Keeping the Pot Boiling

—Poems and Photos by Pijush Kanti Deb, Assam, India

A PEACE-LOVING FAMILY MAN

The open screen of a market
projects a scene of a wrangling
almost ready to set in
but one of the rivals is seen
to show his back to his opponent
before putting two and two together,
saying, “I don’t like fighting,”
and cutting both ways his image
to the disappointed on-looking crowd
interested in enjoying a duel free of cost,
who remark as per the ink in their pens,
“He is gentleman,” some opine
while others oppose, ”No, he is a coward,”
but the returning rival feels the scent of blossoms
blooming somewhere
near to his sweet home—
a dream-house to rear up his dream—
and opens his heart blissfully to admit,
“I’m no other than a peace-loving family man.”     

         

                              
      

                                  

KEEPING THE POT BOILING
                                
The daily crying and sweating
of keeping the pot boiling
compels a common man
to keep a good table   
for both an angel and an imp
who arrange the firewood   
for his rainy day,       
smoke of burning candle wood
or of banyan may fill his kitchen up
yet he sings and dances
with no suffocation
but with all satisfaction
carrying the God and the Devil
on his shoulder by turn,
blessing, cursing,
kissing, spitting,
fame and stain—
all stand in a queue
and knock on his closed door
to give vent to their different feelings
but he remains indifferent to all
looking only at his favorite magical boiling pot

SHOULDERS
              
Shoulders—
The blessings of love for you and me
Shoulders—
A belief to be made for each other
Shoulders—
A feeling of winning the heart of earthly paradise
Shoulders—
Pride for both but envy for others
Shoulders—
An altar of unbreakable trust and ascertainment
Shoulders—
Spontaneous bowing down in love and care
Shoulders—
The evergreen mine of comfort and peace
Shoulders—
A swearing of protection and freedom for good
Shoulders—
The outstretching responsible arms to pull the destiny nearer
Shoulders—
The soft coffin to shelter the stony lifeless body forever.

Today’s LittleNip:

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.

—Soren Kierkegaard

_____________________

Pijush Kanti Deb (featured on Medusa 11/28/14) is a new Indian poet from Assam, India who writes in English and Bengali and has around 252 published or accepted poems and haiku in around 81 national and international magazines and journals (print and online), such as Down in the Dirt, Tajmahal Review, Pennine Ink, Hollow Publishing, Creativica Magazine, Muse India, Teeth Dream Magazine, Hermes Poetry Journal, Grey Borders, Dagda Publishing, Blognostic, Black Mirror Magazine, Dissident Voice Journal, Indiana Voice Journal, and many more. His biggest achievement so far is the publication of his first poetry collection, Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon, published by Hollow Publishing and available on Amazon.

_____________________

—Medusa

 Pijush Kanti Deb

Discover Me

—Photos by Denise Flanagan, MA

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

JULY'S LAST HOUR

Dog days
with man and beast in heat
denuded for the sea
reaches out for waves
breathing in humid air
on the aquatic beach
as swimmers dive from caves
hearing the small gull squalls
with all of us floating
in the Atlantic or Pacific
desiring the ocean's breeze
as birdsong from wings
shadow us when no one behaves
under the leafy Evergreen trees
now clearly heard by florists
delivering their summer flowers
with a dawn's sugary breeze
French bakers deliver baguettes
to the restaurants and cafés
under brilliant lanterns
by tourists taking their turns
drinking their green tea or lattés
having eggs-and-lemon omelettes
watching out of French windows
herons and egrets fluttering by
away from the city's dust
living assiduously
with memory and mementoes
in the last hour of July
amid the shade shore's enclosure
on a bench are painters
etching for a dream sky
as birds awaken on the ground
seeking nourishment
making unfair body sounds
amid the scent of hyacinth
cruising by a labyrinth of boats
sailors and captains
making their assent and rounds
everyone stretching out their parts
as they dive under hot sun
from a raised head to feet
life is deluded and charms
needing art and jazz
craves to disarm the clock
when August will be a reminder
of a constant hot calendar of rest
soon or on a spot on afternoon
tourists will line the boardwalk
on the last July day
pouring out of the arcades
while a poet on a hammock
in the morning chants
to divine and sings
the loving praise of psalms.

_____________________

THIS JULY

This July
sitting off the edge
of the Cape
eating pomegranates
the seeds of which
make this poem
as our sighing memento
on leagues of winged egrets
making me love Evergreen
hearing the once-tourist boat
have time to move on
the silence of the waves
flashing with divers
charred with ashen smiles
having found treasure
from stolen decades
in old pirate cargo ships
that went down on the rocks
discovered with history's dust
of dreaming conquest.

