Then and NowEveryone loves a great story, so try this on for size; Civilizations rise up from the bones of giants majestic, righteous and full of pride…or shit… invent the wheel for a steal, and steal fire from the sky to cook their food ride to the top of the Ferris wheel and stop – *** take a look around at all the wonderful things created out of the crude, the goo, the primordial ooze. the wrath of God, tempest tossed ark and flood greater than forgiveness or love eased by the flight of a snow white dove ride to the top of Ararat with an olive branch – *** look around, look down on the urchin and infirm white faces black with crude, goo, and primordial ooze the price of warmth; even the worthless can serve everyone has a use and a place; white as a dove with a coal-black face ride to the top of the food chain, laughing all the way – *** take a real close look around at all the wonderful things so easily destroyed; hung from trees; a small price to please an arrogant audience without sympathy or souls and who needs compassion and love when you’re as white as a dove? ride to the top of the privilege train and stop – *** Then, wild beasts roamed free in what is now waste So easily destroyed; no food to eat; no water to drink; Although there is plenty there’s no profit in charity, nor in bridging fiscal disparity; that grey between black and white. rise to the top of the money heap…and leap *** now, look around you for a place to lay the blame then ask yourself, what difference does it make? We’re all the take, nobody gets a break, in the quest for compassion and love save those few who keep faith and rise to the top, the cream of the crop *** those very precious few who stop looking to blame stop looking down, around; instead looking inside past color and pride, with nothing to hide but everything to give – compassion, love as pure as the driven snow; those few rise above, now and then …. Supper-time |
Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. |
In the Morgue
seems cold
as a block of ice;
all signs of life
have flown the coop.
For the living
the wailing wall
waits outside,
dark as oil;
time goes rolling on,
steady as a wheel.
God’s will be done;
His word and deed
breaking all bounds,
including His own.
Death itself,
confronting His
absolute logic,
goes limp as a noodle.
God’s will is doom;
his extraordinary quirks
shy chaos
into the wilderness,
among the other outcasts.
By the same finger
that blasted the king’s wall,
the body is resurrected,
a brand-new loaf of bread,
the bread of life, the true bread,
the word of God.
Wondering, wandering,
embodied again,
the spirit asks no questions,
hove to in a sea of blood;
home is here.
Give us this day,
weighed one way,
our daily beef,
our sacred host.
Give us, O Lord,
no miracles, please,
light as flies,
to tip the scales.
God’s will be done,
but for eternity
can a universe be,
whirl within curly whirl,
steady complex
planetarium of eternal law,
carrack always on
an even keel?
Or can it come unstuck?
Can it become cracked
like an old china pot,
or perfectly and forever intact?
These are ores unfound
and unmined.
The body is cold
as a mackerel,
feet, legs, trunk, head,
sunk forever,
bound to the rules
of a dark kingdom
and do we care?
We’re uncaring as bees,
busy about
the best things in life,
buzzing around nectar,
trying to make things sweet,
trying to stay alive
in a nice way.
The body is cold,
a conductor of
the unknown,
a train of cold
going nowhere.
Morticians meander
in and out,
doing the necessary;
it matters not
to the corpse,
cold and dead,
a stricken ferry
sinking in a
surfeited sea,
to the unfathomable deep.
Cold and dead,
the body lies,
a market offering,
glass-cased
among the legumes,
the fish and the lamb;
no way no how
to cheat the fates or
the laws of nature.
The corpse
by no fell stroke,
by no hocus-pocus,
ever recalled
from the back of beyond.
It lies there forever.
The body ain’t a body anymore;
it’s gone,
diminished to a naught,
to less than nothing.
Human fate you say,
this is the way it is,
well, well,
alas and ho-hum,
like leaves of the passing year
we come and go;
more windy talk
from the pulpit, at the gravesite
bottomless, meaningless;
but say it anyway.
Goodbye life, hello
portico of wealthy King Dis.
Your coin good here, mortal,
and will buy your passage
to a kingdom built on time
and money.
Two pennies for
the fare, for a stay
that lasts forever,
where a day
outlasts the gold,
the silver, the copper;
your coins cheap metal
for your reckoning
with the dim realm,
where all the glitters
are the eyes of the dead.
Have no fears, penny-wise;
step forth pound-foolish
and assured
from the heaving ferry;
hell has no furies,
no denying spirits;
only the dead,
mile after mile of them
decked out and penitent
and hell will last, thank God,
among monuments, a monument
more durable than the sin of Adam,
than all our sins.
The body is cold, now
remote as the moon.
For the noble mourning kindred
noble love and death
go forth
hand in hand
and the rest of us struggle along;
illusions become elusive
among our daily crusts
and bumpkins
and our dearest
bump us out of the park,
this dump called Paradise.
We struggle along,
bound for a rude awakening
in that last call to arms.
Body cold, body
politic, fetch
the means of meaning;
of being here for a while
in some peace.
Puissant bird of dawn,
take me, too, when it’s
time to go.
