—Poetry by Shiva Neupane,
Saheli Roy Choudhury,
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
A POEM FROM AUSTRALIA
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
A delusional nuclear sky-daddy:
The murderous, bloodthirsty missiles have
ploughed through the azure skies, at the behest of pugnacious
Putin's commands.
His outlandish desire for the
grotesque dance of death, left the indelible toe-curling
footprints in the landscape of humanity.
The world pretends
not to seeing an elephant in the room, while the civilians
have been showered upon bombs. The western
strategic betrayal and political pseudo-nourishment have
added insult to geopolitical injury of Ukraine. The
Finlandization of Ukraine may put western political shield
at bay, and douse the celestial conflagration above
not to seeing an elephant in the room, while the civilians
have been showered upon bombs. The western
strategic betrayal and political pseudo-nourishment have
added insult to geopolitical injury of Ukraine. The
Finlandization of Ukraine may put western political shield
at bay, and douse the celestial conflagration above
the soil of Ukraine.
Under the roof of fire the civilians have been barbecued
with an incessant ire, and witnessing those missiles
deflowering their virgin skies.
Under the roof of fire the civilians have been barbecued
with an incessant ire, and witnessing those missiles
deflowering their virgin skies.
Hey! nuclear sky-daddy
Please stop your zombie apocalypse in Ukrainian soil
to avoid this colossal civilisational upheaval.
Please stop your zombie apocalypse in Ukrainian soil
to avoid this colossal civilisational upheaval.
Post-Bath Grumpiness
To welcome a new me.
—Saheli Roy Choudhury, Dallas, Texas (formerly from Bengaluru, Karnataka, India)
A part of me always wanted to break free.
Break free? You are not chained.
Yes, there are chains. Chains that bind my soul and spirit.
The chains that clang whenever I breathe or walk or think differently.
I always wanted to break free.
The clamour of expectations and obligations make me re-question my identity.
I was born to make a difference, not to bow to the different societal norms.
A part of me says, if I do not stand up for me, no one will.
The world is waiting for me and I want to embrace it on my own terms.
No obligations, no apologies, no confinement. A free me is waiting for me.
[Intro to "The Prisoner"]
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
If you’ve no time to read this verse,
its arguments, suggestions dry,
then skip the script, long drawn-out views,
though think on prisoners’ enemy—
it’s time, and time, and more again.
Rehearsal time, with self-debate,
with some, degree, researching hours,
for clocks so slow, momentum gone,
the motivation drained by stealth
the cell space small, but not in head.
The stretch, of sentence, time again.
But should time pile up, like as me,
the only shortage, things to do—
I sense illicit brew in still,
or drug to dull unwonted years.
So, thankful for a portrait, seed
that planted, wiles away those hours,
something in isolation block,
reflection, learning as roots sprout—
a sentence in that sentence passed.
That makes sense, joker in the pack—
this lifer feels that sentence less,
an active verb ‘fore comma, stop;
the gain, less gracious nod, you few,
but me in lockdown, slopping out.
I chalk my memoir on the wall,
and scribble, gay abandon terms,
a bitch, that I must face that wall,
my partner find in wooden chair,
just like the jailhouse rock declared.
So, now the seed, a fish bowl glass,
where all who will, peer privacy,
with me exposed in goldfish rap,
pretend the worst will pass me by,
and justice flow like mountain streams.
And so my preamble at end—
the amble speed befits the mood—
and I am able, take a shot,
to chase the dragon, burn its tail,
and foil attempts, quiet, me down…
And now, my poem:
THE PRISONER
I watched The Prisoner as a kid,
Portmeirion, fantasy built,
a set as scene of architect
which held the number, Six, not one
in sum of his own rite as man.
With Kafka, offence not declared.
as Stalin, countless histories,
without defence for unknown guilt,
some charge without a record sheet—
like shame, some psychiatric wards,
whose guardian, the state, that failed.
How do we deal with innocence
that stands against our self-preserve?
And how with fear, what might be done,
from mindset poised against our own?
The best, it seems, is hold at bay,
but what then broods beyond our sight?
And will that brew come to a head,
a hangover from former ways?
The ready martyr has a power
beyond all advanced armaments,
or arguments that fire us up.
But what of barred for common crime,
that judged against community,
the thief who steals to feed her kids,
or rich who fiddle their expense,
the vagrant picking waste from bins,
or wealth evading taxing claims?