______________________

EXPRESSIONIST

To balance art
by sand and stone
here on a sea coast
of the Rhône
far from his home
we notice
a willing expressionist
thrilled at a boat race
as shore winds motion
to him at parting
over lost whale bones
sailing over
the roaring violet waves
brushing the ocean floor
until the crew race is over
as Klee, Swiss painter
drawing colors by the water
will soon disappear
like the faint tones of herons
at the waters edge
by blushing wild roses
of late summer
on the edge of the shore
his footsteps wander
with an artistic chance
now chills out
down by the hedges
to roll over on blankets
by a tall dune space
near a lone egret
on the far field's horizon
wakened by chafing breeze
in a triangular trace
on the painter's stone
dozing off in the sunset
under the trees all alone
Klee laughing at this bird
also alone like the heron
in nature's metamorphosis
wandering in paces like him
this July afternoon.

AT WELLFLEET

A green heron on Elm branches
in memory of winding leaves
softly sings in the dawn
with a soaring voice
her long feet by high shadows
over the ocean's ledge
as sailboats from Wellfleet
on a morning race motion
with the rising waves
on the edge's elbow
of Cape Cod
indifferent to the East wind
from the sunlight chimeras
the first sighted crew
washes over a silhouette rainbow
quickly moving by us.

_____________________

ON SUCH AUGUST DAYS

On such August days
by the winds revelation
cast on my orange kayak
under the sun's rays
sponged on my naked back
burning effulgently
as we lunged on the salty sea
four urchins laughingly play
amid the shore's white sand
they build a castle
like vassals in middle ages
not knowing it won't last long
even after high tide by afternoon
as we swim under dunes
of egrets and songbird
and our trek to the shore
reluctantly in a breathless malaise
from a parental storm
waiting for the dusk to inspire
and insure our hiking ways
trying to be a friend
who collapses on a warm blanket
tired after her run
speaking of fulcrums of love
near the gazebo's gust of wind
staring at the emptiness
without an hour's weight
putting down an anchor
amid the thunder's hiss
near a pillar of fireflies
on the barbecue's grill
where we have a repast
with a hearty review
of fresh salad and other foods
from our cart's satchel
with roasted meat and veggies
underneath a wild rose bush
amid the green shrubbery
shadows step near us
with nearby voices
offering us a cup of vanilla coffee
taking photos with my camera
of herons on low branches
digging for an eye of waters
and here is this poet
writing an elegy in mind
on these dog days
murmuring like the crickets
doing cross words
under an Evergreen tree of birds
wishing for a prayer and praise.

____________________

NEW YORK'S ART VISITORS

Walt Whitman returns on rodeo rosebuds
Lorca is made mad from a Manhattan
Nathaniel West coughs up anonymously
Night robs Man Ray of lipstick drawings
By the daughters, we kept Virgil
Hockney posters the Harlem Heaven
Spies scout for every murdered soul
on the grass at Central Park
Stuart Davis hears jazz in red quarter notes
Langston Hughes wears all neon nets
finding butterflies from Nabokov
as Ellis Island returns to the exiles
who jet plane through nightfalls of
its whiplash, the sea lilac, indigo blues
hearing Billie Holiday's tunes
gone away from Tiresias' singing
over the headlined fizz for Mary Woronov
outside there are few brides in Babylon
under the old canopy
Andy Warhol hangs pop art posters
on Brooklyn's subterranean subway
in ultraviolet 's underground
as white and black sails
cry out for Hart Crane.

W.S. MERWIN'S TIME

Railings of thought scratch
the graffiti on city walls
trains outside the subway
wake new sparks of rain
on your umbrella
in the gutter of shadows
a child too hungry to dance
presses your oversized coat
for a wide-mouthed dollar.

______________________

ASHBERY'S HOUR
(July 28, 1927)

Chants of birdsong
on your Manhattan window
a corner of bookends
crushed by inclemency
of the hot July wind
over Manhattan's skyline's
tabled words,
rants of love in jazz
heard outside mirrors of wine
to devour fabled rhythms
for animated responses
along the rim of city's dust
in unexplored weights
of wisdom's revelation
from animated regards
in a poet's moonlit mirage
of freedom's sensibility
here to celebrate my visit
on your birthday.

______________________

REMEMBERING YOUR GREETING
(In Memoriam, Anna Akhmatova)
 
From a blood moon eclipse
sorrows export your wounds
of your every word and gesture
punctuating, and parachuting
as tomorrows on the Arbat
through pulse of this space time
on planets of human flesh
sound out a semblance
on a sleeping weekend
knowing memory is never over
in the body of proverbs
by your lips on napkins
on warmth of prospects
in syllables of celebration
metaphors of associations
dead love letters become alive
aching in Gogol's winter coat
through a cold mirror
when night falls on the Neva
you become alive
determined to survive
and not to quit
as an inheritor
of a Russian poetry
in time of great suffering
even in time of world war.

