambling, dueling, skewering piece of rage—
Incumbent on that Ghost’s work to ensure
Their suction through Hell’s trapdoor on the stage,
Where demons grasp them, hale them down, past cure.
Italians with vendettas of revenge?
Suchlike assassin pranks have ever been
Since long before the Druids at Stonehenge.
But my vengeance on Time is nothing mean,
My plot, no worse than to reclaim what’s mine,
Plays issued under the false name you enshrine.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DR. JOHNSON IN SCOTLAND
—Tom Goff
Oatmeal, goatmeal,
Breakfast of Scotsmen.
Samuel Johnson could
Stomach no cheese
Stinking up toast and jam.
Lachrymatorylike,
Rotten as relics taste,
Crumbled saints’ knees.
______________________
Tom Goff is back in the Kitchen, haunting us with his solid poetry and shaking his finger at those who would do us wrong. Thanks, Tom!
The Shakespeare illustrations I have chosen to go along with Tom’s poetry are of Hamlet’s ghosts, done around 1897 by British illustrator Harold Copping; see histclo.com/art/illus/ind/alpha/c/i-cop.html/.
•••Tonight (Sat., 3/19), 6-7:30pm: Placerville’s Third Saturday Poetry Art Walk open mic in Placerville celebrates Women’s History Month at TooGood Cellars, 302 Main St., Placerville, CA.
______________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Cartoon
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
like cheeseburgers much…
