—Poetry by George Ryan, New York, NY
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
PROTESTER
She may have been younger than she appeared,
a very pretty white girl clad in black.
She carried a two-by-three cardboard sign
with large print white-on-black letters that read
BLACK LIVES MATTER.
In daylight she sighed and said on her phone,
Mom, I swear, right now I’m on my way home.
She may have been younger than she appeared,
a very pretty white girl clad in black.
She carried a two-by-three cardboard sign
with large print white-on-black letters that read
BLACK LIVES MATTER.
In daylight she sighed and said on her phone,
Mom, I swear, right now I’m on my way home.
DEAD-LEAF BUTTERFLY
Having dead-leaf camouflage
only on the underside
of its wings probably means
that this butterfly perches
on flowers with its wings closed.
If threatened, the butterfly
might open its inner wings
with an orange bar on blue
to startle a hungry bird.
Having dead-leaf camouflage
only on the underside
of its wings probably means
that this butterfly perches
on flowers with its wings closed.
If threatened, the butterfly
might open its inner wings
with an orange bar on blue
to startle a hungry bird.
UNQUIET ANTIQUE
In a damaged painting
among old family possessions
from her grandmother’s home
a young woman is shocked
to see a near likeness of her face
in a weird hairstyle and morose look
In a damaged painting
among old family possessions
from her grandmother’s home
a young woman is shocked
to see a near likeness of her face
in a weird hairstyle and morose look
DRINKS OUTDOORS
Elizabeth Bishop
wrote about drinks outdoors
at nightfall in Brazil
and having to avoid
speeding at head level
occasional beetles
of exceptional size
Elizabeth Bishop
wrote about drinks outdoors
at nightfall in Brazil
and having to avoid
speeding at head level
occasional beetles
of exceptional size
BROKEN BRANCH
The roof of a backing truck
breaks off the overhanging
branch of a tree. He picks up
the three-foot length, carries it
home, puts it in an empty
earthenware pot, pours water
and forgets it. And of course
one morning the skeleton
startles him, its twigs covered
in hundreds of white petals.
The roof of a backing truck
breaks off the overhanging
branch of a tree. He picks up
the three-foot length, carries it
home, puts it in an empty
earthenware pot, pours water
and forgets it. And of course
one morning the skeleton
startles him, its twigs covered
in hundreds of white petals.
MY MARTHA STEWART POEM
From the train from New York at Westport station, I shared a taxi
with two confident fashionably dressed women in their twenties
who said they worked for Martha Stewart. I had heard their voices
on the train before I saw them—voices of decisive people.
By the time the taxi dropped me off at an office building
near the women’s destination, they sat in a fearful silence.
It could of course have been me. My presence might have subdued them.
All I knew about Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia
was that Martha slept four hours a night, had done time for trading
and when she was asked what she could not do had answered, Hang-gliding.
CROSSING SECOND AVENUE
Why snowboard when you can zigzag
on your electrified skateboard
at thirty miles an hour
down Second Avenue?
And before I can get across
here comes another skateboarder
slowly in the bike lane
sending a text message.
A BUILDING FIRE NEAR A HOSPITAL
In the news photograph, you do not see the cat,
you only see the firefighter’s back and helmet.
What you do see, running toward him, arms outstretched,
a doctor in scrubs and white shoes
with her mask hanging from her neck.
She has a look of joy and anticipation
that you do not often see on a doctor’s face.
WINTER QUARTERS
Even someone who has knocked about in the world
and knows some important people
might be impressed to hear that a person
is a professional lion tamer
who works with his big cats in a circus.
I was twelve or so and remember the cats,
particularly the three that walked around
freely. The one I first sat near,
a grown female, lay on her side,
chin on the floorboards, and watched me
with big eyes while she whisked her tail
from time to time.
One afternoon
I arrived on my own and walked
down the long narrow corridor
that led to the living area.
A female lion ambled toward me.
We were alone. I froze against the wall
and she paused to sniff at me.
Afterward we each went our own way.
I greeted them, felt weakness in my knees
and settled down in an armchair
next to a sleeping lioness
who did not bother to open her eyes.
Before my visits with school friends
who cleaned empty cages for pay
at his winter quarters behind a cinema,
I had been to the circus and seen his act
in which the lions were too obedient.
It ended with a drum roll and beam of light:
a huge male with a shaggy mane
opened its jaws wide and he placed
his head inside the creature’s mouth.
Frequently he had a woman,
often a different woman
due to their nervousness with cats, he said.
He sent me for cigarettes and whiskey
(no coin changed hands with the store keeper)
and this being Dublin in those times
it was not unusual to see homeward
children laden down with bottles.
On a sunny morning, a female lion
wandered out an open door and
fell asleep on the warm pavement.
She lay next to a petrol pump
and for a while the garage man
wondered why cars pulled in and
immediately left again.
A few drivers got out for a close look.
The newspapers had fun with this,
an investigation followed.
This finished my visits to his winter quarters
but not his residence there.
At least several months later
before the trainer could respond
a female lion attacked
a woman I had not met.