RIMBAUD'S READ

A blue volume
asleep on the arms
of a used bookstore
sold at noon
at an outside corner
for a quarter, dime and pennies,
you might shadow the voice
of the departing poet's
spirit to be in the hands
of a young soul
now hiding behind
a closed door
in a drawing room
circling ink dream words
on paper maché,
we hear of armies
of the night
and blasphemies
day and night
in shadows hidden
from forbidden worlds
of a war's wound
where white handkerchiefs
offer peace and relief
but we do not doubt
in any platoon
at the memory and echo
of instant death in life
to enliven or divine when belief
under the blood moon crosses
over Rimbaud's prayer wheels
which turn on attic windows
concealing the snow,
we imagine your exiled time
from a Paris and Morocco book
when embarrassing smiles
question your sacrificial look
passing liquors and hashish
by mirrors as you despair
is answered by more fine critics
of your literary companions
Villon, Verlaine and Reverdy
translated by even these hands
moving on the sacrosanct lines
on your created horizon
as earth, sun, fire, stars, isles
are above this writer's bench
from French and African leaves
taken out by fresh desires
in soul, spirit, body
from a metamorphosis
of your own love triangles
with its own griefs.

____________________

JAMES TATE'S PASSING
(1943-2015)

Amherst has lost
another creative soul
passing in consolation
by the tiny tree
of wispy songbirds
dawn finally
impresses your time,
we spoke of language
moving as endlessly
as July sparkles
on my elegy
knowing the absurdity
as a loving universe moves on
metaphor and words,
on this poet's stark revelation
yes, from your flame
walking with me
in darkness by the college
at the edge of a river
hearing firecrackers
hearing over Heavy Metal
go off at the knowledge
of your name
planting flowers
on Emily's grave
one petal for you
over a honeybee’s hiss
and save a few hours
for James Tate
now translated himself
to a reading metamorphosis.

DISCOVER ME

Discover me
in Idaho
reading Propertius
or in Perth, Australia
giving birth,
speaking glossolalia
or laughing to a joke
making out
after steak and vanilla
in Manila
playing a Bach solo
after a chorus
of St. Matthew's Passion
in Soho
whether in lower depths
or highest mountain
taking bread with birds
in Assisi
drinking wine
from your fountain,
uncover me by the rocks
of the Aegean sea
or by an archaeological dig
by the Mediterranean,
writing a subterranean poem
on the shores at Bali,
with oboe and jazz violin
at a smooth jazz gig
over in Jerusalem,
discover me.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

They didn't have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into a chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don't you try writing something?”

—James Tate, Selected Poems

_______________________
 

—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch and Denise Flanagan for starting our day with the sights and sounds of Massachusetts!
 

Another Sunrise

—Photos by Alysiana Gonzales, Sacramento

—Poems by Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO

PLAGIARISM

I'd never steal a poem
or any of its shining facets
but I'd take the mood

a poem is born in
if the poem is smiling.
A lot of poems smile

but lately mine
can only scowl.
So when I read

a poem written 
in the daylight by
a soul who's

painting clouds
against a brilliant sky
as if the clouds

were butterflies
too lovely to let go
and fly away,

that's the mood
I want with me
every midnight

in the basement
when I feed the ghosts
I can't allow upstairs.

______________________

PLAYING GOD

Want to know how
God may feel at times
about us mortals?

Then every dawn
in any weather
place a tin

of Fancy Feast
on the deck
for the feral cat

behind the oak
who won’t come out
till you go back inside.

Then take a peek
and watch old Tom
come up the steps

and eat his fill
before rumbling off
to find a harlot or a saint

to accept his genes
before he comes back
to feed again at dawn.

You may be a deity to Tom
but you will never get
one meow of worship. 

ONE OF THOSE YANKS

I’m white as a sheet
believe me
one of those Yanks
who never before
the Charleston massacre
thought about
the Confederate flag.

I spent most of my life
in Chicago, that city
of big shoulders
and short tempers, where
the Confederate flag was
not often seen and whites
and blacks laughed
and fought in public.

I live in St. Louis now
not far from Ferguson
where whites and blacks
are a pile of wood
on a back porch 
waiting for a match
and some oaf to strike it.

___________________

ANOTHER SUNRISE IN HIS DAY

Will I walk again,
Tillie mumbled,
lost in the fog of

her knee operation.
The surgeon predicted
she'd toss her cane away

in two months.
Still in a fog, she asked
if she'd walk the way

she walked before,
with the same locomotion,
as her husband called it,

a walk he studied
through binoculars 
behind lace curtains

from the upstairs window
sitting in his wheelchair
as she strolled through

the garden, picking a
bouquet, creating another
sunrise in his day.