Is it the motive in the dock,
or what offends establishment?
Priest, prison—penitentiary,
are all the props used in this stage,
the theatre, absurd observed.
They always threw the book at those
not playing fair within their rules,
with building, bench, and courthouse tones,
where masons set their craft in stone.
Officials, bullies, in their turn,
abuse position and a child,
though prey that time may turn about,
hope hubris yet may bring them down.
Faint hope for justice in the skies,
from turnkey at the pearly gates,
release of death, sentence begins?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
If you’ve no time to read this verse,
its arguments, suggestions dry,
then skip the script, long drawn-out views,
though think on prisoners’ enemy—
it’s time, and time, and more again.
Rehearsal time, with self-debate,
with some, degree, researching hours,
for clocks so slow, momentum gone,
the motivation drained by stealth
the cell space small, but not in head.
The stretch, of sentence, time again.
But should time pile up, like as me,
the only shortage, things to do—
I sense illicit brew in still,
or drug to dull unwonted years.
So, thankful for a portrait, seed
that planted, wiles away those hours,
something in isolation block,
reflection, learning as roots sprout—
a sentence in that sentence passed.
That makes sense, joker in the pack—
this lifer feels that sentence less,
an active verb ‘fore comma, stop;
the gain, less gracious nod, you few,
but me in lockdown, slopping out.
I chalk my memoir on the wall,
and scribble, gay abandon terms,
a bitch, that I must face that wall,
my partner find in wooden chair,
just like the jailhouse rock declared.
So, now the seed, a fish bowl glass,
where all who will, peer privacy,
with me exposed in goldfish rap,
pretend the worst will pass me by,
and justice flow like mountain streams.
And so my preamble at end—
the amble speed befits the mood—
and I am able, take a shot,
to chase the dragon, burn its tail,
and foil attempts, quiet, me down…
And now, my poem:
THE PRISONER
I watched The Prisoner as a kid,
Portmeirion, fantasy built,
a set as scene of architect
which held the number, Six, not one
in sum of his own rite as man.
With Kafka, offence not declared.
as Stalin, countless histories,
without defence for unknown guilt,
some charge without a record sheet—
like shame, some psychiatric wards,
whose guardian, the state, that failed.
How do we deal with innocence
that stands against our self-preserve?
And how with fear, what might be done,
from mindset poised against our own?
The best, it seems, is hold at bay,
but what then broods beyond our sight?
And will that brew come to a head,
a hangover from former ways?
The ready martyr has a power
beyond all advanced armaments,
or arguments that fire us up.
But what of barred for common crime,
that judged against community,
the thief who steals to feed her kids,
or rich who fiddle their expense,
the vagrant picking waste from bins,
or wealth evading taxing claims?
Is it the motive in the dock,
or what offends establishment?
Priest, prison—penitentiary,
are all the props used in this stage,
the theatre, absurd observed.
They always threw the book at those
not playing fair within their rules,
with building, bench, and courthouse tones,
where masons set their craft in stone.
Officials, bullies, in their turn,
abuse position and a child,
though prey that time may turn about,
hope hubris yet may bring them down.
Faint hope for justice in the skies,
from turnkey at the pearly gates,
release of death, sentence begins?
ONSLAUGHT OR NOT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it had recently rained
but no more issued from the sky
just dripping from treetops and rooftops
owing to the pull of gravity
payday arrived
but no more issued from the sky
just trickles from one small fund to another
owing to the pull of gravity
promises were made
but no more issued from the sky
just lips that kept flapping and flapping
owing to the pull of gravity
treaties and truces were declared
but no more issued from the sky
just leveraging and repositioning
owing to the pull of gravity
the Pandemic is still with us
more and more issues from the sky
it is not finished claiming victims
owing to the pull of gravity
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it had recently rained
but no more issued from the sky
just dripping from treetops and rooftops
owing to the pull of gravity
payday arrived
but no more issued from the sky
just trickles from one small fund to another
owing to the pull of gravity
promises were made
but no more issued from the sky
just lips that kept flapping and flapping
owing to the pull of gravity
treaties and truces were declared
but no more issued from the sky
just leveraging and repositioning
owing to the pull of gravity
the Pandemic is still with us
more and more issues from the sky
it is not finished claiming victims
owing to the pull of gravity
DON’T GET OLD
—Caschwa
sometimes when sitting
I can just put my feet
on the floor, bend my legs
and get up
other times the exercise
gets as far as putting both
feet on the floor, and the
legs refuse to bend
or they do bend, but before
taking a first step, the knees
have to decide if they are
working today or off on
holiday
broken bones have healed,
surgical pins removed,
everything looks just fine
on paper
until that first step attempt
puts me in the body of a
newborn deer
—Caschwa
sometimes when sitting
I can just put my feet
on the floor, bend my legs
and get up
other times the exercise
gets as far as putting both
feet on the floor, and the
legs refuse to bend
or they do bend, but before
taking a first step, the knees
have to decide if they are
working today or off on
holiday
broken bones have healed,
surgical pins removed,
everything looks just fine
on paper
until that first step attempt
puts me in the body of a
newborn deer
I see you sitting there eating breakfast—
let me in!
