Part of the story lands in gaps
Somedays, a whirlwind
Mischievous, a creative zeal.
Unbuttoning the core
Is a spinning wheel
Onion-like, wearing frames in
The humidity feeds
The sea-fogged town
The night bugs keep
The sound feels warm
A finicky sensation
Buzzing each nerve
A familiar nocturnal path.
There is no way to escape
What is my very own
I cannot just turn away
My mirror self, she keeps
The night window open.
When I keep my
Pawn in the game alive
I know it is small
But it pierces my own.
After closing the buttons one makes
A warm embrace
Within, with my core,
The inner furnishings longing
To look within
The mirror, a playful tapestry.
My hooded gaze
Needs a warm coat;
The finished product is
A knitted muffler
Each intricate day
We jump out of the pawn
And at midnight
Look to tomorrow’s sun
Within our knitted warmth.
The higher power is a dark realm
A pregnant egg of alluring fantasies
Laced with savages
Of nobility of muzzled openings.
I wish upon the cave
Abandoned ruggedly inspired
Diabolically and Divinely
Closed-off stream of a simple stare
A sudden maneuver
Peeping slowly, hooking within
The black cuckoo is always nasty
Her songs, mythically beautiful
Tap dance within her bosom fare
Rides my homebody fevers.
An abandoned alley smudged between
My paper knife to hold my worth
Sweepingly not to prove anything
Just a sullen sweet song
To lie beside me the lake house ground
To build nests
Green reds blacks ribboned whites
Ego death of survival guide
My womanly virtue vices
All diving down—
Under the cave the siren song
The dark alley
Allowing the evenings to drop down
Hushly steadily making no noise
The evening prayers
The woman, a dark alley.
Two small frames are enough
To capture an ocean
A moment’s glance,
A perilous longing
The white forest emerges
Out of cryptic movements.
Under the heaving spree
Of elm tree
I have hidden my
Of rubies and pearl whites
The key responds to your
At the nighttime,
The Heaviness moans
Of worldly matters
Of chopping down a
Wood with a nice
Sickle and angst.
I sketch down
The secret temple of Vestas
Priestesses who drowned
Their fires to the
The arrows sling open
Outside a masculine urge
To crown the passage.
But, Victory lies in my firm oath
My fleshy wishes
To not cut open
The inside blossom
The thousand lotus flowers
A sanatorium of feminine ideal.
Then, I sung my mon amor tune
The dolphins and the siren slope
The messy underworld
Of Neptune and cosmic sky
Hell fire and the beauty of woe.
When spring comes
I clean my tunes
Amor and infinite veils
The last is the truest prophecy
For the mind dwells
In sacred fire
Of infinite love and
The hymn of learning.
Uniquely designed for mainstream
A six-figured tattooed butterfly
On my back
A pat at my shoulder
A beam at my poem
Treehouse and child playthings
My proof of itsy bitsy rock scissors stone
A friendship bracelets with red ribbon
Whitewashed marooned island
Over my chest
It stays when I form a circle of mates—
Three Pentagons diaphragmatic
Radio shows on for Friday nights
Modernist nonsense and my
I form my bracelets with my
My jinx my pixie dust my childlike wonder
A little sparkle did no wonder
Red bracelets whitewashed marooned island
I hum at my lost poem
A sudden Omission at the back
A little pinch of dusty drives
Underneath a new edge control
Completing of a poem for the
I hope my pixie dust will do
Good for nothing
For this electric haze on my tattoo’s butterfly
Fallen leaves ashen branches
Candy cream by nightswim high
Pinky promises candyfloss gardens
My beautiful headlines floor
Penguins swarm around
A Lethe ward-booking river
My mushroom floor
Icy clouds roadside shadows
Horses catching for the cherry blossoms swim
Newly renovated daydreaming gardens
Nothing to do with reality bites
For smacking paper flowers high
From the ceiling top
Little bunnies and Alice dream
Down the rabbit hole dream
For moonstone and ruins of paper work
My eyes fleck
Raining hard over the open skies
Purple hibiscus disc and tulle flowers
The nightstand of fallen leaves
Potential for the first time
Trying my Cinderella shoe.
In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in darkness without the relief of compassion, the voice of an exceptional poet producing exceptional work is not something the world can afford to dismiss.
—Aberjhani, The American Poet Who Went Home Again
Sayanı Mukherjee is no stranger to Medusa’s Kitchen; she first visited us in March of 2022, and, since then, has posted single poems almost every week on our potpourri that is Mondays. So it was time for her to have another solo feature, and we heartily thank her for today’s fine poetry from half-way around the world.
Gold Country Writers will present
a workshop by Lara Gularte
in Auburn this morning, 10am.
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
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