HARVESTING PUMPKINS

From villages in Iowa,
Indiana, Minnesota and Nebraska
and from towns in the Dakotas,
Wisconsin and Michigan,

there stream to Chicago in spring
parades of lithe girls
looking for boys
who will look at them

but who find instead
the men who will wine them
through summer,
who will wait until fall

to thresh in the fields
one summer can ripen,
the men who will watch
’til a pumpkin falls from the vine.

This is the courtship
village girls dream about,
laugh about, hope for.
Come fall, these are the men

who fill silos of girls
from Elkhart and Davenport,
Ely and other small places,
lithe girls who in spring

come to Chicago looking for boys
who will look at them
but who find instead
the reapers, the men.

_______________________

WE’LL FEEL BETTER, DEARIE, NOT TO WORRY

Some days my wife has aches
and I have pains.
Other days I have aches
and she has pains.
We tell each other
all about it from our rockers
sipping Earl Grey tea
in tinkling porcelain cups
while watching DVDs
of Lawrence Welk,
the late conductor nonpareil,
who's trying now to get
the Seraphim and Cherubim
to sing "God Bless America."

My wife and I are at an age
where no quick fix exists,
no slow fix either.
Finally I tell her what
neither of us wants to hear:
We'll feel better, Dearie,
not to worry,
once we're dead.
It's the dying
that's a problem but
we're getting there.
Been on the road since birth.
We've paid the tolls.
It's been a trip. 

IT’S ALMOST SUNDAY MORNING

In the summer of 1956,
any Saturday at midnight
when the moon was full
and the stars were bright,
you would see Grandma Groth
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence,
still a bachelor at 53,
to make it home
from the Blind Man's Pub
after another evening quaffing
steins of Heineken's.

Many times when I was young,
I'd be coming home at midnight
from another pub just steps behind
staggering Clarence.
I'd always let him walk ahead
and listen to him hum
"The Yellow Rose of Texas."

But the last Saturday night
that Clarence and I came down the street,
I didn't see Grandma on her swing.
She wasn't waiting to berate him.
So far so good, I thought,
until, not far from his house,
Clarence fell into Mrs. Murphy's hedge.

When I finally got him up,
I moved him like a fridge on a dolly
down the walk and into his house
only to see Grandma, a wraith
in a hazy nightgown, swoop
into the hallway, screaming
and thrashing Clarence with her broom,
pausing only to tell me,
"Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning!"

After that sad night in 1956,
I never saw Clarence again,
either marching to work in the morning,
his lunch pail gallantly swinging,
or staggering home at midnight
from the Blind Man's Pub.
But many a midnight after that,
I'd be coming home
from the other pub,
lunch pail in hand,
and I'd see Grandma
reigning on her swing,
broom in hand,
waiting.

Tonight, however, many decades later,
as I stroll home at midnight,
I realize I'm older now than Clarence was
the night he disappeared
and even though Grandma's dead,
I can still see her regal on that swing,
broom in hand, waiting,
and so I give her a big wave,
hoping to hear one more time,
"Go home to your mother now
so you won't be late for Mass.
It's almost Sunday morning!"

BEFORE HE LEFT

He left a ticket
for you and me
and for everyone else
before he left.

He said he’d be back
but didn’t say when.
He said some of us
would need a ticket

long before then.
You have yours
and I have mine.
Others we know

have picked up theirs
but many haven’t.
Some never do.
Millions of tickets

have gone unclaimed.
What happens to those
who don't believe
they need a ticket?

They can always take
an uncharted flight
and pray the trip
turns out all right.

IF WE EVER BREAK UP

Thunder and lightning at first,
as I understand it,
and then the moon will split

in half and disappear
and the stars will go dark
and the sun will come up

and explode in the sky,
another Hiroshima.
Hurricanes and tornadoes

will savage the land.
Sickles and scythes 
will harvest the people,

throw some in the air
shouting Alleluia,
toss others aside

shrieking and cursing.
Silence will boom
as the credits roll.

Bugs Bunny, the sage,
will have the last word:
"That's all, folks!"

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WiTHOUT BENEFIT OF WIMPLE

Covey of nuns
without benefit of wimple

graciously attired
sport coat, turtleneck, skirt

scurry through the airport
iPads swinging

unaware the turtleneck
is their Roman collar.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's fine contributors, and welcoming Alysiana Gonzales to the Kitchen!

Shadow-Thoughts

ZenSee

—Poems and ZenTangles by Joyce Odam, Sacramento
 

AIR SPACE

Here I live in this old ugly room, behind
this noncommittal door that locks, and
this stingy window that opens to the flat
near wall, where I look out to see the 
shadows pass.

If this is metaphor, and I am room, then
let me tell you more…

I am the hallway and the stairs that I
trust myself to climb; I am the mirror
and the wall; the ceiling light and bed;
I am the sleep; I am the hour after hour,
and the rent I pay.

