—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Caschwa,
Sayani Mukherjee, Stephen Kingsnorth, Kevin Jones
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
CONTINENTAL DRIFT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I cut the cord
Against the beach
Where sea-lions roared,
To watch the ocean
Pull away.
Harmony opposed hegemony
By a ruling class
We could not save
That also slipped away.
Continents
Were put to sea
To drift across the waves,
Into new
Configurations
Across the
Mercator Projection.
Everything is up for grabs.
Annihilation,
In plastic bags,
Shoppers take away,
From supermarkets,
Full of stuff,
Which never
Is enough.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I cut the cord
Against the beach
Where sea-lions roared,
To watch the ocean
Pull away.
Harmony opposed hegemony
By a ruling class
We could not save
That also slipped away.
Continents
Were put to sea
To drift across the waves,
Into new
Configurations
Across the
Mercator Projection.
Everything is up for grabs.
Annihilation,
In plastic bags,
Shoppers take away,
From supermarkets,
Full of stuff,
Which never
Is enough.
OTHER AUTHENTIC FEELING
—Joe Nolan
Who said?
Who ever said
Anything
Could ever be read
By faltering feeling
Over curves of
Skin in the dark,
In hope of healing?
What is touch revealing
That can’t be smelled
Or heard or known
By intuition
Or other authentic feeling?
What is worth
A semblance of pain,
Screaming emotions,
Heat in the brain—
Everything that dissolves
Into puddles of everything else?
Tattooed sisters
Refuse all claim
Of ownership
Or leash
On their brains
That come from
Being owned,
By lovers
With whom their roofs
They share,
As though they were
Really a pair,
When really,
They are alone.
—Joe Nolan
Who said?
Who ever said
Anything
Could ever be read
By faltering feeling
Over curves of
Skin in the dark,
In hope of healing?
What is touch revealing
That can’t be smelled
Or heard or known
By intuition
Or other authentic feeling?
What is worth
A semblance of pain,
Screaming emotions,
Heat in the brain—
Everything that dissolves
Into puddles of everything else?
Tattooed sisters
Refuse all claim
Of ownership
Or leash
On their brains
That come from
Being owned,
By lovers
With whom their roofs
They share,
As though they were
Really a pair,
When really,
They are alone.
NO CEASING OF DREAMING
—Joe Nolan
We cannot cease to dream
Or drift away
Or settle into sunsets
With nothing left to say,
Nor let a vague, damp gray
Cover over our days,
Swallowing
And gorging down,
Inside a scaly skin,
Everything
We came to live for.
There never was, is
Or ever will be
Any ceasing of dreaming.
Kites will fly
In Spring,
When parks have dried
And children cry
To be let out
Into running
And screaming.
—Joe Nolan
We cannot cease to dream
Or drift away
Or settle into sunsets
With nothing left to say,
Nor let a vague, damp gray
Cover over our days,
Swallowing
And gorging down,
Inside a scaly skin,
Everything
We came to live for.
There never was, is
Or ever will be
Any ceasing of dreaming.
Kites will fly
In Spring,
When parks have dried
And children cry
To be let out
Into running
And screaming.
FLY-FISHING
—Joe Nolan
We fancy ourselves
Able to fish and fly
At the same time–
Fly-fishing, they call it,
Where we stand in waders
Up to our waist
Amid the flowing current,
Whipping cloud-lines
Over water,
Conjuring fish to rise.
—Joe Nolan
We fancy ourselves
Able to fish and fly
At the same time–
Fly-fishing, they call it,
Where we stand in waders
Up to our waist
Amid the flowing current,
Whipping cloud-lines
Over water,
Conjuring fish to rise.
Your back is turned
in every photo.
I cannot see your face.
