Of Torrid Nights

 

A Fitting End to Summer

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael Ceraolo, Caschwa,
Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan

and Claire J. Baker

—Original Photos by Stephen Kingsnorth
—Public Domain Photos by Joe Nolan 

LET’S GET MEXICAN TONIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Her brain is a blender.
Globs of guacamole words
pour out of her lips.
Her eyes flame angry,
crisps tortillas, sizzles the meat.
Her snarl dices tomatoes,
shreds cheddar cheese.
She is a volcano,
nothing extinguishes
her fire.

(prev. pub. in Medium, Sept., 2023)

 

 

 

 —Photo by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

OF TORRID NIGHT, EXHAUSTED DAYS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Combustible, comestible,
the curry burning in my throat,
though dousing, dahi, best effect,
a yoghurt, not the water glass.
I learnt it on the Mail Express,
from Delhi to the Taj Mahal,
the platform, Agra, railway halt,
chai wallahs, terracotta pots.

Each menu, telegraphed ahead,
the goat, choice, vegetarian,
with silver stack of cheap tin trays,
and handiwork of finger pick.
The heat was so predictable,
less so the tight packed passengers,
an upper bunk by whirring fan,
or luggage rack, the only space.

I shared it, train, Allahabad,
that goat trussed up, tied round the hooves,
and toothpaste curling in my ears,
with chugging rocking me to doze.
Our breakfast, lunch and tea the same—
though often just two meals a day—
but always hot as vindaloo,
with fried egg start, ant supplement.

But passion, flame, those memories,
of failed monsoons and cholera,
and sleeping on the roof for cool,
a Yumna boat on hottest day.
I waded paddi, field for feet,
thick mud between grey toes to seep,
Gangetic plain of baking daze,
those hills, Assam, for breathing ways.

 

 

 

—Photo of Regal Hotel, Shillong, Assam 

by Stephen Kingsnorth

from EUCLID CREEK BOOK FOUR
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH

   Five in One

The poet laureate was given
seventy-five gardens to write about
for the city's upcoming Garden Walk,
                                                       which
he parceled out among several poets
willing to visit the sites at their leisure
and then write a poem about each;
the event was a few weeks hence

But some functionary decreed
the poems had to be submitted
almost two weeks before the event,
                                                     so
on my part there will be
one poem instead of five

It is raining for the first time in a month,
thus it's understandable none
of the homeowners are outside
as I visit my five assigned

The first two are diagonally across from each other
on a street with an Anglophilic name,
that of one of the inbred defectives
who ruled in the past
One has a nice mixture of flowers and bushes,
one has only bushes,
                                 but
much of the added beauty is canceled
by mailboxes placed needlessly
on the tree lawn

One is on a fourteen-house cul-de-sac,
the only one of my five
where the homeowner dared to plant
some flowers and bushes near the sidewalk

The last two are on more heavily traveled streets
(both foot and vehicle traffic)
One has an attractive array of flowers
with a border of decorative stones;
the last one I visit is the most interesting
for a few reasons:
                             the creek
running practically in the backyard,
trees of various stages of growth
from newly planted to mature,
                                            and
a bit of mystery:
does the lot with all the trees belong
to my assigned garden or the house next door?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BOOMER CRUISING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

before I ever got my first car
I was gallivanting around the
universe in a shiny 3-tier flying
saucer.

no seat belts
no window cranks
no bumpers
no parking decals
no filling at the pumps
no stinky combustibles
no uninsured saucer coverage

got all of that for just a stroll to
the movie theater, 25¢ admission
candy ready in pants pocket

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THAT ONE GOOD MAN
WITH A GUN EXCEPTION
—Caschwa

Dallas, TX—JFK had several
Secret Service agents assigned
to protect him

Uvalde, TX—nearly 400 good
men with guns showed up and
stood around like wallflowers

Speedway incident—there were
several good men with guns
present who could have helped
George Floyd, but they were
following a much different agenda

Sacramento, CA—it would obviously
have taken more than one good man
with a gun to deter an onslaught of
police determined to execute that
dreaded black guy, Stephon Clark,
for breaking some car windows

Everywhere, USA—countless kids
who come across a loaded gun
and fire it at someone else

The Rust set—no way one good
man with a gun could have
prevented this tragedy, no way!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SMOOTH SEGUE
—Caschwa

interviewers attempting to query
Condoleezza Rice were made to
feel like a compact car stranded
on the tracks while choo-choo Rice
puffed along ready to roll right over
them, insisting that their question
put the emphasis on the wrong
subject, and then proceeding along
to speak on the subject of her own
choosing as if that should have been
the point of the question all along.

