—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain
THE DAMN BODY
Can't tell the body anything.
It’s out there preening
on the baseball mound.
It's strutting down the sidewalk.
It's in a crowd.
It's by itself, folded up into a park bench,
feeding its mouth peanuts.
Can't say body take off that cop's uniform,
or soldier's khaki or bus-driver's navy blue.
Can't get one to do your bidding.
Stand straight, stop scratching,
keep your legs together...
give bodies all the orders you want
but don't expect obedience.
There you go, looking in the mirror again,
thinking well at least my own body
will do what I tell it.
I can just hear you:
lose those pounds, waist,
smooth out those wrinkles, face,
put back that muscle, upper arms.
The body's good to have,
good to have around you,
but it won't listen to a word.
Besides, a word is just a sound
a body makes.
If it sounds like a resolution,
it’s more likely just a smirk.
Can't tell the body anything.
It’s out there preening
on the baseball mound.
It's strutting down the sidewalk.
It's in a crowd.
It's by itself, folded up into a park bench,
feeding its mouth peanuts.
Can't say body take off that cop's uniform,
or soldier's khaki or bus-driver's navy blue.
Can't get one to do your bidding.
Stand straight, stop scratching,
keep your legs together...
give bodies all the orders you want
but don't expect obedience.
There you go, looking in the mirror again,
thinking well at least my own body
will do what I tell it.
I can just hear you:
lose those pounds, waist,
smooth out those wrinkles, face,
put back that muscle, upper arms.
The body's good to have,
good to have around you,
but it won't listen to a word.
Besides, a word is just a sound
a body makes.
If it sounds like a resolution,
it’s more likely just a smirk.
IN AUGUST
The sun is heavy.
Its light weighs down
our shoulders.
The sky is over-full.
But of blue, not rain.
Time, in these houses,
is reduced to something
akin to a board game.
Garner enough minutes
and you have yourself an hour,
enough hours
and that’s a lifetime.
People leave,
take their shadows with them.
I’ve a hole in my heart
wide enough for a truck to pass through.
I hold a hand
held together by string and tape.
It is my own.
I have no finesse
and little function.
Daytime is a blunt object.
Night, if there even is a night,
is a sharpened saw.
The sun is heavy.
Its light weighs down
our shoulders.
The sky is over-full.
But of blue, not rain.
Time, in these houses,
is reduced to something
akin to a board game.
Garner enough minutes
and you have yourself an hour,
enough hours
and that’s a lifetime.
People leave,
take their shadows with them.
I’ve a hole in my heart
wide enough for a truck to pass through.
I hold a hand
held together by string and tape.
It is my own.
I have no finesse
and little function.
Daytime is a blunt object.
Night, if there even is a night,
is a sharpened saw.
NECROPOLIS
It’s a cemetery
but I prefer the word “necropolis”
like it’s some kind of city of the dead
with a large tombstone for a city hall, a bunch of
bones for a mayor,
No housing problem, of course.
Everyone’s got their own box.
No hunger.
For the worms and weevils that is.
No loud noises,
except for the occasional thump of a shovel.
Very little traffic
and mostly above ground.
And no crime.
The bludgeoning that cracked
Ernie Jones’s skull happened
a week or two
before he moved in here.
ANGELA, WHOEVER YOU WERE
It was fourth grade.
Arithmetic, English.
Social Studies and death.
The outside was bright and warm,
the classroom dark and cold.
Typical of early Spring.
It wasn't Susan,
the one whose blond ringlets
rolled down the back of her dress—
oh how I wanted to run
my fingers through them.
No, it was some girl called Angela.
Spectacles and freckles.
Her empty chair
was the first time I'd ever noticed her.
Our teacher explained
that she would not be returning to us.
Those are the words I remember.
Not anything Angela ever said.
The room still smelled of chalk
Sheila Gross continued to shove her hand
in the air and shout, "Me! Me!"
every time the teacher asked a question.
Billy Ramsey and I talked in class no less.
And Susan's ringlets tempted me
as they had always done
and would continue to do
for the next two years
before her military family moved.
I once tried to track Angela on the internet
though I couldn't remember her last name.
So no luck there of course.
Some people exist a million times online.
But most, not at all.
I used to think schooldays were a simpler time.
I now know they were a naĩve time
and there's a difference.
THE FOOL
The fool inside my clean white skull
is engaged by dizzy wind
into scratching his annoyances
across the eyes and ears of those close to him.
His life held in check by sky,
he figures himself for a survivor,
his crazy tongue
a way of freeing himself
from the others in his corral.
Oh this fool considers himself immense
even if he should be locked in handcuffs,
reckons the self-inflicted he
to be the ultimate in revelation.
So he plays upon the shock
of telling you what he really thinks,
even if that comes from not thinking.
He considers himself wise beyond his years
but is that really fearful beyond all rationale?
His cry for justice passes out of his mouth
and he bullies facts and memories
like they're a kid with glasses
but he may as well paint his face
and don a cap with bells.
Oh the fool has just said something
that only a fool would not regret.
It can't be taken back.
It can't be traded in.
It can only wait around for a response,
physical or emotional.
And then I'm not such a fool as I thought I was.
Shit, I should have just kept my mouth shut.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The person who writes for fools is always sure of a large audience.
—Arthur Schopenhauer, Religion: A Dialogue and Other Essays
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry! And apologies for today's late post; server probems.
The fool inside my clean white skull
is engaged by dizzy wind
into scratching his annoyances
across the eyes and ears of those close to him.
His life held in check by sky,
he figures himself for a survivor,
his crazy tongue
a way of freeing himself
from the others in his corral.
Oh this fool considers himself immense
even if he should be locked in handcuffs,
reckons the self-inflicted he
to be the ultimate in revelation.
So he plays upon the shock
of telling you what he really thinks,
even if that comes from not thinking.
He considers himself wise beyond his years
but is that really fearful beyond all rationale?
His cry for justice passes out of his mouth
and he bullies facts and memories
like they're a kid with glasses
but he may as well paint his face
and don a cap with bells.
Oh the fool has just said something
that only a fool would not regret.
It can't be taken back.
It can't be traded in.
It can only wait around for a response,
physical or emotional.
And then I'm not such a fool as I thought I was.
Shit, I should have just kept my mouth shut.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The person who writes for fools is always sure of a large audience.
—Arthur Schopenhauer, Religion: A Dialogue and Other Essays
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry! And apologies for today's late post; server probems.
A reminder that Georgetown’s
Arts in Nature Fest
takes place today, 10am-2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a discussion about
a potential workshop:
Polyphonics: A Workshop
of Poets in Conversation, 11aam;
at noon, First Church of Poetry
meets in Sacramento;
then at 2pm, SPC features a
reading & discussion on
a new book, Sacramento Noir;
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
Arts in Nature Fest
takes place today, 10am-2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a discussion about
a potential workshop:
Polyphonics: A Workshop
of Poets in Conversation, 11aam;
at noon, First Church of Poetry
meets in Sacramento;
then at 2pm, SPC features a
reading & discussion on
a new book, Sacramento Noir;
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