If you are curious, and I have need to
analyze…

Then I collect old curiosities and more;
I gather evidence of theft; the souvenirs
of crime and fear; all compromise and
promise; all surrender that gives in.

If you are horrified, or do not care…

I have no news for you. I am this cold
and ugly room; this noncommittal door
that locks, and this mean window opened
to the flat near wall where I look out and
see the shadows pass.

_______________________

THE DIMENSIONLESS SUMMER
(After "Calm Morning", 1904, Frank Weston Benson, 1862-1951)

        Time is but the/stream I go a-fishing in./Robust art.
                        —Henry David Thoreau (1817-1852)

Shall we remember what was—or what we almost
recall, out of nostalgia,

or the old comfort of boredom.
We had no edge.

We had not lived beyond the now—
the cinema of our minds,

made of movie-lore and imagination.
We should have noticed

more detail.
Everything was smaller then.

We were never dramatic.
Everything was enough.

Even the yearning.
Practice proved nothing.

There was always enough day
to go around:

the calm horizon, the rippleless blue water
—the small, floating boats we trusted,

the yellow, gathering sky—
the easy silences that stayed unbroken all this time.
                                                    

(first pub. in Ekphrasis, 2008)

 Coiled Purple Stalks

FORGOTTEN SOUVENIRS

long
after,
opening the

book,
dried leaves
fell out

and broke
like old
whispers

they were
stiff and brown
she could not

remember
why she
saved them

from
what moment
of what season

next time
she vowed
instead of tears,

for instance,
or some moment
meant to keep

forever in its joy,
she’d press
snowflakes

in her winter book
and leave no trace
to haunt


(first pub. in Acorn, 1997)

 Sunny Field

THIS TRAIL OF NOSTALGIA

this trail of nostalgia
going into a wood
a trail of crumbs
to follow
deepness ahead
oh, blue sorrow
I see you there
I am coming
I am hungry too
and late to everything
oh, faint remembering
be patient
do not fade
I am bringing my
weeping and my love
my tears will be left
for others
to be misunderstood . . .
I must know you again,
sweet memory
nothing in life
has compared
are you there
are you true
or am I in
the land of trickery
that forever-never-world
of anywhere
but here
and any time
but now


(first pub. in Yarrow, 1991)

_________________

IN MOTHER’S COUNTRY

taking my own picture
in window-reflections
standing behind my camera

in transparent fantasy
a mockery of substance
posed

now in flowers
now in lamps
now in a turning of curious faces

I am held
in the time of this
in her country

where she has returned
and I have come
to be with her

my fame is held
in moments where I
paused for brief souvenirs of myself

marveling at my album of selves
each one with the same serious look
what do I seek

an arrangement of years
allows me
to remember each small finding:

Yes, this one . . .
this one is me . . .
another self-portrait.
   
                          
(first pub. in Poets’ Guild, 1996)

   ZenFloral
 

IN RETROSPECT

We lean into
each other’s voices.
Now we are hewn
out of shadow
and shadow’s
distortion.
Help me remember
the sensation
of this moment.
Hold me in the merging.
What is ours that we will
try not to lose?
What can we save?
Are you real?
Am I?
Are we meant to stay
in this state
of fragile adoration?
Your face is in the flowers.
Ghosts of birds
are almost singing.
What am I to do
with the lost expression
on my face?
The intensity of light
surrounds us
until it too
becomes absorbed.
Your eyes are closing.
Now we are becoming
shadow-thoughts
of each other.
Now we are released
from the shudder
of some vast window
of possessive light,
gathering back its glare,
as if we had become
imprinted
in some frozen moment
like a future souvenir.

_______________________

THE LEAVES IN JAMES WRIGHT’S BOOK 

OF POETRY

I found a leaf in a book, pressed backwards,
its tiny yellow veins defined against the
soft flat green of its perfect shape.  I don’t know

why that makes me sad—small keepsake, fragile
now, that I did not want to take from the page
it came to know, nor deprive the page of the leaf.

How could I dare to misarrange so much?
What did I know of such importance?  Its com-
panion, the other leaf, waited to be found—

the patient one—more perfect than the first;
all its points matched, both sides of it the same,
a mirror to itself.  If they came from the same tree,

they did not tell me.  I only wondered briefly. 
My admiration was humble. 
My touch gentle.   Such a strange reverence.

 Three Flowers

OF YOUR LIFE:
(Reading Alain Bosquet)

A walk through the mystery that is sold here,
make it your own.

Buy it now
Pay any price.  Take it home with you. 

It is real enough
to walk at your side like a beautiful woman.

Name it nostalgia; it will love you.

It will slip its arm around your waist
and walk in harmony with you.

It will not miss its show window where
it lived in admiration.

Name it souvenir.
It will be all you have to remember.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SOUVENIR STONES ~

Stones in a bottle
on a sunny windowsill,
stones from the river

the bottle kept filled
with tap-water so the stones
still feel the river.