Conversely, Joyce Vance found a
much smoother way to change the
subject, when an MSNBC anchor
asked her how it made her feel to be
included on a list of names that the
GOP would align with offensive and
combustible speech and actions; Ms.
Vance simply painted a fresh picture of
Individual Number One’s failure to honor
our rules of law, and his failure to own
up to his own willful misdeeds. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

THE ART OF MODERN SLAVERY
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne Australia

The spike in interest rates
makes your life full of haste
The big slice of life has been
taken by your bank.
 
Your bank is
the master of modern slavery
which aligns you in syzygy with work and roster.
Where life and duty are yoked together.
 
The bank is a snake-charmer
That gives you a loan of milk
to make you dance until you die
in the song of monetary-ecstasy. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

PANORAMA
—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

Clarity of bemused musings
Your opulence is dark
Dimly lit
A cranky of tipsy mahogany high
Locations and Culture
Borrowed and located
Your whiteness is too loud
Before we come to your coastline
A blinding red tissue
Scars and hummingbird's homecoming
Monsoon ended
A panorama of whiteboards
My checkerboard
Until
My familiarity of
Little pinks attached
To your smile. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BOOST MY ALGORITHM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Like me, like me, like me.
Boost my algorithm.
Click your button,
While you are watching--
Sign up to subscribe.

It’s not that I’m narcissistic
And need everyone to like me.
It’s just my way to make money
In this anonymous world
Of clicks, licks, and digital bricks
In a wall.

Please put another
Brick in my wall.
That’s how I’m monetized
In this incredible
Inedible, impersonal world
Composed of zeros and ones.

If no one likes me
My income will be zero, maybe,
Unless it is based on clicks
Instead of likes and subscribers.

If you don’t like me, please fake it.
Haven’t you ever faked an orgasm,
Before?
That’s what click-bait is for—
A carnival-barker’s come-on.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNENDING INNING
—Joe Nolan

I learned to
Play baseball
Before I could think

About potentially endless cycles
That just go around and around
If you’re good enough.

On the other hand,
If you’re not,
You might
Never even
Get on base—
Forever confined
To the field
Or home-plate,
Which would be
A dismal fate.

Theoretically,
You could have
An unending inning—
Baseball could evolve into
The immortal game of the ages,
Where the team
At bat
Never sat
Down,
But just went
Around and around,
Day turning into night,
Night into day
On and on
From day to day
And night to night,

Which would
Get old,
I suppose.

Even when
You’re on top of the world
Things can still get old.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

INCENDIARY PAUSE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

It’s not
that you lit a
match before we would kiss,
but that with the flame’s acrid breath
I flinched.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.

—John Steinbeck

___________________

Good morning, and our thanks to today’s contributors! Our Seed of the Week was “Combustible”, and that goes for all of our fine poetry—combustible it as, for sure! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

About last Tuesday’s post (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-challenge-of-yourself.html), Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) writes: “Hooray for Robin Gale Odam! Her ‘in hallow of time’ poem from the November 2016 Brevities was prophetic, telling us about the very unusual mud that was to visit the Burning Man Festival 7 years later!”

Another busy week in NorCal poetry, with read-arounds (Poetic License in Placerville this morning and Youth Open Mic at Sac. Poetry Center tonight); workshops (Ekphrastic with Lara Gularte on Thursday); readings (Mosaic of Voices in Stockton and Out The Way On J in Sacramento, both on Saturday); and Terry Moore’s Sac Fun Fest on Sunday. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
newspaper on the porch
crowded with quandaries
laid out in black and white