Braga, Portugal
LISTENING TO BOUZOUKI MUSIC IN
A GREEK CAFE
(February 12, 2017)
Spirited notes stir memories.
Years peel back in
flames of longing,
glimpses of the wider world
while the bouzouki plays
“Never on Sunday,”
a match setting fire to a paper
filled with dwindling dreams.
The corner curls.
The flame creeps backward
turning the paper to ashes
now borne away
on winds of ignorance.
And we, in this present moment,
read our daily news,
as our universe shrinks.
A GREEK CAFE
(February 12, 2017)
Spirited notes stir memories.
Years peel back in
flames of longing,
glimpses of the wider world
while the bouzouki plays
“Never on Sunday,”
a match setting fire to a paper
filled with dwindling dreams.
The corner curls.
The flame creeps backward
turning the paper to ashes
now borne away
on winds of ignorance.
And we, in this present moment,
read our daily news,
as our universe shrinks.
RETURN TO INDIA
Summer heat, and thoughts stir dust motes of
memory:
Fans whir overhead, displacing the oppressive air.
Through the window, a cacophony of traffic bells
and horns
competes with the kuyil’s insistent, whistling call.
The milk vendor’s spoon clangs against his milk
can.
From the TV, Carnatic music floats, hovers,
the singer’s warble a prelude to the tinkling bell:
my brother-in-law doing Pooja at the shrine.
From the kitchen, aromas of spiced savories
mingle with sandalwood incense.
Again, I walk to the compound wall and see
patterned saris fluttering from clotheslines,
globes of fruit heaped on a roadside cart,
a crow perched on the thin hump of a Brahma bull.
Cement buildings tower behind palm-leaf rooftops,
while ancient, painted temples rise out of the
rubble of broken concrete, like brave flowers
struggling through harsh soil.
Summer heat, and thoughts stir dust motes of
memory:
Fans whir overhead, displacing the oppressive air.
Through the window, a cacophony of traffic bells
and horns
competes with the kuyil’s insistent, whistling call.
The milk vendor’s spoon clangs against his milk
can.
From the TV, Carnatic music floats, hovers,
the singer’s warble a prelude to the tinkling bell:
my brother-in-law doing Pooja at the shrine.
From the kitchen, aromas of spiced savories
mingle with sandalwood incense.
Again, I walk to the compound wall and see
patterned saris fluttering from clotheslines,
globes of fruit heaped on a roadside cart,
a crow perched on the thin hump of a Brahma bull.
Cement buildings tower behind palm-leaf rooftops,
while ancient, painted temples rise out of the
rubble of broken concrete, like brave flowers
struggling through harsh soil.
Gardens in Braga
GROWLY MCGRAW
Growly McGraw had attitude.
Why, some might call it brattitude!
The boy was rude
And very crude,
Without an ounce of gratitude.
His fuse, they say, had brevity.
His ill will had longevity.
He was all grit
And temper fit.
He had no sense of levity.
Since Growly couldn’t compromise,
He didn’t have a lot of ties.
He was alone,
All on his own,
To deal with any enterprise.
Then Surly Sam came on the scene,
And warned our boy, “I’m full of spleen.
If you don’t move,
I’ll have to prove
To you exactly what I mean.”
Growly McGraw said, “Don’t provoke
Me with your silly little joke.
You’d better git.
If you don’t split,
I’ll give your nose a mighty poke.”
“You don’t scare me,” said Surly Sam.
“It’s clear you don’t know who I am.
I don’t back down
For any clown.
I think it’s you who’d better scram.”
Growly began to feel irate.
“Look, here,” he said, “I’d hesitate
To say that stuff.
I might get rough.
My buddies here will set you straight.”
Surly Sam pulled on his ear,
And gave our boy a spiteful leer.
“I think you’re wrong.
Now, run along.
Your buddies aren’t exactly near.”
So Growly slowly looked around.
The others all stared at the ground.
“Speak up,” he growled.
“Tell him!” he howled.
But no one made a single sound.
Surly’s laugh was like a bray.
“Growly, it seems they’ve had their say.”
And all agree
they felt such glee
when Growly had to run away.
So if to threaten is your game,
and that is how you make your name,
you can be sure
it won’t endure:
One bully can erase your fame.
Concert in Braga
CELESTIAL MUSIC
An orchestra of stars
thrums to the fine-tuned ear.
The solitary moon sings her aria
in early twilight.
Listen! Can you hear
the music of galaxies
humming through space,
silvery and bright,
while the soprano moon,
high above our stratosphere,
sends staccato notes
into the coming night?
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.
I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art.
---Toni Morrison (Courtesy of Elizabeth Varadan)
__________________
Elizabeth “Mitty” Varadan, a long-time resident of Sacramento, CA, says she is “a happily married author who recently moved to Braga, Portugal with my husband. We also like to travel to Galicia, Spain, just a couple of hours north of Braga. We used to travel to India, where my husband is from, originally, although he has been a U.S. citizen for 44 years. I blog about the many things I uncover in my research and travels. I write mysteries, historical fiction, poetry, and children's books.” Elizabeth’s "Return to India", posted here today, was selected as an International Merit Award winner in the Atlanta Review 2017 International Poetry Competition.
Follow Elizabeth in her travels and see a list of her books on her blog, Elizabeth Varadan’s Fourth Wish, at https://elizabethvaradan.wordpress.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Mitty, and don’t be a stranger!
__________________
—Medusa
This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.
I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art.
---Toni Morrison (Courtesy of Elizabeth Varadan)
__________________
Elizabeth “Mitty” Varadan, a long-time resident of Sacramento, CA, says she is “a happily married author who recently moved to Braga, Portugal with my husband. We also like to travel to Galicia, Spain, just a couple of hours north of Braga. We used to travel to India, where my husband is from, originally, although he has been a U.S. citizen for 44 years. I blog about the many things I uncover in my research and travels. I write mysteries, historical fiction, poetry, and children's books.” Elizabeth’s "Return to India", posted here today, was selected as an International Merit Award winner in the Atlanta Review 2017 International Poetry Competition.
Follow Elizabeth in her travels and see a list of her books on her blog, Elizabeth Varadan’s Fourth Wish, at https://elizabethvaradan.wordpress.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Mitty, and don’t be a stranger!
__________________
—Medusa
Elizabeth Varadan
For future poetry happenings in
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