        
(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2002)

_____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poems and pix today!  For more info about ZenTangles, see
www.zentangle.com

tanglepatterns.com/zentangles
zentangle.blogspot.com

A note also that our Seed of the Week is a wistful one: I Remember Rain.  Send poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other subject!) to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs.

—Medusa

Bricked-in Flowers

Time to Wake

Jenkinson Lake, Pollock Pines, CA

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

AUNT IRENE’S TRADE GOODS
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA
 
She was the sacristan
For the parish church,
Kept the place clean,
And the priests in line.
Also had a small religious
Items trade on the side—
Missals with silk ribbons
Flying like tournament flags,
Medals of saints who may
Never have existed, and who
Long ago left the calendar,
Scapulars of every color
And intention, holy cards
(Trade you two Katherine
Tekewithas for a Mother
Seaton), candles, sick call
Sets, holy water bottles,
Enough to fill a medieval
Apothecary shop,
Rosaries like rainbows.

We didn’t know what to do
With all the stuff when
She died.  My father suggested
We give it to the nuns
At school.  Maybe they’d
Treat me better.  Didn’t work.
Sometime later my father
Asked the nuns what they did
With the inventory—give
It to the poor?  Reward good
Little boys and girls who’d
Learned their prayers?  “Nope,”
Said Sister Virgilius. “Traded it
All to Sam Rinella (Sam was a
Local beer distributor who’d
Gone to Notre Dame and never
Let anyone forget it.  Raise
The volley cheer on high!) for
A couple of cases of Bud,
And had a good party
In Irene’s memory.”

—Photo by Katy Brown

A 1929 MILLAY
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

How quickly the rarest bargain hops into hand,
fist open without the least prior desire to close.
I’ve searched for Millay’s lone opera. Prize unplanned,
it’s here! The King’s Henchman, just where our impulse chose
a Davis bookstore to dart into. Boards and cloth,
sewn signatures, corner guards, High Tower font, laid paper.
A best-selling seventeenth printing. No, the wrath
of drugs, drink, Depression, implausible three-blade saber,
can’t slash at her life quite yet. So how deep must I
thirl through this Anglo-Saxon love triangle?
Hard tholing, through dank fog, night-wet undergrowth.
A dragon impresa, my moon. I slither through tangles,
beds of verse-pulse, crawl-spaces where snakes go loath.
A grave yawns. Wisps of red hair. Where each eye’s a dust eye. 

___________________

THE MASTER OF THE TRIOLET
—Tom Goff

His name evokes nameless architects,
folkways carved dark into grooves of lost time,
word-resonances no one now living reflects.
His name evokes nameless architects
whose ruins he reigns over, their pontifex.
Creator of innocents doomed for small crimes,
his name evokes nameless architects,
folkways carved dark into grooves of lost time.

 —Photo by Katy Brown

OPENING
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

My mind danced me to sleep.
In the humid dark it said “do the splay-step
unlinking joints, a rag-doll dancing
as a human’s meant to dance
when consciousness gets out of the way.”
I tried. My mind said it was second-
nature but I couldn’t remember how.
Some part of brain explained,
“forget the dance. Make a long dark silk-
stroke down the page that says
lights-out.” The paper was blank except for
blinding shadow, shimmying, jostling the pen
in my fingers wriggling like a wild
thing. Where did I put my consciousness?
Furiously I wrote as the indelible
mark slipped away. I recognized the stroke.
Afraid to look in the mirror for un-
equal pupils. I closed my eyes
and woke to morning-char, dawn sparking
the twined draperies and sliding
down the black trunks of oaks gleaming.

___________________

PRIVATE REVERENCES
—Taylor Graham

South county is full of ghosts. Driving back,
we passed watersheds of For Sale signs—
6+ Acres, 73 Acres w/ Well. Past the turnoff,
what had been our house. In its window
I glimpsed the ghost of myself 30 years ago.

We only came for her celebration.
In the crowd I hardly recognized anyone.
She was the ghost in the sunflower
someone placed on the blade of her tractor.
She nodded her golden head—or was it

the westwind beckoning our view,
what I once knew of sunset. Ridges
on ridges. Black oak, ponderosa,
incense cedar. Our horizon. Yes, she
nodded. I was the ghost there.

—Photo by Taylor Graham

OUT THE WINDOW AT 4 A.M.
—Taylor Graham

So early Trek woke me. Look!
The glasses are full of moon! What could
a puppy know of plenilune, how
it gathers shadows around the house,
moon-dragons that inhabit the night-
shade of trees—my puppy who spent
his first two months in the safe dark
of a stranger’s garage, missing
all the lunar phases? Does he think
the moon will never look this way again?
He wakes me as if I could do
something about it. Moonlight playing
through the screen door, winking
through window-glass. Or maybe he’s
watching the glance
of an angel through canopies of oak,
and wants me to see it too.

