Egyptian Lotus From The Water Of Chaos
—Poetry and Original Artwork by Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento, CA
Brahmavihārās for Sentient Woman
On damp brown paint canvas
of brahmavihārās, Woman: flood
red-yellow-blue. Uncensored
immeasurable virtues
spatter poetic resonance, taut
ebony expressions of love.
Nothing, not-ever defined,
your loving-kindness
once dictated, naught demonstrated.
Woman: you are a poet
of the canvas, poured over⏤
yet, endure in compassionate abandon.
May your first emotions stay free.
Every minute of your body
saturated in spirit. Joy
rooted in empathy. Individuality
never, not-ever flawed.
Ever-whole Woman⏤
your body roars this poem, first
and final draft of true equanimity.
On damp brown paint canvas
of brahmavihārās, Woman: flood
red-yellow-blue. Uncensored
immeasurable virtues
spatter poetic resonance, taut
ebony expressions of love.
Nothing, not-ever defined,
your loving-kindness
once dictated, naught demonstrated.
Woman: you are a poet
of the canvas, poured over⏤
yet, endure in compassionate abandon.
May your first emotions stay free.
Every minute of your body
saturated in spirit. Joy
rooted in empathy. Individuality
never, not-ever flawed.
Ever-whole Woman⏤
your body roars this poem, first
and final draft of true equanimity.
Kathakali (കഥകളി) of India
Slur
The day I knew I could be tough
as a boy, I clipped all my hair as close to my head
as possible, and that was the same
day a boy in my class called me
Hindu. I didn't like it. I knew he wanted
to hurt me, it sounded like stupid,
or he was saying I was vomit, or bitch.
The word, Hindu, a backhand slap
and he slapped again,
then I thrust my sharp elbow
into his belly. He fell, I
crouched over him, shoe on his chest.
Then he asked, ain’t you a Hindu?
Zebra Butterfly Protected From The World Rejected
Letter to an Atheist During the Pandemic of 2020
Dear Atheist
it has been
a long time since
I have written
my excuse
is the fire’s stench
an RNA virus
the counting of dead
bodies
counted
not seen
too long
you are due
now
here we are
breathing with
host cells
of our making
procedures
and machinations
by protocol:
your strengths
we just need
you to
do the job
please
get us out of this one
love
me.
Metta of Brahmavihārās (चत्वारि ब्रह्मविहारा)
At the fine line of the mind
there are rooms
in this country
that have no windows
where they
can
take you
when
no one
is looking
when you might
not be healthy
or conscious
just a short drive
from your neighborhood
a few steps
down from
the ground
they will close
the window-less
door
and as you
face the click
of
the
permanent
lock
you will realize
no way out
no way.
atonement
wail of conch
descent
from Gomukh
Ganga Maiya
melted body
of Vishnu
your
voluptuous
rage
destruction
halted by
Shiva
Ganga Maiya
daughter of
Brahma
his locks
holding you
in spiraling
majesty
furor
abated
now a
whisper
Ganga Maiya
daughter of
Brahma
resurrected
in the bosom of
Prithvi Mata
your countless
deaths, countless
pronouncements
forgive me
for destroying
you
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poems are like dreams: in them you put what you don’t know you know.
—Adrienne Rich
__________________
Our thanks and welcome back to Rhony Bhopla today! Rhony, a long-time SnakePal, is a British Indo-American poet and visual artist who was first featured on Medusa’s Kitchen on May 2, 2007. Check out her artwork at www.facebook.com/108384477669371/photos/a.110291770811975/116590753515410/?type=3&theater to see which of her art pieces are available for sale; 50% of proceeds will be donated to Pacific University's Student Emergency Fund.
__________________
—Medusa
Better to behold a single sunflower
in the light
than all
the stars in darkness!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joseph Nolan, Sacramento
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