You are solitude,
a kiss on glass
receding into mist.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
WE DID THIS OURSELVES
—Caschwa, Stockton, CA
Native Americans believed land belonged to the
community, not to individuals. They didn't own land
the ways homesteaders conceived of ownership.
today everyone is shouting
keep criminals off the streets!
keep homeless off the streets!
keep children off the streets!
none of these streets were
here when the colonists came,
bearing the seeds of a “nation
of laws” that would ultimately
assign property rights to all the
land from sea to shining sea
yielding profits to real estate
developers who pushed the ideal
of this being the highest and best
use of the land
now maybe if we just got rid of
all those nasty streets, we’d be
rid of those criminals, homeless,
and wayward children, just like
we clear buckets of sitting water
to be clear of mosquitoes
—Caschwa, Stockton, CA
Native Americans believed land belonged to the
community, not to individuals. They didn't own land
the ways homesteaders conceived of ownership.
today everyone is shouting
keep criminals off the streets!
keep homeless off the streets!
keep children off the streets!
none of these streets were
here when the colonists came,
bearing the seeds of a “nation
of laws” that would ultimately
assign property rights to all the
land from sea to shining sea
yielding profits to real estate
developers who pushed the ideal
of this being the highest and best
use of the land
now maybe if we just got rid of
all those nasty streets, we’d be
rid of those criminals, homeless,
and wayward children, just like
we clear buckets of sitting water
to be clear of mosquitoes
WELL MAYBE WE SHOULD
—Caschwa
in biblical times armies fought
and the winners took the losers
as slaves
then the preposterous experiment
of American democracy came
along and attempted to end slavery
we had a great Civil War and the
winners were denied the option of
taking the losers as slaves, because
ending slavery was the whole point
so here the losers took the initiative
to go on about things as if they were
the winners, and they called the shots
let’s say, for a hypothetical scenario,
that we were to once again engage
in a great Civil War, but this time the
champions of democracy win the war,
yield to the wishes of the losing side,
and take them all as slaves
—Caschwa
in biblical times armies fought
and the winners took the losers
as slaves
then the preposterous experiment
of American democracy came
along and attempted to end slavery
we had a great Civil War and the
winners were denied the option of
taking the losers as slaves, because
ending slavery was the whole point
so here the losers took the initiative
to go on about things as if they were
the winners, and they called the shots
let’s say, for a hypothetical scenario,
that we were to once again engage
in a great Civil War, but this time the
champions of democracy win the war,
yield to the wishes of the losing side,
and take them all as slaves
ADOLPH BITTERSEED
—Caschwa
in my younger years, used to
hang out at a local creek where
tadpoles magically transformed
into little, baby frogs
some older boys, who didn’t
particularly hate frogs, did love
to smash the babies against
the rocks, to exercise the
totalitarian power to end
life
elsewhere were slave owners
who loved to exercise the
totalitarian power of
ownership
sexual abusers who loved to
exercise the totalitarian power
of
domination
elder abusers who loved to
exercise the totalitarian power
of
greater force
and to round it out, there were
Nazis, just like those older boys
at the creek, who loved to exercise
the totalitarian power to end
life
—Caschwa
in my younger years, used to
hang out at a local creek where
tadpoles magically transformed
into little, baby frogs
some older boys, who didn’t
particularly hate frogs, did love
to smash the babies against
the rocks, to exercise the
totalitarian power to end
life
elsewhere were slave owners
who loved to exercise the
totalitarian power of
ownership
sexual abusers who loved to
exercise the totalitarian power
of
domination
elder abusers who loved to
exercise the totalitarian power
of
greater force
and to round it out, there were
Nazis, just like those older boys
at the creek, who loved to exercise
the totalitarian power to end
life
AWAKENING
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Ode to the pedestal
Time's uplifted glory
When the Union comes
It's Eternal.
Spirits seen, unseen
Dwindle in the great blue.
Consciousness and the Serpent
Merges within;
The nascent white radiance
Of twopence fold
Clothes then are naked mirror
To the beam of souls.
The Feminine and the Masculine drapes high
The crown sees through
Of White lights morning glory.
