—Poetry by Margaret Adams Birth, Queens, NY
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
CITY IN EARLY SPRING
White sky
brushed with a thin layer of gray
smog particles mingling with rain
in the upper atmosphere
and in the streets clogged drain grates that
overflow unswept and
untended by the city or by the nearby building’s
tenants
White sky
brushed with a thin layer of gray
smog particles mingling with rain
in the upper atmosphere
and in the streets clogged drain grates that
overflow unswept and
untended by the city or by the nearby building’s
tenants
ANGELIC AVENGER
Tender rebel,
she stomps right, then left, foot
in defiance, then pauses for a flicker
in time as she assesses others’ responses;
she wishes they cared
as deeply
as she,
wishes they shared
the same unwavering ideals
as she; but
when apathetic silence meets her protest,
at last she determines
to vanish, to leave these plebeian people behind,
to stagger off into righteous oblivion,
while she considers what’s next,
like an angel temporarily stuck
in the earthly realm,
in a radiance of Paradise-inspired contemplation
that no human could comprehend.
Tender rebel,
she stomps right, then left, foot
in defiance, then pauses for a flicker
in time as she assesses others’ responses;
she wishes they cared
as deeply
as she,
wishes they shared
the same unwavering ideals
as she; but
when apathetic silence meets her protest,
at last she determines
to vanish, to leave these plebeian people behind,
to stagger off into righteous oblivion,
while she considers what’s next,
like an angel temporarily stuck
in the earthly realm,
in a radiance of Paradise-inspired contemplation
that no human could comprehend.
DESTINATION: HUMANITY
I
Pauvre creature, I have begun my search
for my lost humanity
beyond this fragile place
I am afraid to name.
I am searching, seeking, along
narrow borders in the dark—
tramping through noisy, crackling leaves
that no one cared to rake. Why bother?
The sound connects the senses.
II
I have laid languorously, like a C,
upon a bed of moss,
and patched wounds, which refused to close,
with strips of bleached gauze, to hide their
dirty shame;
I have howled the tuneless song
of grief too long denied,
but as soon as I felt myself an audience,
I once more squelched expression.
Unrelenting self-awareness aches.
III
At last, led beyond my own beyond
by une idée I somehow believe I know,
my search seemingly brought to an end,
I reach out to try and touch this place
that promises to be my final destination; and,
destination of destiny, find that I can sense
and see
not another soul here.
I sense and see no one here but me.
I
Pauvre creature, I have begun my search
for my lost humanity
beyond this fragile place
I am afraid to name.
I am searching, seeking, along
narrow borders in the dark—
tramping through noisy, crackling leaves
that no one cared to rake. Why bother?
The sound connects the senses.
II
I have laid languorously, like a C,
upon a bed of moss,
and patched wounds, which refused to close,
with strips of bleached gauze, to hide their
dirty shame;
I have howled the tuneless song
of grief too long denied,
but as soon as I felt myself an audience,
I once more squelched expression.
Unrelenting self-awareness aches.
III
At last, led beyond my own beyond
by une idée I somehow believe I know,
my search seemingly brought to an end,
I reach out to try and touch this place
that promises to be my final destination; and,
destination of destiny, find that I can sense
and see
not another soul here.
I sense and see no one here but me.
FREE FALLING
Is this how it feels—
free falling?
I somehow feel so,
though I sense no
parachute strapped
to my back, and I see no
net beneath me.
Will you catch me as
you promised you would, or will you
dispose of me with deceit?
Is this how it feels—
free falling?
I somehow feel so,
though I sense no
parachute strapped
to my back, and I see no
net beneath me.
Will you catch me as
you promised you would, or will you
dispose of me with deceit?
YOU
Shadows past;
once-deafening echoes,
now silence; and
fear’s frosty fingers,
their indentations only
left on my back,
are all that remains
to remind me of
you.
Shadows past;
once-deafening echoes,
now silence; and
fear’s frosty fingers,
their indentations only
left on my back,
are all that remains
to remind me of
you.
