—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
I STAND AND WRITE
I stand and write
I sit and bleed
This mind cannot remain in hibernation
It cannot drench in the mystery rain.
This agony bleeds
This chain cuts the atom of creativity.
The water boils
And the fishes drown
The morning in the aquarium
Is the whole world
Down in its slumber.
I see a butcher
And feel his dharma
The agony rushes like sweet symphony
The heart plays the game of longing.
The theatre of my dream
Is directed from nothingness
Yet I see the origin of the world,
The origin of art,
The origin of human passion.
I wake up
From the kohl-eyed dream
To sense an affection of the post-modern world.
A circular life does not end with a click
So poetry washes itself
And wears a music of astral lines
And pours its silver blood,
Among golden freezing.
I stand and write
I sit and bleed
This mind cannot remain in hibernation
It cannot drench in the mystery rain.
This agony bleeds
This chain cuts the atom of creativity.
The water boils
And the fishes drown
The morning in the aquarium
Is the whole world
Down in its slumber.
I see a butcher
And feel his dharma
The agony rushes like sweet symphony
The heart plays the game of longing.
The theatre of my dream
Is directed from nothingness
Yet I see the origin of the world,
The origin of art,
The origin of human passion.
I wake up
From the kohl-eyed dream
To sense an affection of the post-modern world.
A circular life does not end with a click
So poetry washes itself
And wears a music of astral lines
And pours its silver blood,
Among golden freezing.
OUT OF THE ASHES
I look up to the sky
The moon is the companion
Of wonder.
The first light
Is the friend of humankind
Before fire began to cook
And douse,
And turn things to ashes.
You will be dust
I will be the desert
Because I have sinned.
To love and try to possess
Is a sin of art,
Where colors will be used
To cover the broken-hearted scars.
Your love has its absence
And my words have turned
Into poetry.
I look up to the stars
Before the morning arises
Out of its ashes.
I look up to the sky
The moon is the companion
Of wonder.
The first light
Is the friend of humankind
Before fire began to cook
And douse,
And turn things to ashes.
You will be dust
I will be the desert
Because I have sinned.
To love and try to possess
Is a sin of art,
Where colors will be used
To cover the broken-hearted scars.
Your love has its absence
And my words have turned
Into poetry.
I look up to the stars
Before the morning arises
Out of its ashes.
THERE IS AN AGONY
There is a path
Where no one travels.
There is a wave
That does not move anyone.
I see a raindrop
And marvel at the soulful art of clouds.
The horse rider
Has plucked the night
And has traveled to keep
His promises.
No one waves
No one travels
The horse is free from the burden
The world collapses on the screen.
You will find an old poet
Wearing new spectacles
And reading the news of stampede.
If what is art
If what is holy
Does not save life,
You lose everything and
You are the most holy creation
Of God,
You are the earth
In its incense of fragility.
There is a path
Where no one travels.
There is a wave
That does not move anyone.
I see a raindrop
And marvel at the soulful art of clouds.
The horse rider
Has plucked the night
And has traveled to keep
His promises.
No one waves
No one travels
The horse is free from the burden
The world collapses on the screen.
You will find an old poet
Wearing new spectacles
And reading the news of stampede.
If what is art
If what is holy
Does not save life,
You lose everything and
You are the most holy creation
Of God,
You are the earth
In its incense of fragility.
THIS KIND OF STATE
A fellow passenger
Cannot reach quicker than you
To the destination,
Yet life meets
For those who live.
Living is a greater acceptance.
The envelopes of love
Can contain grief
That can find the river bank
To emerge out of disparity.
You are the audiences of search,
These words have found
Love banks at the gates of humanity.
Water is a liquid word
Tears have heart in them.
Journey is a revelation.
At times of despair,
Reading strangers
Can make them friendly.
A fellow passenger
Cannot reach quicker than you
To the destination,
Yet life meets
For those who live.
Living is a greater acceptance.
The envelopes of love
Can contain grief
That can find the river bank
To emerge out of disparity.
You are the audiences of search,
These words have found
Love banks at the gates of humanity.
Water is a liquid word
Tears have heart in them.
Journey is a revelation.
At times of despair,
Reading strangers
Can make them friendly.
I LOOK AT YOU
The bindi on your forehead
The moon behind your painting
The stars that cremate you
Will sing an orchestra of departure.
The eyes that remember
Your childhood,
All make up to the bindi again.
The saffron is your attire
The naked feet is your earthly touch
I am the pious earth
That is touched and enlightened
By the light wave
Of your shawl.
Leaving behind an astrological signs
You tick like the clock of reality.
I pour and ease my thirst.
We met and the world was shy
To sing with the shawl of longing.
I only made art
Out of love.
You are the wildflower
That carries the fragrance of life.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
—Albert Einstein
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Sushant Thapa for today’s fine poetry!
The bindi on your forehead
The moon behind your painting
The stars that cremate you
Will sing an orchestra of departure.
The eyes that remember
Your childhood,
All make up to the bindi again.
The saffron is your attire
The naked feet is your earthly touch
I am the pious earth
That is touched and enlightened
By the light wave
Of your shawl.
Leaving behind an astrological signs
You tick like the clock of reality.
I pour and ease my thirst.
We met and the world was shy
To sing with the shawl of longing.
I only made art
Out of love.
You are the wildflower
That carries the fragrance of life.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
—Albert Einstein
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Sushant Thapa for today’s fine poetry!
“The moon is the companion of wonder.”
A reminder that there will be
a Storytellers Guild Workshop
today in Sacramento, 10:30am;
MoSt Poetry on Saturday
will feature
Luisa Giulianetti & Sarah Kobrinsky
at 2pm in Turlock; and
Barbara Ruth Saunders will read
in Sacramento tonight at
a Storytellers Guild Workshop
today in Sacramento, 10:30am;
MoSt Poetry on Saturday
will feature
Luisa Giulianetti & Sarah Kobrinsky
at 2pm in Turlock; and
Barbara Ruth Saunders will read
in Sacramento tonight at
Amatoria Fine Art Books, 6pm.
For info about these and other
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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!
For info about these and other
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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!