With her teeth, she dragged her by the neck
down the corridor where I was once
dismissed by a sister or her.
My friends no longer worked there
but we read in a newspaper
a vet said it was likely the female lion
reacted to the victim’s monthly cycle.
As young males, we were overawed
by jungle cats and women’s chemistry.
Some of us went to talk to him
but he and his lions were gone.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WORRIED WRITER
—George Ryan
An editor apologized for not having responded
earlier to my submission—almost nine months had elapsed.
His delay was not unusual. His apology was.
Some editors take so long, I don’t recall sending them work.
And then there are the editors I have never heard back from.
Is their editorial space now silent, dusty, cobwebbed?
Was the cause an uncoerced decision or an accident?
Does anyone know what might have happened to these editors?
I have no wish to pry, but are their loved ones searching for them?
_____________________
George Ryan was born in Ireland and graduated from University College Dublin. He is a ghostwriter in New York City. Elkhound published his Finding Americas in October 2019. His poems are nearly all about incidents that involve real people in real places and use little heightened language. Welcome to the Kitchen, George, and many thanks for your colorful poems! Come back soon!
•••Tonight (Wed., 10/27), 6-7:30pm: City Lights Booksellers & Publishers (www.facebook.com/CityLightsBooks) presents its Diane di Prima Memorial Tribute, marking one year since her passing in Oct. 2020. Readers include Hanif Abdurraqib, Garrett Caples, Cedar Sigo, Sunnylyn Thibodeaux, Wendy Trevino and more guests to be announced. 201 Columbus Av., San Francisco. Info/(registration required): citylights.com/events-category/diane-di-prima-memorial-tribute/.
_____________________
—Medusa
Even someone who has knocked about in the world
and knows some important people
might be impressed to hear that a person
is a professional lion tamer
who works with his big cats in a circus.
I was twelve or so and remember the cats,
particularly the three that walked around
freely. The one I first sat near,
a grown female, lay on her side,
chin on the floorboards, and watched me
with big eyes while she whisked her tail
from time to time.
One afternoon
I arrived on my own and walked
down the long narrow corridor
that led to the living area.
A female lion ambled toward me.
We were alone. I froze against the wall
and she paused to sniff at me.
Afterward we each went our own way.
I greeted them, felt weakness in my knees
and settled down in an armchair
next to a sleeping lioness
who did not bother to open her eyes.
Before my visits with school friends
who cleaned empty cages for pay
at his winter quarters behind a cinema,
I had been to the circus and seen his act
in which the lions were too obedient.
It ended with a drum roll and beam of light:
a huge male with a shaggy mane
opened its jaws wide and he placed
his head inside the creature’s mouth.
Frequently he had a woman,
often a different woman
due to their nervousness with cats, he said.
He sent me for cigarettes and whiskey
(no coin changed hands with the store keeper)
and this being Dublin in those times
it was not unusual to see homeward
children laden down with bottles.
On a sunny morning, a female lion
wandered out an open door and
fell asleep on the warm pavement.
She lay next to a petrol pump
and for a while the garage man
wondered why cars pulled in and
immediately left again.
A few drivers got out for a close look.
The newspapers had fun with this,
an investigation followed.
This finished my visits to his winter quarters
but not his residence there.
At least several months later
before the trainer could respond
a female lion attacked
a woman I had not met.
With her teeth, she dragged her by the neck
down the corridor where I was once
dismissed by a sister or her.
My friends no longer worked there
but we read in a newspaper
a vet said it was likely the female lion
reacted to the victim’s monthly cycle.
As young males, we were overawed
by jungle cats and women’s chemistry.
Some of us went to talk to him
but he and his lions were gone.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WORRIED WRITER
—George Ryan
An editor apologized for not having responded
earlier to my submission—almost nine months had elapsed.
His delay was not unusual. His apology was.
Some editors take so long, I don’t recall sending them work.
And then there are the editors I have never heard back from.
Is their editorial space now silent, dusty, cobwebbed?
Was the cause an uncoerced decision or an accident?
Does anyone know what might have happened to these editors?
I have no wish to pry, but are their loved ones searching for them?
_____________________
George Ryan was born in Ireland and graduated from University College Dublin. He is a ghostwriter in New York City. Elkhound published his Finding Americas in October 2019. His poems are nearly all about incidents that involve real people in real places and use little heightened language. Welcome to the Kitchen, George, and many thanks for your colorful poems! Come back soon!
•••Tonight (Wed., 10/27), 6-7:30pm: City Lights Booksellers & Publishers (www.facebook.com/CityLightsBooks) presents its Diane di Prima Memorial Tribute, marking one year since her passing in Oct. 2020. Readers include Hanif Abdurraqib, Garrett Caples, Cedar Sigo, Sunnylyn Thibodeaux, Wendy Trevino and more guests to be announced. 201 Columbus Av., San Francisco. Info/(registration required): citylights.com/events-category/diane-di-prima-memorial-tribute/.
_____________________
—Medusa
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
