Kolkata, W. Bengal, India
PADDLING
The bicycle's wheels wipe out
the chalk-line lanes.
Now, a city exists. Now, it is a bed
reciprocating with a monitor
quite quiet. The night looks dead.
A pack growls and barks at
another in the smog. This bicycle,
never repainted because we
do not do those here, had carried
you on its rod when your father
used to paddle, and then you on
its seat so hard that you recall
the metal rails after the last train
running away with someone
who should have stayed.
Nothing does. The dogs tear silence.
Your bones ache. The shanties glisten
underneath the streetlights.
The bicycle's wheels wipe out
the chalk-line lanes.
Now, a city exists. Now, it is a bed
reciprocating with a monitor
quite quiet. The night looks dead.
A pack growls and barks at
another in the smog. This bicycle,
never repainted because we
do not do those here, had carried
you on its rod when your father
used to paddle, and then you on
its seat so hard that you recall
the metal rails after the last train
running away with someone
who should have stayed.
Nothing does. The dogs tear silence.
Your bones ache. The shanties glisten
underneath the streetlights.
ZEROES
You open your translucent umbrella.
The great men fall, drop one by one,
heavy and weightless, flash and prepared.
The neons burn. The buildings bloom
the blossoms of light.
You hear the thud, see the bodies.
The great men fall from the above.
You shout "We are all skeletons within."
You open your translucent umbrella.
The great men fall, drop one by one,
heavy and weightless, flash and prepared.
The neons burn. The buildings bloom
the blossoms of light.
You hear the thud, see the bodies.
The great men fall from the above.
You shout "We are all skeletons within."
The pavement, cracked, wet, murmurs,
"No. We are the constellation of Zeroes.”
The news of an orange shark found in Costa Rica triggered a poem and a drawing just now and I submit those for you.
THE ORANGE SHARK
The dusky boy saw the orange shark
first and ran to his buddies.
Their faith in his words sail
for an ocean of loss; only the waves
of laughter crashed in the ears.
The crazy man of his village says
that the hue happens when some
gene goes rogue in a chain, breaks free.
He says that another orange creature
was seen near the coast of Costa Rica.
The boy spends his evenings waiting
for another glimpse. Moon ripples
in the mud, amidst the the stones.
Silence lies and wither away; all its
jelly dries until nothing but the shapes
of its tentacles remain on the sand.
Somewhere below a dream swims around,
preys on smaller dreams and shadows.
A FLASH-FLOOD SNAPSHOT
Between three walls we huddle.
The cloud-burst births a flash-flood.
One woman and her ward take selfies
with the growling water as their mise-en-scène.
We see some hawks and river gulls.
The crows emerge later. One rat's
bloated body visits the stairs. It drifts
a bit and hits back again and again.
In one of the photos, snapped because
the phone is programmed to capture
anything that stirs, the child wearing
the apparels of an adult and her guardian
in a child's are in slightly pixelated frame
with the vermin not here and here at once.
DEATH HAS QUITE LARGE HANDS
You have quite large hands,
I tell Death. They radiate and emit
stone-warmth of the summer.
I see no heartline, not any lifeline.
My hand holding one of his
shows both; one line looks like
an orbit of a fallen star, the other
that of a comet.
The night's fragrant firmament
burns distant coal-fires, lets me
know that the constellation of lives
exist. One fox brushes me and runs past.
From the river the mast of an eighteenth-
century ship rises to highlight
the changing weather. I release
his hands. Death returns to his
nocturnal gardening. A slug dies
beneath my careless feet.
You have quite large hands,
I tell Death. They radiate and emit
stone-warmth of the summer.
I see no heartline, not any lifeline.
My hand holding one of his
shows both; one line looks like
an orbit of a fallen star, the other
that of a comet.
The night's fragrant firmament
burns distant coal-fires, lets me
know that the constellation of lives
exist. One fox brushes me and runs past.
From the river the mast of an eighteenth-
century ship rises to highlight
the changing weather. I release
his hands. Death returns to his
nocturnal gardening. A slug dies
beneath my careless feet.
FORETOLD
The dead bird conjures quite a gathering.
We skirt the screaming murder scene.
City eats us.
The dead bird
and its kin who inspect the grass,
leaves, rotten fruits, half-eaten
biscuits to find the cause of death
and stay ahead remain until
the evening when city vomits is back.
We stroll down the lone and yellow
dusty fields between the main road
and the housing rows awash with
low light and whistling wind.
We see the scene again.
The unresolved murder and a death
no one accepts although everything born dies.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening.
―Allen Ginsberg
____________________
—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen and thanking him for his fine poetry and artwork.
The dead bird conjures quite a gathering.
We skirt the screaming murder scene.
City eats us.
The dead bird
and its kin who inspect the grass,
leaves, rotten fruits, half-eaten
biscuits to find the cause of death
and stay ahead remain until
the evening when city vomits is back.
We stroll down the lone and yellow
dusty fields between the main road
and the housing rows awash with
low light and whistling wind.
We see the scene again.
The unresolved murder and a death
no one accepts although everything born dies.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening.
―Allen Ginsberg
____________________
—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen and thanking him for his fine poetry and artwork.
Earth has no sorrow that Earth cannot heal~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that the
Dancing Poetry Festival
takes place in Kensington
today, 12-5pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
meets in Sacramento
at 4pm, featuring
John Johnson and Marjorie Stein;
and Los Escritores Del Nuevo Sol
releases its new anthology at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 6pm.
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!
Dancing Poetry Festival
takes place in Kensington
today, 12-5pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
meets in Sacramento
at 4pm, featuring
John Johnson and Marjorie Stein;
and Los Escritores Del Nuevo Sol
releases its new anthology at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 6pm.
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!