____________________

PUPPY LEFTOVERS
—Taylor Graham
 
All night I dreamed of backup plans so dawn
comes stale as overnighted air. But here’s
my puppy Trek. Out of his crate, to the deck’s
far corner, he loops & circles, scanning old
papers, leaving scraps of yesterday’s news;
grabs his favorite bone—memento of some
creature’s former life, its scrimshaw ivory
worked by old-dog teeth. It stimulates some
memory, maybe, so he whirls in all his mind’s
directions, every gusto of a dawn-wind,
he’s tattering the household and all its shadow
dying into light; tail wagging him a-whimsy—
this souvenir, your shredded sock.
Eyes so brownly bright, he’s pure joy
dancing with my slipper. 

 Garden Troll Trek

—Photo by Taylor Graham

COLE CREEK AUBADE
—Taylor Graham

All night the creek kept
whispering to its stars, a lovers’ web
of light in so much dark,
so far from trailhead. And then

it was morning, time to wake
from dreams or visions,
voice of those departed lost
to words speechless as a creek

of spider silk.
It was morning, time to wake,
make coffee (instant, from a jar),
break camp. Another hike

through mid-Sierra lodgepole,
the dust of July, for
it was morning. Time to wake
and get moving. Forget

spirits casting nets in sleep,
old friends fishing the deep waters
of midnight, distant loss.
It was morning. Time to wake.
 

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

Before the sun goes down

I'll lay my wildflower hand

in your hand's white wicker basket

and bold—tender—sky I'll encircle you

as day and night would encircle

the trees of the day and night

and my kisses will live like birds on your shoulder

—Astrid Hjertenaes Anderson

(trans. from the Norwegian by Nadia Christensen)

____________________

—Medusa, thanking today's fine contributors for a tasty start to the week!

Trek

—Photo by Taylor Graham

Magellan Lives

—Painting from Game of Thrones Novel by Jeffrey Jones

MAGELLAN
—Mary Oliver

Like Magellan, let us find our islands
To die in, far from home, from anywhere
Familiar.  Let us risk the wildest places,
Lest we go down in comfort, and despair.

For years we have labored over common roads,
Dreaming of ships that sail into the night.
Let us be heroes, or, if that’s not in us,
Let us find men to follow, honor-bright.

For what is life but reaching for an answer?
And what is death but a refusal to grow?
Magellan had a dream he had to follow.
The sea was big, his ships were awkward, slow.

And when the fever would not set him free,
To his thin crew, “Sail on, sail on!” he cried.
And so they did, carried the frail dream homeward.
And thus Magellan lives, although he died.

________________________

—Medusa

For more about artist Jeffrey Jones, see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeffrey_Catherine_Jones

Glasses Full of the Moon

Inside the Lion in Locke

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
 

NOT KNOWING

The mouth of the day.
The father of waters.
The forgotten names.
The calls of seldom-seen birds.
The many voices of fire.
The glance of an angel.

She was drinking the blood
Coming from the palm of his hand.

His horse was white and had
A white saddle that appeared
To be quilted with evenly
Spaced gold buttons on it,
Size of quarters.

If you bothered to look
Toward the background of the scene
You could see tiny white
Butterflies with gold dots
On their wings.  They looked like
The horse’s saddle was
Coming to life.

I noticed.  I could not help
But notice that she had a net bag
Full of ravens.  There were a lot of them.
They jostled against one another
But made no sound.
This was held by a boy wearing
Blue clothing that looked as if
The Limborg brothers had designed it.

I fell in love with the shape
Of his mouth and always hoped
He would have a speaking part.
He never did.  His movements
Were furtive and full of little
Hand gestures that seemed
To quiet the birds’ wriggling.

When she rose from her knees
She wiped her mouth with
The back of her hand and fixed
Her eyes on mine for much longer
Than was appropriate.
I had to look away.

I began immediately to
Conjure a rapidly moving
River, full of many rapids and dangerous
Eddies.  I was on a light boat
With a young man dressed in brown
Who obviously knew how to
Handle the oars.

“Help me,” he shouted without any panic.
“We have things to do.”

I could not look back.
My clothing was quickly wet.
I do not have any idea
Why blood was coming
From the hand of the man
From which the lady drank
As if it were Spring.

 Knot

THE CHILDREN OF THE BANDITS

I robbed the children of the bandits
While the bandits were away stealing
Words for their precious rooms.

I robbed all the phrases
For which they cared.
They knew the value of this
Kind of glory and sat
In the wings
To watch it all burn and turn 
The sunset a most brilliant orange.

Nothing could contain it,
Not very well.

