W. Bengal, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE NIGHT PLANE FLIES LOW
The tenants of the apartments behind
our house rush through the narrow corridor
between a running wall and our windows.
I check the radium clock-face. Quite late.
"May be someone is sick." My wife murmurs.
The miniscule insects inside our wooden frames
adopt silence. A low-flying plane draws a line
of clouds in my head. I remember the time
my mother had a chemical imbalance.
We called the ER, and everyone moved
in a blur and moved nowhere. In the sky,
the Milky Way was clear and looked like
tin foil of a medicine strip.
The tenants of the apartments behind
our house rush through the narrow corridor
between a running wall and our windows.
I check the radium clock-face. Quite late.
"May be someone is sick." My wife murmurs.
The miniscule insects inside our wooden frames
adopt silence. A low-flying plane draws a line
of clouds in my head. I remember the time
my mother had a chemical imbalance.
We called the ER, and everyone moved
in a blur and moved nowhere. In the sky,
the Milky Way was clear and looked like
tin foil of a medicine strip.
AFTER THE GALE
Outside, the new light shivers
a little and then shivers some more.
Last night a gale blew.
My walls, doors, some days,
exist as a membrane
between nil and nil.
On my wooden table
a new calendar, and an old
and failing handgun denote
a local new year.
Both become decorative void.
The wild void scratches the door.
I feed it some fish. I let it sleep
for a brief quantum of life.
Things Spill Out
My friend's wife and his child
corner him to the chrome
yellow wall of the East room.
The window casts a widowed light
from the other side. It
falls on the back of the family
and on the face of my friend.
He has all his clothes in a suitcase.
Not all. The things outside
the suitcase, those gathered
abundance, mean nothing
when you leave a place.
His wife and his child are not
in the suitcase. The suitcase,
high tensile, old fashioned, is
probably Polycarbonate,
but still it can break apart.
The wild void scratches the door.
I feed it some fish. I let it sleep
for a brief quantum of life.
Things Spill Out
My friend's wife and his child
corner him to the chrome
yellow wall of the East room.
The window casts a widowed light
from the other side. It
falls on the back of the family
and on the face of my friend.
He has all his clothes in a suitcase.
Not all. The things outside
the suitcase, those gathered
abundance, mean nothing
when you leave a place.
His wife and his child are not
in the suitcase. The suitcase,
high tensile, old fashioned, is
probably Polycarbonate,
but still it can break apart.
THE RIDE
The cab ferries the entire city
on its windshield. At the signal
a quick handyboy wipes the city clean,
knocks on the window and opens his
palm. The price seems a bargain.
The radio runs one advertisement when
another ends. About the time I reach
my destination it begins to play
one song I never disliked. The place
is a church on the left. You will meet me
here, and we'll stride towards the right.
The ground still has a few boys and a girl.
We'll sit on a cold cement seat and chat.
CAMPFIRE
We light up the camp stories,
and you tell us about the myth
of a demon who received
the blessings of God and no fire
could burn her. Of course,
God waited for her to step
into the flame and took the gift back.
I shiver. I stare at you as if this tale
should tell me more than what it tells.
Imagine, together on a boat and you
revoke the power to float as one.
Imagine, in a bed and you leave with
all of the warmth it can yield. The fire
we lit eats our tents, eats my confidence.
I feel the war we hear about, and its
changing treaties and sides. Let's spin
no more stories tonight. Let's drink
the colour of sleep that takes
years to brew and perfect.
___________________
We light up the camp stories,
and you tell us about the myth
of a demon who received
the blessings of God and no fire
could burn her. Of course,
God waited for her to step
into the flame and took the gift back.
I shiver. I stare at you as if this tale
should tell me more than what it tells.
Imagine, together on a boat and you
revoke the power to float as one.
Imagine, in a bed and you leave with
all of the warmth it can yield. The fire
we lit eats our tents, eats my confidence.
I feel the war we hear about, and its
changing treaties and sides. Let's spin
no more stories tonight. Let's drink
the colour of sleep that takes
years to brew and perfect.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kushal Poddar for today’s fine poetry!
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Kushal Poddar for today’s fine poetry!
A reminder that
Moira Magneson, Patrick Cahill,
Terry Ehret, and Nancy Morales
read at Sacramento Poetry Alliance
today, 4pm.
For info about this 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!
Moira Magneson, Patrick Cahill,
Terry Ehret, and Nancy Morales
read at Sacramento Poetry Alliance
today, 4pm.
For info about this 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!
