—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein,
Jefferson City, MO
—Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson,
—Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson,
Maplewood, MN
THE DANCE OF TWO COAT HANGERS
Something soft, perhaps indelible.
Make sure the bathtub water is cold to the touch,
but not unbearable—lean into your body—
find your quiet space.
But first, the door must be locked.
No one can disturb you.
The hangers, elongated, stretch to the thighs,
their metal hard, your skin pliant,
a mixing of fear and a mixing of anxiety.
This is how some of the things you care about
become things you can no longer bear,
how everything can change in a second
and fever on forever.
If the metal does not find an entrance,
do not force it.
When you bend too far towards your knees,
when you lose touch with yourself,
if the metal scrapes into blood,
if a cloud becomes solid and a fog sweat,
listen carefully to your eyes.
Tears are often lifesavers.
Sobs are often the only way to get out of the water.
Do not ever allow yourself to drown.
Then
rest within melody, thick breath, a shadow of whisper—
I performed this dance once, and succeeded.
A best friend, no.
Before you leave this evening,
be aware—and she finally paused—
every dance you will do from then on will be less fragile.
Something soft, perhaps indelible.
Make sure the bathtub water is cold to the touch,
but not unbearable—lean into your body—
find your quiet space.
But first, the door must be locked.
No one can disturb you.
The hangers, elongated, stretch to the thighs,
their metal hard, your skin pliant,
a mixing of fear and a mixing of anxiety.
This is how some of the things you care about
become things you can no longer bear,
how everything can change in a second
and fever on forever.
If the metal does not find an entrance,
do not force it.
When you bend too far towards your knees,
when you lose touch with yourself,
if the metal scrapes into blood,
if a cloud becomes solid and a fog sweat,
listen carefully to your eyes.
Tears are often lifesavers.
Sobs are often the only way to get out of the water.
Do not ever allow yourself to drown.
Then
rest within melody, thick breath, a shadow of whisper—
I performed this dance once, and succeeded.
A best friend, no.
Before you leave this evening,
be aware—and she finally paused—
every dance you will do from then on will be less fragile.
A LANGUAGE OF SILENCE
—because of Sandeeo Permar, Sylvia Plath, Dorothea Lasky, Sharon Olds, and too many we wanted to be mothers
this was supposed to be
but
not this silence:
yes, this was supposed to be
instead, a silence—
not a sign of warning
not a sign of breath
not a sign of anything
supposed to be
but
only silence
—because of Sandeeo Permar, Sylvia Plath, Dorothea Lasky, Sharon Olds, and too many we wanted to be mothers
this was supposed to be
but
not this silence:
yes, this was supposed to be
instead, a silence—
not a sign of warning
not a sign of breath
not a sign of anything
supposed to be
but
only silence
VIRUS
The hate storm did not come with hail and sleet,
nor did it unleash a firestorm, a torrent of napalm—
the winds did not grow into bitterness and plague,
clouds did not erupt into fury and the crack of a whip.
No one felt blood welts or the rash of disease.
When the hate storm came, it blew in on a breeze,
a trade wind from near the equator, soft, almost a lullaby,
and it warmed the skin, carried an inside beauty,
paused to take in a deep breath of not air, but memory—
No one feared blood welts or the rash of disease.
The hate storm arrived unannounced one sunny day,
lifting the scent of flowers into the world, the glow of love.
Why did we not see it coming? Why did we ignore it for so long?
No matter. When it came, it could not change the cold.
No one felt the rash of love, the blood of peace.
No one thought to stop it,
and no one bothered to see the child on the hill
looking down.
She alone buried blood welts, the rash of disease:
She began the rebuilding of what hate had destroyed.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AFTER THE WAR ENDED AND WE WERE LEFT
—Michael Brownstein
And we created one more poem
one more ridiculous work of art
one more day of minstrel madness
Did you ever hear Jaybirds applaud?
Ostriches cackle?
Prairie chickens sing their nasty song?
This became our joy.
______________________
Gratitude to Michael Brownstein today for hard-edged poems about hard-edge subjects—minstrel madness, he says—and to Norman Olson for his intriguing artwork.
The hate storm did not come with hail and sleet,
nor did it unleash a firestorm, a torrent of napalm—
the winds did not grow into bitterness and plague,
clouds did not erupt into fury and the crack of a whip.
No one felt blood welts or the rash of disease.
When the hate storm came, it blew in on a breeze,
a trade wind from near the equator, soft, almost a lullaby,
and it warmed the skin, carried an inside beauty,
paused to take in a deep breath of not air, but memory—
No one feared blood welts or the rash of disease.
The hate storm arrived unannounced one sunny day,
lifting the scent of flowers into the world, the glow of love.
Why did we not see it coming? Why did we ignore it for so long?
No matter. When it came, it could not change the cold.
No one felt the rash of love, the blood of peace.
No one thought to stop it,
and no one bothered to see the child on the hill
looking down.
She alone buried blood welts, the rash of disease:
She began the rebuilding of what hate had destroyed.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AFTER THE WAR ENDED AND WE WERE LEFT
—Michael Brownstein
And we created one more poem
one more ridiculous work of art
one more day of minstrel madness
Did you ever hear Jaybirds applaud?
Ostriches cackle?
Prairie chickens sing their nasty song?
This became our joy.
______________________
Gratitude to Michael Brownstein today for hard-edged poems about hard-edge subjects—minstrel madness, he says—and to Norman Olson for his intriguing artwork.
This afternoon, Poetry in the Sierra Foothills takes place in Diamond Springs at 2pm, and Storytellers and Poets (Sacramento Storytellers Guild) meets at Sacramento Poetry Center, 2-3:30pm. Then, Honoring the Poetry of José Montoya takes place this evening at Luna's Cafe in Sacramento starting at 7pm. For more about these upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page.
______________________
—Medusa
______________________
—Medusa
Did you ever hear Jaybirds applaud?
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
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!