IT DOESN’T END WEL*
—Caschwa
the Ars Poetica competition
posed one good man with a gun
facing up to one bad man with
an atomic bomb
*typo is intentional
—Caschwa
the Ars Poetica competition
posed one good man with a gun
facing up to one bad man with
an atomic bomb
*typo is intentional
AT A HERMIT’S CONVENTION
—Joe Nolan
At a hermit’s
Convention,
Hardly a soul
Could be found.
I tried to ask
What the matter was,
But there was
No one around.
Maybe it was
Aversion to crowds
Or avoidance of
Noise, out loud?
It’s hard
To get a
Consensus,
From any
Congress of hermits,
Since so few are
Congress-bound.
—Joe Nolan
At a hermit’s
Convention,
Hardly a soul
Could be found.
I tried to ask
What the matter was,
But there was
No one around.
Maybe it was
Aversion to crowds
Or avoidance of
Noise, out loud?
It’s hard
To get a
Consensus,
From any
Congress of hermits,
Since so few are
Congress-bound.
THE BURDON OF APOSTASY
—Joe Nolan
I might try
To find
An icon
To deify,
In my spare time,
Since it’s hard
To harbor
Religious notions
You
Have defied.
Apostasy!
Is something,
With which
Most have disagreed,
One way or
Another.
They’d like to call
You, “brother,”
But not unless
You are of
The same creed.
—Joe Nolan
I might try
To find
An icon
To deify,
In my spare time,
Since it’s hard
To harbor
Religious notions
You
Have defied.
Apostasy!
Is something,
With which
Most have disagreed,
One way or
Another.
They’d like to call
You, “brother,”
But not unless
You are of
The same creed.
A DREAM ABOUT TWO ANGELS
AND A BUDDHA
—Joe Nolan
A dream about two Angels
And a Buddha,
Was brought to me,
Tossing magic-powder
Into air,
Toward shadows,
Faintly seen,
That brought all three
To light,
In vivid color,
Standing there
Before me,
As though on stage.
Each had something magic
To convey.
It’s such as shame
To be unable to remember
What they had to say,
But I remember the Buddha
Resembled a smiling penguin,
Standing there,
Before me,
In something resembling a tuxedo,
But what he did relate,
Was mostly something
To be caught from his aura,
Confirmed by magic smile.
Such messages are only
Heart to heart
And cannot be writ down.
LIFE IN DREAMS
—Joe Nolan
Somnolence,
Ambivalence,
When one lives
Life in dreams;
Papers flow
Across green fields
In reams,
Opened-up,
To what they’d
Rather scream!
That such-and-such
Is not enough,
Nor would it ever be.
It’s not
The bounty
That we search for—
In forests,
That cover
Mountains,
Standing stalwart
Against the sea,
No. It’s what
We’ve always strived for—
Just to be—
Just to be—
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HOW GOD PRETENDS
—Joe Nolan
There are ways
God pretends
He doesn’t hear
The clickety-clack
Of your rattle-trap mind
Whenever you come near.
If God pretends,
It might be easier
For
You-two
To make amends.