___________________

UNDER THE NOBODY LIGHT

There was a swarm of a family
Camping down the slope on the lake
Shore and the tiny beach.

Someone set up an old-fashioned grill.
It looked like a standing triangle with a grill
Across the top.  The charcoal looked like branches
Of trees, black and with their shapes intact.

Who wants hot dogs?
The scene froze under the light.
It stands there today, years later.
Everyone looking out across the lake.
The hot dogs grilling on the Summer.

 The Last Part
 

THE FIELDS AT 5:00 AM

I crane my neck and pretend
I understand the quiet
In the night.  The empty
Rooms stretching out toward
Dawn but somehow never catching it
As it turns on its heels,
Changing clothing as it declares
Its surprise at being afraid to open
The packages left in the fields
Of six a.m. and five a.m.

Trained to do so by example,
Crouched over a journal,
Writing furiously to keep it
Always searching for sleep
In roles of broken promises
Never verbalized until it is
Too late to stop the half-
Dreams unloading themselves
To great sighing,

Shoulders bruised from the weight,
From moving through every blessed day,
Reminded constantly that
One must not journey,
One must sleep, one must listen
To how the soul tells one
What the body needs, the
Body laughing, lighting candles,
Forcing books open and leaning
Over the hissing of thought
As it passes by dragons,
Its collection of shadows,
Trees waving in the wind,
Tears without cessation,
Glasses full of the moon.


(first posted in Medusa's Kitchen in 2011)

_____________________

A PARTICULAR WINTER

I look into her eyes
And realize that the snow
Will be coming again soon
And that she will never look
This way again.

____________________

LECTURE

He talked about the weather
As if he had made it up, as if he
Actually could do something about it.

 Bench, Morning Glories

THE OPENING OF A FIELD

I do not wish to keep you here.
I’ll be with the angels.
I find them in the poetry despite
Robert Duncan staring back at them.

They are always there and not,
Just beings called up behind the soul
To allow particular answers to reveal
Themselves.  Surely you’ve seen it.
The light playing at the door or
A courante by Keith Kirchoff
Where he kisses you full
Upon the mouth.

I find my mind at the edge of my pillow
In the late afternoon.  I forgot to nap
Until the sun knocked me out of the kitchen.

I thought I saw a candle glowing
But it was electric and changed color
Even when I sat upright and realized
I was living in the open field once again.

This is all imagination but it wears
My dusty blue jeans and lifts the mist
Above Innisfree and across the Maine
Woods before it.  Where did I put my
Consciousness just a little while ago?

 Opuntia Cactus

A PRIVATE REVERENCE FOR OBJECTS

     I always thought someone would notice the ghosts, but no one ever noticed the ghosts.  They must have looked too much like the objects in the room.
    They were people but, I guess, if one squinted, the child by the end table lamp could be confused with a small vase.  I supposed this but it was untrue.  Vases didn’t have names unless they had belonged to someone important like Czar Nicholas II.  In that case it might be called The Czar Nicholas II vase.  This child ghost was called Thom.
    His name was pronounced “Tom” but he had left in the “h” because his mother liked to remind him of the spelling.  After she died in the car fire she would come here in the evening, looking like a lamp, and tell her little vase about his name.
    The dog, who looked somewhat like an ottoman, was named David.  He had been killed by a car in front of the house about a year ago.  People used to say, “That’s a lovely ottoman,” and I would agree and make a motion for David to sit-stay.
    I didn’t cook much, so when Beth Ann, our old housekeeper, had snapped her neck slipping on the narrow stairs at the back of the hall, she occupied a space in the kitchen where there might have been a stove.  Beth Ann blinked a lot but people seemed to think that it was just the temperature control on the burner regulating itself automatically.  I would make tea at the stove and put it on Lawrence our dear cousin, who fortunately looked much like a table and chairs, convincingly so.
    Lois, his sister, who had died with him in that skiing accident in the Alps, became a side board.  People thought they looked very European.
    Fortunately people did not stay long when they visited, so they didn’t recognize any of them as ghosts.
    Sometimes I would take Thom to the grocery store with me and I was always charmed when people complemented me on my vase.  When we got home we would tell the others about our adventures.  It kept the evening interesting and David would wag his tail in glee.
 
_________________________
   
Today’s LittleNip:

WORDS TO CONSIDER

Like everything else, words have their whys and wherefores.  Some call to us solemnly, arrogantly, giving themselves airs, as if they were destined for great things, and then it turns out that they were nothing more than a breeze too light to even set the sail of a windmill moving, whereas other
ordinary habitual words, the sort you use every day, end up having consequences no one would have dared predict; they weren’t born for that and yet they shook the world.

—Jose Saragamo, from his novel, Cain, 2009

________________________

—Medusa, thanking D.R. Wagner for today's fine poems and pix!

 D.R. Wagner and Patrick Grizzell