Truth in simple questions
In simple answers
Rose gold evening sun
The ever shy melancholic moon
The holy Stardust
Misty milky ways
A light years journey away
Two dotted beams,
The serpent and the consciousness
Coiling and uplifting
The third eyed sunflower eyes
The lotus belly
The fish tail swims
Holds immense
Lightness, Darkness
An awakening.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Ode to the pedestal
Time's uplifted glory
When the Union comes
It's Eternal.
Spirits seen, unseen
Dwindle in the great blue.
Consciousness and the Serpent
Merges within;
The nascent white radiance
Of twopence fold
Clothes then are naked mirror
To the beam of souls.
The Feminine and the Masculine drapes high
The crown sees through
Of White lights morning glory.
Truth in simple questions
In simple answers
Rose gold evening sun
The ever shy melancholic moon
The holy Stardust
Misty milky ways
A light years journey away
Two dotted beams,
The serpent and the consciousness
Coiling and uplifting
The third eyed sunflower eyes
The lotus belly
The fish tail swims
Holds immense
Lightness, Darkness
An awakening.
BEAM
—Sayani Mukherjee
Pyre of hollow embers
Burns purged insecurities;
Ravishing coiling serpant machinery
Jokes and trickstars of naysayers,
Of caging the free spirited Moksha
Dreams of mana, Himalayan bluebirds
The flappy wings of fancy somantic fury
Only tune of one song.
Loud enough to burst forth
Material orders hierarchies
Ashes of power game
Caged and bonded
Flattering cynismcism a cyclical tornado
Only the blue bird sings
It knows the one tune
I'm an om
An autumnal seasonal flashback.
Draping warm leaves around my sweet neck
Honeybees and nectar of sooth Sayers fuzz
My veins a musing, jumping,
free spirited laboratory-
Made of Streaming stars and faith and woolen love
I, a Bluebird sing of mana
Airy floaty elfish vain
Titular rambunctious whole of a new realm
I am a power of my life force
Watery windy fiery fiesty road
Akashic magic burning sages Rosemary incensed fume
I swallow pyres
Burning up eights lusts heads
I twinkle and beam.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Pyre of hollow embers
Burns purged insecurities;
Ravishing coiling serpant machinery
Jokes and trickstars of naysayers,
Of caging the free spirited Moksha
Dreams of mana, Himalayan bluebirds
The flappy wings of fancy somantic fury
Only tune of one song.
Loud enough to burst forth
Material orders hierarchies
Ashes of power game
Caged and bonded
Flattering cynismcism a cyclical tornado
Only the blue bird sings
It knows the one tune
I'm an om
An autumnal seasonal flashback.
Draping warm leaves around my sweet neck
Honeybees and nectar of sooth Sayers fuzz
My veins a musing, jumping,
free spirited laboratory-
Made of Streaming stars and faith and woolen love
I, a Bluebird sing of mana
Airy floaty elfish vain
Titular rambunctious whole of a new realm
I am a power of my life force
Watery windy fiery fiesty road
Akashic magic burning sages Rosemary incensed fume
I swallow pyres
Burning up eights lusts heads
I twinkle and beam.
PASSED LOVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
I have a message for my son, the formal carer for my Dad
said, as final days approached, conjuring lad who took his life.
Paper columns, selected page have notes to reassure the dead,
that they are not too far from mind, assumed heaven’s news delivery.
Not always in memoriam, directly, speak to those who’ve gone,
laid around the graveside turf, lines similar on bouquet cards.
Inscribed words, though deep cut in gold, were better said when living child;
this resting shade, with stone of wight, lost assured love, all need in life.
SCRAPBOOK
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Recycled scrap’s in opened book,
a skip through, not though thrown in skip,
the markers pasted, kept for view,
but does that toll of time review
what outlasts, the test, passed years—
but see how trip has slowed its course.
Are headlines sunk to subtext ink,
footnotes where the banners struck,
minor where once major played,
or here confront, reiterate,
rouse the passions then known and owned?
