—Poetry by Shiva Neupane, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Sayani Mukherjee,
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
and Stephen Kingsnorth
THE FUEL OF CURIOSITY
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
Curiosity is a mantra,
an inexplicable tool if you will.
It drills through the boulder of ignorance,
and notoriously finds its way out.
I’m baffled as to why the fuel of curiosity
never gets diminished,
but safeguards the erosion of imagination
in a more magical strength.
Who designed the curiosity,
with a great deal of immensity?
What is the purpose of curiosity,
if it were not to enslave our minds?
I’m incurably and endlessly curious
to understand why am I curious.
The epistemological dilemmas have
left me oblivious to my life.
PEARL OF GREAT PRICE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
We wonder, that beauty, born of grit,
the Margarita, dived Ceylon,
perhaps just one, for each ton hauled,
then seeds on strings, hung rows on neck,
or scattered, mud, before swine herd.
That’s wisdom, valued beyond price.
I still hold Margaret in my mind—
a name well rooted, pearl as word.
But then, by writer of Gawain,
a jewel of medieval verse,
for child who’s died, an elegy—
that takes the crown in literature.
A wee girl, victim of black death,
whose father knows his daughter’s love;
his voice, of middle Britain, grief,
sophisticated through its length.
A cultured piece that’s strung through years—
one priceless gem in poet’s lore.
Is it the iridescent ball,
nacreous wealth to be pursued?
Or wisdom’s trait be envied first,
never stolen, subject of thief.
Or is it verse, here common tone,
speaking of love, and grief, its cost.
GROAN
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It needs the grit for nacreous growth,
an irritant, bound rainbow glow;
unwelcome, but defences known,
by instinct, choice or function led?
It’s not force-feeding of a breed,
goosesteps by foie gras farms in France,
the hand raised in salute to tube,
preparing to de-liver bird.
It’s not these entertaining bears,
those taught to dance for tourist thrills,
or alligators, wrestled, drugged,
to fill everglade hovercraft.
It’s not owl caged to spirit free,
ass overloaded, belly flops,
the elephant that’s shocked to prance,
or groomed, abuse from innocence.
But why seed pain in oyster shell,
resting mussel, freshwater bed;
who claims crown dripped with mollusc pain,
we stewards who would rule for gain?
Creation groans, its populace,
from trees of green on fallow land,
to cropping, cut from fields of corn,
the hedgerows cleaned of gleaning types.
So is that pearl’s true cost revealed,
from soiled world that stirs the dirt?
Another rainbow in the sky,
that arches over mess we’ve made?
DISTEMPER
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s Banksy’s gymnast in Ukraine,
an artistry, atelier,
another goal, girl in control,
by wailing wall, inset with tears,
in balanced wait, unbalanced world,
as falling man chose destiny.
Against the weight of evidence,
reminder, what remains intact,
despite the facts, the tactic strong,
that hope can use world upside down,
the mighty thrown down from their seat,
magnificent, when strength rethought.
What is fake news to reprimand
when counter culture takes to stand?
Here most see grace which few achieve—
note view not blocked, of rubble strewn—
but scene renewed, superimposed,
what seen, distemper, mural bound.
TO AN ANNOYING DOG
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
You wake me up at 3 am,
earlier, if you can.
Before I pour myself a cup,
you are fast asleep.
You poop in closets
or after dark,
in front of doors
that squoosh it.
You shriek at
anything that moves,
and then you hide
from thunder.
But I recall
with each face-lick
that irritants
are what form pearls.
The winds leave
their kisses
on land and
on sea. Winds
wave at the
heavens, “Come
closer, please!”
—Nolcha Fox
COMING
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Piano-alleyed Mayfair dance
End of October
Stuck in my ear
A rendezvous of opera
I wish my masked front
My gullibility to hold up
A room a bit sized-up
Etched every flesh nuanced up
When the floor creaks in
Flooding hoops and
Metaphors of checked tiles
I want to sound bulletproof
Basking in the sun’s razor-blade motion
Reminiscing old selves
Each surfaces with every drink
Old times my biting forgetfulness
My eccentric page turning dog-eared
Papers
In full accommodation
As if I live in the hotel
King-sized queen-sized
Munching each shape as should be done
Under the mattress
Matters of the heart unchecked
Worthwhile
Sky-rocketing ambition
When dips down
Makes a glass skin of my knob
A hollow point
To start over
Dark blue guitar strings after the movie
French thoughtful points
Foreign, exotic nuanced way
I bit my lip
A skewed way
My finesse my fingers wet with dew
The coming winter.
