—Poetry by Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, West Bengal, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
UPTOWN DREAMS
Sloshy names and uptown roads,
Ranged the billboard screen
That fathered back an old nostalgia
Of what could have been?
If so-and-so did not fall down
From a burn down open road
But, economic depression it cradles
While the little white babe
beats the drum roll high
And slashes down the youth
In a capitalist craze.
Fast money, brick wall, BMW
And little black skirts of sun gaze high
The nights spend in a dark ghetto
And collars of shot money and
Of whiskey beau.
Their bathtubs ended up in a belladonna dream
And the little babe grew an inch bigger,
His milk-moneyed teeth and eyes
That lulled in the mammoth cot.
Sloshy names and uptown roads,
Ranged the billboard screen
That fathered back an old nostalgia
Of what could have been?
If so-and-so did not fall down
From a burn down open road
But, economic depression it cradles
While the little white babe
beats the drum roll high
And slashes down the youth
In a capitalist craze.
Fast money, brick wall, BMW
And little black skirts of sun gaze high
The nights spend in a dark ghetto
And collars of shot money and
Of whiskey beau.
Their bathtubs ended up in a belladonna dream
And the little babe grew an inch bigger,
His milk-moneyed teeth and eyes
That lulled in the mammoth cot.
CARPETED GREEN
Last April was light, feather-like.
To and fro lay the long
Carpeted green
Squirrels and mango misty deep
The local pond seemed
A measurable tea cup
Which I can sip whenever I like.
But one year gone
Into the den
Of days as shallow as
The new cosmetic brush
The bruises I knit away within
With life as everyone lives,
Come and go, a big hallway
The leaves I don't look upon
Anymore
For they will be green anyway
In this April of levity
Of seeing the flowers and
The loopholed sunsets
In the window screen
Of my own reality
Like everyone else's
Come and go
It's a big money anyway.
AN ISLE OF FOUR WANDS
Grains of sand bloats
Over the perched-up pyre
Of fountains
Leading to chiseled-up celestial stairs
Which hide swords
Of power Subliminal.
Beat over beat, the grains
Trickle down
Over my face, and Time
Dances upon the painting
Of blazed-up cosmic fire.
Money, power, politics
The anthem of
The doomed youth,
That visibility of pure
Hedonism that blinks
The nerves as fast as it comes—
Then gripping the territorial
Reality of
Ashen-lead fumes that
Water down in a
Conch shell
Of an isle of four wands.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
—Robert Frost
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks and a hearty welcome back to Sayani Mukherjee from India this morning, as she calls to us from the other side of the world~
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
