—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
MY OWN DARKNESS
Midnight, in the vacant courtyard
I listen to my own darkness
long gazing at the starry sky
while stars are particles shedding from coarse
sandpaper
The Earth is rising
boundless as conscience
I clap, hearing curved echoes from every path
this ripened darkness is a black angel
erect in the shrine of shrubs
quieter than truth, purer than death
Starlight falls into eyes no one can find
eyes gradually paling, like frozen wooden buckets
while the Earth, nearing the stars, trembles with
fear
there my unfortunate joy grows transparent
Midnight, in the vacant courtyard
I listen to my own darkness
long gazing at the starry sky
while stars are particles shedding from coarse
sandpaper
The Earth is rising
boundless as conscience
I clap, hearing curved echoes from every path
this ripened darkness is a black angel
erect in the shrine of shrubs
quieter than truth, purer than death
Starlight falls into eyes no one can find
eyes gradually paling, like frozen wooden buckets
while the Earth, nearing the stars, trembles with
fear
there my unfortunate joy grows transparent
PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE SIDEWALK
Separate the throat from the voice
separate love from the body
separate blue from the sky
separate distance from the remoteness
separate Heraclitus from the river
separate the door from the knocking sound
separate the gesture suspended in mid-air from
the hand
separate the gaze from the eyes
separate prayer from the snow pouring out of
the church
separate age from a word that cannot be bitten
separate footsteps from the road
separate death from the corpse
separate cold from ice and snow
separate heartbeat from silence
separate thought from the brain
separate wind from the air
separate the halo from the saint
separate fantasy from imagination
the former is the overly trusting child
separate me from you—
you, the poem that is slowly separating
from the paper and my hand
you, the blackbird marking the white house
Separate the throat from the voice
separate love from the body
separate blue from the sky
separate distance from the remoteness
separate Heraclitus from the river
separate the door from the knocking sound
separate the gesture suspended in mid-air from
the hand
separate the gaze from the eyes
separate prayer from the snow pouring out of
the church
separate age from a word that cannot be bitten
separate footsteps from the road
separate death from the corpse
separate cold from ice and snow
separate heartbeat from silence
separate thought from the brain
separate wind from the air
separate the halo from the saint
separate fantasy from imagination
the former is the overly trusting child
separate me from you—
you, the poem that is slowly separating
from the paper and my hand
you, the blackbird marking the white house
MERELY WORDS
They are light switches, illuminating the dark of
things,
or the withered tips and handles of things.
Between the fermenting dough of desire and the
dry bread of facts,
they are an array of flames slanted in the furnace,
carving peaks, passes, and fissures on the dough’s
surface.
Some words lie docile like the fur of beasts under
stroking hands
trembling variegated stillness, others arrive unan-
nounced,
as fragments of an exploded whole,
unable to reassemble the original cause or glaring
force.
Not even Pygmalion’s or Midas’ fingers
could soften or harden them.
They bring the mysterious breath of all existence,
a life we’ve never lived,
even the people there cannot escape death.
For example, when I arrange these words,
the osmanthus tree outside the window grows taller,
for example,
a student’s leave-request note from a long-ended
semester
somehow kept in my drawer, stating:
“The organization has important matters.”
And as a drained structure, it always reveals
on the damp bed of a ditch a snail’s slow
confidence.
They are light switches, illuminating the dark of
things,
or the withered tips and handles of things.
Between the fermenting dough of desire and the
dry bread of facts,
they are an array of flames slanted in the furnace,
carving peaks, passes, and fissures on the dough’s
surface.
Some words lie docile like the fur of beasts under
stroking hands
trembling variegated stillness, others arrive unan-
nounced,
as fragments of an exploded whole,
unable to reassemble the original cause or glaring
force.
Not even Pygmalion’s or Midas’ fingers
could soften or harden them.
They bring the mysterious breath of all existence,
a life we’ve never lived,
even the people there cannot escape death.