That casual flip, discoloured sheets,
found, weighty pile of history,
hide what was counted worthwhile then,
buried, mean time, reincarnate.
So, joggers in the evening light,
a starting pistol, surprise prompt,
trace, track events deemed floodlit then,
trophies seen tarnished, as reflect,
much fool’s gold, in retrospect.
Are they for sharing with those deaf,
the bored who humour grandpa’s tales,
when they parade past visual aids,
accommodate diverted ways?
I taste the glazed, grey icing weight,
wan smiles as never knew this man,
or that strange world wherein he moved.
And no device that’s in my ken
can fire them past short sympathy.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Can we look at
Your scrapbooks,
Grandfather?
Not a good idea.
Last time I
Opened one
It burst
Into flames.
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA
_____________________
Apparently we all survived Halloween, and now it’s time to move onto the fun and festivity of what we call “the Holidays” and make more memories. Our Seed of the Week is about memories, too—“Scrapbook”—and some of our poets have jumped on the subject. Thanks for that, and thanks for the photos, too.
This morning, there will be a Women’s Wisdom Art’s Music and Poetry Workshop with Rhony Bhopla and Elizabeth Mendez in Sacramento. Tonight, Sacramento Poetry Center’s Monday Night Readings return with their Confluence of Poets (Nov. 7-10), featuring Josh Fernandez, Katy Brown, Anna Sprowl and Patricia Killelea. And the first session of an Indigo Moor Poetry Workshop series starts on Wednesday night on Zoom.
The SPC Confluence continues through the week, with the same poets reading at Cordova Library on Thursday night at 6:30pm in Rancho Cordova. Also Thursday night, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar has featured readers and open mic. Then on Friday night, el gigante presents An Evening with Doug Rice plus open mic on Zoom.
Saturday will be busy: at 4pm, Sacramento Poetry Alliance features Linda Colins Jackson and Kim Kralowec plus open mic in Sacramento; also at 4pm, Auburn’s new reading series, Silver Tongue Saturdays, features Devorah Major plus open mic. On Saturday night, Terry Moore’s Spoken Word Show takes place in Sacramento. Then on Sunday, The Poets Club of Lincoln features its monthly open mic at 3pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
___________________
—Medusa
Can we look at
Your scrapbooks,
Grandfather?
Not a good idea.
Last time I
Opened one
It burst
Into flames.
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA
_____________________
Apparently we all survived Halloween, and now it’s time to move onto the fun and festivity of what we call “the Holidays” and make more memories. Our Seed of the Week is about memories, too—“Scrapbook”—and some of our poets have jumped on the subject. Thanks for that, and thanks for the photos, too.
This morning, there will be a Women’s Wisdom Art’s Music and Poetry Workshop with Rhony Bhopla and Elizabeth Mendez in Sacramento. Tonight, Sacramento Poetry Center’s Monday Night Readings return with their Confluence of Poets (Nov. 7-10), featuring Josh Fernandez, Katy Brown, Anna Sprowl and Patricia Killelea. And the first session of an Indigo Moor Poetry Workshop series starts on Wednesday night on Zoom.
The SPC Confluence continues through the week, with the same poets reading at Cordova Library on Thursday night at 6:30pm in Rancho Cordova. Also Thursday night, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar has featured readers and open mic. Then on Friday night, el gigante presents An Evening with Doug Rice plus open mic on Zoom.
Saturday will be busy: at 4pm, Sacramento Poetry Alliance features Linda Colins Jackson and Kim Kralowec plus open mic in Sacramento; also at 4pm, Auburn’s new reading series, Silver Tongue Saturdays, features Devorah Major plus open mic. On Saturday night, Terry Moore’s Spoken Word Show takes place in Sacramento. Then on Sunday, The Poets Club of Lincoln features its monthly open mic at 3pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
___________________
—Medusa
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!
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!