FAREWELL TO ACHILLES
Farewell to Achilles, whose strength
lay in dear ignorance of his vulnerable
place and prompted him to risk his
flesh for causes he felt just.
He lies felled like a mountain that
an earthquake crumbled into dust,
brought down by a weapon divinely driven
into that one unprotected, wholly human spot.
The heart rolls like the thunder of advancing troops,
although the thrill of the battle
does not equate with fear, but with
anticipation of victory despite any violence.
Achilles is seduced by his seemingly unbeatable
power,
by the knowledge that his mother saved him for
eternity
by dipping him into the mighty river Styx,
blessed by the gods from head to heels.
A final goodbye to the freely sacrificed target . . .
If mortality ever concerned him,
he veiled it behind his starry armor, all bronze and
strong.
Though the quiver remains full, its one loss tells the
denouement of an epic life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
N YR FĀS!
—Margaret Adams Birth
Too hard to
resist—(h)it(s)
u back
when
u let go,
shuts u out
&
cuts u off:
what’s in-
side
¿the closed door?
____________________
Margaret Adams Birth is the author of Borderlands (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Her poetry has appeared in more than 50 journals, including Plainsongs, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Aldebaran, BlazeVOX, White Wall Review (Canada), Blue Lake Review, and Awakened Voices. She has published short stories and novellas (some of them written under the pen names Maggie Adams and Rhett Shepard), short nonfiction, and even a few comic books, as well. She is a native North Carolinian who has also lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, upstate New York, southern California, a rain forest on the Caribbean island of Trinidad, and now New York City. You can find her online at https://www.facebook.com/MaggieAdamsRhettShepard. Welcome to the Kitchen, Margaret, and don’t be a stranger!
This afternoon, Women’s Wisdom Art presents Visual Journaling with Staff Echeverria, 1pm, in Sacramento. And later, at 6pm, Sacramento Poetry Center will hold a memorial reading for Luke Breit, who passed away last December. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) 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
Farewell to Achilles, whose strength
lay in dear ignorance of his vulnerable
place and prompted him to risk his
flesh for causes he felt just.
He lies felled like a mountain that
an earthquake crumbled into dust,
brought down by a weapon divinely driven
into that one unprotected, wholly human spot.
The heart rolls like the thunder of advancing troops,
although the thrill of the battle
does not equate with fear, but with
anticipation of victory despite any violence.
Achilles is seduced by his seemingly unbeatable
power,
by the knowledge that his mother saved him for
eternity
by dipping him into the mighty river Styx,
blessed by the gods from head to heels.
A final goodbye to the freely sacrificed target . . .
If mortality ever concerned him,
he veiled it behind his starry armor, all bronze and
strong.
Though the quiver remains full, its one loss tells the
denouement of an epic life.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
N YR FĀS!
—Margaret Adams Birth
Too hard to
resist—(h)it(s)
u back
when
u let go,
shuts u out
&
cuts u off:
what’s in-
side
¿the closed door?
____________________
Margaret Adams Birth is the author of Borderlands (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Her poetry has appeared in more than 50 journals, including Plainsongs, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Aldebaran, BlazeVOX, White Wall Review (Canada), Blue Lake Review, and Awakened Voices. She has published short stories and novellas (some of them written under the pen names Maggie Adams and Rhett Shepard), short nonfiction, and even a few comic books, as well. She is a native North Carolinian who has also lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, upstate New York, southern California, a rain forest on the Caribbean island of Trinidad, and now New York City. You can find her online at https://www.facebook.com/MaggieAdamsRhettShepard. Welcome to the Kitchen, Margaret, and don’t be a stranger!
This afternoon, Women’s Wisdom Art presents Visual Journaling with Staff Echeverria, 1pm, in Sacramento. And later, at 6pm, Sacramento Poetry Center will hold a memorial reading for Luke Breit, who passed away last December. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) 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
For more about National Poetry Month,
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
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
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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!