_____________________
Shiva Neupane
Our thanks to today’s contributors for our usual rockin' Monday, including two new SnakePals from overseas! Shiva Neupane, who is with us for the first time today, is a Nepalese-born, Australia-based writer. His articles have appeared in the Australia newspaper, The Age; the national daily of Nepal (The Himalayan Times); and The Beatnik Cowboy (U.S.A). He is the author of Falang English Dictionary and In the Pursuit of Utopian Life in Australia. For feedbacks and comments, Mr. Neupane can be contacted at: falang_socialwelfare@yahoo.com/. He says, “I have portrayed my war poem in a balanced view to reveal the shortcomings of two forces, American versus Russian.”
Saheli Roy Choudhury
Also joining us today for the first time is Saheli Roy Choudhury, a literary enthusiast who loves writing and reciting poetry. Having done her MPhil in English, she is currently working as an English Language Expert. She loves to explore people and emotions in her work. Saheli is currently pursuing graduate studies at the University of Texas at Dallas; she is formerly from Bengaluru, Karnataka, India. Welcome to the Kitchen, Shiva and Saheli, and don’t be strangers!
The sleeping giant awakes! Poetry readings, mostly dormant during the pandemic, have begun to burgeon in our area, both in person and online! And Sac. Poetry Center has weekly workshops; for info on these, see www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.
The sleeping giant awakes! Poetry readings, mostly dormant during the pandemic, have begun to burgeon in our area, both in person and online! And Sac. Poetry Center has weekly workshops; for info on these, see www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.
•••Tonight (Mon., 4/18), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center features Rachael Ikins and Lorraine Arsenault plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: r3trnofsdv/.) Info: www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.
This week, California State University, Sacramento celebrates its annual Festival of the Arts with two readings. The first is in person; the second is on Zoom.
This week, California State University, Sacramento celebrates its annual Festival of the Arts with two readings. The first is in person; the second is on Zoom.
•••Tues. (4/19), 6:30pm: Cal. State University, Sacramento Festival of the Arts presents Ana Castillo reading from her poetry collection, My Book of the Dead. Free; CSUS Redwood Room, 6000 J St., Sacramento, CA. Info: www.facebook.com/groups/2290130152/?multi_permalinks=10165931683910153¬if_id=1649806646943400¬if_t=group_activity&ref=notif/.
•••Thurs. (4/21), 6:30pm: CSUS Festival of the Arts presents Gillian Conoley viz Zoom: csus.zoom.us/j/83236444189/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/3196334120692625 AND/OR www.gillianconoley.com/.
•••Thurs. (4/21), 7-9pm: Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents Tess Taylor and Noah Warren at John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis, CA. Open mic after the readers (one chosen text or three minutes). Host: Dr. Andy Jones. Please mask your vaccinated selves before entering the Gallery. Info: www.facebook.com/events/1763554323979418/?acontext={"event_action_history"%3A[{"mechanism"%3A"group_featured_unit"%2C"surface"%3A"g/.
Coming up in May:
•••Mon. (5/9), 6-7:30pm: Arts and Culture El Dorado presents another in its series of workshops exploring the intersection of language and visual art with El Dorado County Poet Laureate Lara Gularte. This one will work with the artwork of "Bad Apples”, which is an exhibit focused on skateboarding and the misfit culture of El Dorado County which will be held at Confidence Firehouse Gallery, 487 Main St., Placerville. A free reading of the poems inspired by this workshop will take place on Thursday, May 12, from 6-8pm at the Gallery. Space is limited for the workshop, so sign up by e-mailing Jordan@ArtsAndCultureElDorado.org/. Info: artsandcultureeldorado.org/the-firehouse-sessions/.
NorCal Cold River Press publisher Dave Boles writes to say that he is putting together this year’s VOICES anthology: Fantasies, Demons & Lovers. He writes: “Please send in 6 short, 3 medium, or 1 long submission before June 15th, 2022 to www.coldriverpress.com. Also, if any of you would like to send in either a photo or an illustration to accompany your submission, please do. Please send me at least 300 dpi if you can; I can convert from color to B/W if need be. If you know of anyone who is looking to have work published, please pass along this information, as I am always looking for first-time submissions. I am also greatly looking for more short stories or prose, so if you know anyone that fits that bill, please pass this information on to them as well.”
Dave also writes that he is holding another POETRY IN LOCKE event on May 7 from 12-6pm, and you are all encouraged to attend and to read if you would like. Here’s the skinny:
It’s our NorCal privilege to have so many readings in our area, so take advantage of them!
_______________________
—Medusa
_______________________
—Medusa
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!