Longer is too much;
still, the body is cold,
still,
even here in the land
of blood.
===============================
Cats
Stay close to home.
Avoid people with
cold hands;
in plain sight
hide all the time.
Walk alone.
Live at night.
Trust the moon.
**********************************
In the City
their brittle skeletons
on the sidewalks;
marbles plinked
by the boys
hesitate, passing
over the cracks
between the sidewalk slabs,
the candy wrappers, cardboard,
plastic bags, other
transient debris
left by summer.
Up ahead on the trail,
the haze of early autumn
turns sluggish, hangs down
in our faces.
Farmers off in the country
look at the stubble
in the fields
and think of birds
flying away south,
get ready
to move their machines
to the barns for winter.
Here in this dirty city
Ethiopia is bright as a dime
for the black man,
high and mighty on heroin;
sinking to ruin in this city,
he sees the polished spear-points
in his white enemy's eyes.
One afternoon
some poor black souls,
lost in the ghetto wastes,
in the urban decay,
say, oh shoot,
and burn Goldberg's
emporium to the ground;
in the smouldering ashes
and remaining bric-a-brac,
old raggedy women pick along
and along the sidewalk
people come and go,
black and white and in-between,
careless and unconcerned;
bound on their own business.
===============================
On the Island of Circe
safely landed at last,
for these poor sailors,
to laugh, to ramble, to lurk,
that is indescribably ludicrous,
knowing as we do and they don't
what is to come;
their chief, Odysseus, knows better
as he always does.
Even with her sweet singing,
woman and goddess,
echoing out the shining doors,
too quiet, ominous,
her low dark palace,
set apart from the woods;
a crew of lions and wolves
roaming around,
docile as cats and dogs;
the courtyard somehow too like
a barnyard and the pigsty,
destined for more than pigs,
hidden out of sight.
At her ever-welcoming table,
graceful Circe stands,
invites these fools
to eat and drink
familiar homely food;
no special repast this.
Set out with all the rest,
the enchanted communal feed
seems no more than
part of the prepared display;
the unseen singer,
the over-friendly beasts
opening the charade,
the huge loom
with its fabulous cloth,
the long decorated halls
in the quiet and eerie
abode of the goddess;
all of it contrived and ordered.
Not thought of in the offering,
who knew this posset,
deadly and honey-sweet,
this seeming plain food,
guaranteed, sure as night follows day,
a one-way passage to beasthood?
Unconsidered destiny
for these frivolous
unsuspecting guests.
Only one escapes to tell
and with Hermes' help
Odysseus turns the tide,
reverses the transmutation,
defeats the sacred magic,
the goddess' uncanny mastery
of turning men to beasts;
at the wand's touch,
the upright brow and stance
fall away, arms become forepaws,
the speech-dividing mouth
becomes a grunting snout,
walking talking men
brought down to the ground.
Saved by the witful wily Odysseus,
his sword, his threats, his charm
outdo the mistress of the house;
submitting her sheath
to his sword, she ends up
keeping house for all of them,
at once goddess and drudge.
They live out a year
of good times,
food and wine aplenty
and Odysseus gets his time
in bed with the treacherous goddess,
gives the least trust
and keeps his manhood for
the long journey to come.
She confides the ways home
and the way
to the kingdom of the dead,
that dark fabled place
seen by no mortal.
The year out, the good times over,
off he goes with his crew;
new adventures and his fate
and safety hold true;
for his crew and their bad luck,
bad fate and fatal appetites,
it's another story.
What do we learn
from this ancient myth?
What do we want to know?
Your luck is your luck,
your doom is fully fated, inexorable,
here in this everyday world
where the goddess is never seen
and the gods' messenger never comes;
for us, their absence seems
to make no difference;
would it were not so.
=============================
Al Mein Gelt Verspilt
After Grimmelshausen's Melchior Sternfels von Fuchshaim
you goddamned arrogant bastard,
all your money pissed away,
again and again,
vagrant and on the move
your locomotion never stops,
travel never gets old
and vagabondage becomes
a rhombus;
Paris to Vienna
to the Schwarzwald,
to Moscow, to mermen,
ending on an island paradise;
idylls of an
out and out scoundrel,
a picturesque rogue,
leaving his life,
his skirmishes
on the road and
of his own free will,
coming to peace at last.
What a life!
Melchior comes juggling
along life's distorted turnpike,
his cloak, a crust of wool,
disappears around a corner,
but like an architrave,
supporting and adorning,
Melchior, our low water,
our ebb tide,
our luck, reappeareth!
Along this road
his breastplate creaks and
squeaks, debased from
too much hard use;
a skillful soldier,
a better captain, but
bad decisions among
gentle folk folded him up;
a bungled passage,
a few hasty words and
departure was final.
Skipping out in the night,
the moon is reticent
and behind closed doors
what goes on is
nobody's business and
no help to this wanderer;
no charitable souls
in God's light or livery
live here.
