—Poetry by Jackie Chou, Pico Rivera, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SEARCHING FOR THE SUN
The morning is here,
but the sun never came out.
I've searched my room for it,
on top of the dresser,
inside the closet,
the drawers full of clothes,
but it is nowhere to be found.
It seems like somebody
has stolen the sun from me,
and now my world is overcast,
clouded by troubles.
I look for light,
and all I can do is switch on
the fluorescent lamp.
It only burns temporarily,
dimming gradually,
before dying completely,
like the fleeting smile on my face,
mistaking the bulb for the sun.
The morning is here,
but the sun never came out.
I've searched my room for it,
on top of the dresser,
inside the closet,
the drawers full of clothes,
but it is nowhere to be found.
It seems like somebody
has stolen the sun from me,
and now my world is overcast,
clouded by troubles.
I look for light,
and all I can do is switch on
the fluorescent lamp.
It only burns temporarily,
dimming gradually,
before dying completely,
like the fleeting smile on my face,
mistaking the bulb for the sun.
WORD GEMS
I wish I was in love with diamonds,
so I could go and pursue them.
Instead, I spend my days
stringing necklaces out of words,
that glow like pearls
only to myself.
To everyone else,
they're just inked scratches
on pages of notebooks,
made by cheap ballpoint pens.
They're not worth anything,
in a world where most people
like what shines on the outside,
and don't mind working for it.
I wish I was in love with diamonds,
so I could go and pursue them.
Instead, I spend my days
stringing necklaces out of words,
that glow like pearls
only to myself.
To everyone else,
they're just inked scratches
on pages of notebooks,
made by cheap ballpoint pens.
They're not worth anything,
in a world where most people
like what shines on the outside,
and don't mind working for it.
THE QUIET ONE
He sits for hours,
not saying a word,
mute like those voodoo dolls
with stitched lips,
or the four blank walls,
and just as ominous.
He won't make space
in his cluttered heart,
for the fountain of graffiti
spewing out of my mouth.
My voice is no harp to his ears,
but a loud timpani,
drumming in his head,
while he searches
for a moment of peace.
He sits for hours,
not saying a word,
mute like those voodoo dolls
with stitched lips,
or the four blank walls,
and just as ominous.
He won't make space
in his cluttered heart,
for the fountain of graffiti
spewing out of my mouth.
My voice is no harp to his ears,
but a loud timpani,
drumming in his head,
while he searches
for a moment of peace.
FOR MY LOVER GAZING AT THE MOON
You're not second-best to poetry,
though it seems that way.
You're just different.
You're no blue-inked musings
filling fancy notebooks.
You're no boredom,
but glint-eyed charm.
You're an inspirer,
my doppelganger muse.
Like the dagger moon,
you poke at my psyche,
to eke out another verse.
You're not inferior to words,
not even in your reticence.
You're not second-best to poetry,
though it seems that way.
You're just different.
You're no blue-inked musings
filling fancy notebooks.
You're no boredom,
but glint-eyed charm.
You're an inspirer,
my doppelganger muse.
Like the dagger moon,
you poke at my psyche,
to eke out another verse.
You're not inferior to words,
not even in your reticence.
NIGHTSCAPE
I have awoken to moonlight
spilling through the slats
the patio by my bedroom
bright like a twenty-four hour pub
peopled by a few night owls
with their boomboxes and self-talks
I’m no better than its patrons
hiding in my room all the time
from some unnameable evil
that’s eating the night away
leaving me with this dry
meatless bone of a pen
to record what I see and hear
behind a thick glass door
I have awoken to moonlight
spilling through the slats
the patio by my bedroom
bright like a twenty-four hour pub
peopled by a few night owls
with their boomboxes and self-talks
I’m no better than its patrons
hiding in my room all the time
from some unnameable evil
that’s eating the night away
leaving me with this dry
meatless bone of a pen
to record what I see and hear
behind a thick glass door
NO SLIVER OF LIGHT
If I were to describe my day in colors
it would be the lackluster metaphors
of a one-trick poet’s
third confessional poem
an overkill of familiar images
like dandelions dancing
in sidewalk cracks
a monochrome word palette
of different shades of gray
the emptiness between lines
of pencil scribbles
a one-woman melodrama
reflecting only my own woes
If I were to describe my day in colors
it would be the lackluster metaphors
of a one-trick poet’s
third confessional poem
an overkill of familiar images
like dandelions dancing
in sidewalk cracks
a monochrome word palette
of different shades of gray
the emptiness between lines
of pencil scribbles
a one-woman melodrama
reflecting only my own woes
HOW TO WRITE A PRETENTIOUS POEM
Use the word bone a lot—
bone-brittle, bone-cold, bone-glow,
even if you're far from skin-and-bones.
Set the poem on some sort of stone—
a stone bench, stone steps,
stone statue of a Greek god.
Choose images that are cold,
like icicles, naked branches,
the moon,
to reflect the barren heart.
Mention a mirror,
usually a rusty one,
to show the passage of time,
and call it the looking glass.
Throw in a female antagonist,
a witch, a school bully,
who feuds with the poet
using alchemy.
Lastly, end the poem
on a philosophical note,
with a general word
like world, universe, life.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content—please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.
―Charlotte Eriksson
_______________________
Jackie Chou is a poet of free verses and short-form poetry whose work has appeared in various publications like Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest, Spillwords, Rat's Ass Review, Alien Buddha Zine, and Highland Park Poetry. Her collection of poetry, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, has just been released by cyberwit publishing in January, 2023 (https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/finding-my-heart-in-love-and-loss-jackie-chou/1142917530/). Welcome back to the Kitchen, Jackie!
_______________________
—Medusa
Use the word bone a lot—
bone-brittle, bone-cold, bone-glow,
even if you're far from skin-and-bones.
Set the poem on some sort of stone—
a stone bench, stone steps,
stone statue of a Greek god.
Choose images that are cold,
like icicles, naked branches,
the moon,
to reflect the barren heart.
Mention a mirror,
usually a rusty one,
to show the passage of time,
and call it the looking glass.
Throw in a female antagonist,
a witch, a school bully,
who feuds with the poet
using alchemy.
Lastly, end the poem
on a philosophical note,
with a general word
like world, universe, life.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content—please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.
―Charlotte Eriksson
_______________________
Jackie Chou is a poet of free verses and short-form poetry whose work has appeared in various publications like Fevers of the Mind Poetry Digest, Spillwords, Rat's Ass Review, Alien Buddha Zine, and Highland Park Poetry. Her collection of poetry, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, has just been released by cyberwit publishing in January, 2023 (https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/finding-my-heart-in-love-and-loss-jackie-chou/1142917530/). Welcome back to the Kitchen, Jackie!
_______________________
—Medusa
Jackie Chou
For upcoming poetry happenings in
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click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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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
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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!