Jewels of unhappening
My solemn thoughts to unbind me
What is timeless may stand still
Creation's bemused space
The nightspring of desire
May collide in one union platform
May lyricism find peace in
The softness in the unchanging innocence
May the lamp burn forever
Further more pain more destruction
I have come full circle
What lies beyond thoughts
Mundane responsibilities everyday living
Little wonders joy sorrows
My aching cup of imagination
It's half-brimmed in full measure
In places my eyes seek
What comes to surface stays for two
Three days
But ideas are my life force
They pour in rain-soaked abundance
The cup is endless
Beyond.
THE LIGHT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
We don’t know
They tell us we don’t know
They don’t know
They encourage us to pretend they know
Some of them pretend we believe them
We don’t believe them
That much we know
SPECIES-SPECIFIC
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Nobody gives a shit.
Everybody’s busy.
The world is so much nicer
Now that all the ants are gone,
Two-thirds of the bees
And almost all the spiders.
It’s too bad, though,
Since the bugs are dead,
Something is degrading
Inside our head,
Since one-for-all
And all-for-one
Is only species-specific—
We’ve made a huge mistake.
We can’t make it on our own.
THE LOCAL COUNTY STUMP
—Joe Nolan
I’m running for the Office
Of the Local County Stump.
I’m asking for your vote,
Since I offer hope
I’ll be able to improve
The conditions
Of clear-cut forests
On our common hillsides,
That are privately-owned
And now that all the trees are gone,
They will be sold at auction,
To pay off the back-taxes,
Since all the wealth
Has been expressed,
Leaving poverty
Back to the community.
I VOTED. WHOM FOR?
—Joe Nolan
I voted,
But I do not know
Whom for.
All our votes have been scattered,
Dragged across the voting floors,
Into dark back-rooms,
Chopped into
Tiny patterns,
Mixed into a slew,
Set upon a grinding-floor,
Mashed into mush,
Mixed in vote black-boxes—
Digital machines,
Hooked into the internet,
Where anyone can break in
And spread chaos through the numbers,
Without anyone
Peeking in,
To see
What has been done
To our Democracy,
While we wait to be informed
Of the outcomes of the
Augury of counters,
That appoint our rulers.
And we go on,
Not knowing,
While puppets dance
And shout out vague
Incantations of
Communitarian romance.
We shall live all
Our tomorrows,
As though
All of our sorrows
Were only
Yesterday’s.
We shall dance,
Play and pray,
As though
All of our sorrows
Had gone away,
Even though,
We know it is not so.
But we shall fake it,
Until we make it,
As if
That cyber-cybernetic principle
Were true
And we could claim our own salvation
By faking-good.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHISPERS, PURRS AND HUMS
—Joe Nolan
People speak to me far too loudly,
In shrill and trumpeting tones.
I say it’s far too loud for me
Since I still prefer
Whispers, purrs and hums.
Maybe it’s because I look like I’m old
And they think it’s hard for me to hear,
But I still have a sensitive ear.
I still like to hear my dear ones talking
In whispers, purrs and hums.
_______________________
Another Monday full of fine poetry and pix from our poet-pals of the Snake! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. This week we’ve been talking about, among other things, Pearls.
Sac. Poetry Center has no reading tonight, but their annual board meeting will be held at 6pm. The meeting will also be available on Zoom at https://us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: Po3try1nc/. And that’s about it for NorCal events (due to Thanksgiving) until Sunday, when Poetry of the Sierra Foothills presents Stephen Meadows in Camino. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about 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.
Speaking of SnakePals, Michael Brownstein has devised a picture book that was illustrated by five-to-seven-year-olds from the Robert Taylor Public Housing Projects in Chicago. To hear and see the book, along with Michael’s subsequent grant and RAMP project, go to moristotle.blogspot.com/2022/11/all-over-place-mumbo-jumbo-joe-wants-to.html#more/.
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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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
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that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