For example, when I arrange these words,
the osmanthus tree outside the window grows taller,
for example,
a student’s leave-request note from a long-ended
semester
somehow kept in my drawer, stating:
“The organization has important matters.”
And as a drained structure, it always reveals
on the damp bed of a ditch a snail’s slow
confidence.
A PRAYER AT THE END OF THE DAY
The night grows deep, the starry axis spins, and
I am still alive
The world is destroyed anew every night
but we pretend not to know
The coolness we draw from the dead
like a family crest, like a soft kiss, pressed on a
burning forehead
If the earth still rises toward the heights
if new life fills the footprints
if the beach drags out the darkness
from the depths of the sea and hangs it to dry
if the swallows still bring rain to the ruined brows
then you can live namelessly
then you can, in advance, become
a member of that eternal jury
Profound happiness, you burst forth
like flame from the top of the skull
you rise like ash in the air, building a leaning tower
That person with a face full of dead chess moves
the racing rain, the marking of time
the tyrant's stiff black collar cannot destroy you
For you, you are gazing at the heavens
from the whale’s belly of language
The night grows deep, the starry axis spins, and
I am still alive
The world is destroyed anew every night
but we pretend not to know
The coolness we draw from the dead
like a family crest, like a soft kiss, pressed on a
burning forehead
If the earth still rises toward the heights
if new life fills the footprints
if the beach drags out the darkness
from the depths of the sea and hangs it to dry
if the swallows still bring rain to the ruined brows
then you can live namelessly
then you can, in advance, become
a member of that eternal jury
Profound happiness, you burst forth
like flame from the top of the skull
you rise like ash in the air, building a leaning tower
That person with a face full of dead chess moves
the racing rain, the marking of time
the tyrant's stiff black collar cannot destroy you
For you, you are gazing at the heavens
from the whale’s belly of language
A MORNING PRAYER FOR MY MOTHER
ON MY 55th BIRTHDAY
Through you, He brought me into this world, you
virtuous woman
I miss you in the intimate darkness of midnight
in the early morning with light rain dampening
the clothes
In the curving sleep that seems never-ending in
the afternoon
The woman born of water, nurtured by
earth, shaped by wind, extinguished by fire
I miss you, and for today, 55 years ago
the suffering you endured, the grace you received
crying, giving thanks, praying, may my voice
reach the farthest heavens, to be heard by the
Most High
May I be with you, sheltered in His shade
May you sleep in the embrace of the Father, like
a child
You blessed woman, my mother
please wait for the day when I shall dance
with you in the circle of happiness
reuniting, rejoicing, and praising
_____________________
TO MEDUSA’S KITCHEN
—Yongbo Ma
I watch you bustling in the magic kitchen,
preparing feast after feast for friends,
tables stretching to the horizon.
Vibrant fields of all seasons spread like a
tablecloth—
tablecloth—
waves of guests come and go:
feathered ones, fur-clad ones, those with fins…
Here, some timid fawns arrive now,
peering curiously into the house.
Happy spring—Medusa’s serpent locks
Happy spring—Medusa’s serpent locks
must be turning emerald too.
______________________
______________________
. . . only green with envy because there is so much fine poetry here, today and every day! Thank, you, Yongbo Ma, for these sprightly poems today (and for your fine letter-poem about Medusa bustin' a move or two in the Kitchen)!
_____________________
—Medussa, the girl with the bright green hair~
A note that
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
National Poetry Month celebrations
begin today with
an open house at noon,
then a reading at 2pm with
Clarence Major and April Ossmann;
and Truckee Literary Crawl takes place
in Downtown Truckee today, 1-8pm.
For more 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!
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
National Poetry Month celebrations
begin today with
an open house at noon,
then a reading at 2pm with
Clarence Major and April Ossmann;
and Truckee Literary Crawl takes place
in Downtown Truckee today, 1-8pm.
For more 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!