Melchior strides on like
the dragoon he never was,
ramps comically and
catching some
dumb country lass,
retires at last with a sphinx
who stinks of more than knowledge;
in the morning her lovely
stone arms hold no more than
the billow of Melchior's bedclothes.
He left hours ago,
marching across the inhospitable heath;
his intent lasted to a satisfying root,
a roll in the hay and
no goodbyes;
doesn't have the time.
These adventures come in flocks,
and what in all the world,
what in all the world
is as real as the red herrings
thrown across his meandering trail,
in the windings of his ways,
and windy, too, from too
many open windows,
too many getaways;
no time for introspection
in the heat of the moment.
Melchior whispering in the
grey ears of Death, it's not time
yet, it's not, but Melchior's fears
assume oracular importance;
on his snorting horse
he rides hard, rides on and on;
any delay may pitch him down.
The poetry of the moment given
to the most Fabian of his
lights of love,
the best of all his rare birds and
clear-toned canaries;
let her do with it
what she wants,
speak clear-toned vowels
never before heard
in any of the lands he saw,
the cities and villages he visited;
like a Bengal tiger raging and
shifting his line of march,
like a beggar, too,
when occasion demanded.
This is the end.
An island of peace,
a romance of fate and abdication.
Before we resume our
various hyperborean tasks,
let us pay some respect
to this scoundrel, this devourer,
this waster, this wanderer;
let us be warm and friendly
all the livelong day
to his memory,
to a man
not afraid to go his own way,
large bold unpredictable,
who performed tawdry wonders,
who had his luck,
good and bad,
and laughed at it.
Let a last percussion of
prima-donnas shout loud
the glad verbiage of
approbation and love;
glory, glory, glory,
in excelsis,
Melchior,
cog and wheel,
type and terminal of
the armies of disorganized chance.
Melchior, props we are
and we know it,
not necessary for your support,
but in your unwritten reports
signal us sometimes,
put us in your island scrapbook,
for we, too, trace your footsteps
and this, too, Melchior, remember
delusion we do and deceit,
when the harpoon of doomsday
pierces our gloomy backs.
----------------------------------------------
Don Juan
(after Tirso de Molina’s El burlador de Sevilla y convidado de piedra)
a contrived Casanova
is left playing in the dirt.
Leave him and
his fornications.
Turn your heads instead
towards a real legend,
a damned titan of despite
strutting across the boards,
butting heads with his rivals,
giving not an inch of himself
to the house assembled.
Let’s hear it, all of you;
let’s hear ten thousand cheers
for Don Juan Tenorio,
nickname, byname, byword,
egged on by beauties
felled and foiled
in the blink of his
roving indifferent eye.
He’s better than the bible,
than the Divine Comedy,
larger and clearer than life,
coo the fallen madonnas,
dripping fluid and passion and
who should know better than they
his insouciance, his insolence,
I defy you!
Not to be found elsewhere
or anywhere,
by God’s grace.
And after he’s finished with you,
ladies, try to remain composed,
I beg you;
open the blinds and watch him go
while the tears drain away and
you bleed and weep at the usual ports
for the loss, the shame, the invasion.
You opened your wards,
beautiful moppets and
paid the price,
let a passport to lust
and indolence become
yours by a chance flutter of eyelids,
an unfortunate ogle;
your own fault, little ladies,
by your lack of
innocence betrayed.
His eyes took note,
he took his pleasure
and off he went
to new ports,
blissfully sailing away
across his sea of immorality.
Be quick says the laird’s wife,
getting poked hard in the pantry,
but Don Juan pays no heed
and with aplomb
practices no economy of time;
in his hot eyes streaking
dissipation and no hoarding;
spending it all,
he gives all and his inspiration
flows like rain from heaven.
With a sigh and a gasp,
they open their fortifications,
the heyday of surrender,
the radiance of munificence
shine in their eyes.
He smiles in satisfaction and
what teeth in his smile,
what teeth, I say!
Don Juan moves on
and on and the sun
shines its magnificent espionage.
A glorious day, surely,
perfect and uncertain,
a daydream of a day
makes the birds
seem to sing
little operas in the park,
sweet and melodious.
The sun so warm,
such a sweetie-pie in the sky,
blinding us with its brightness;
boys and girls skip
hand in hand
across the green meadows,
shy and sweet,
and under the green grass
the septic tank
keeps its peace,
holds its foul burden.
Fuego! Fuego!
Shout your guts out,
dishonored Tisbea,
one in a row of many,
shout for revenge,
go in the sea if you must,
but don’t bother drowning just yet;
time will tell all and
time will ensure payment
of every debt.
Stick around.
Time now for a little killing,
a little swordplay;
a spilling of blood
the old-fashioned way.
Farther down the line, Doña Ana
does some shouting
of her own;
Don Gonzalo,
father of the deflowered
daughter lies
dead as a stone.
He’s not the only one
nor is she, outraged
by Don Juan’s careless taking;
day and night
Don Juan does his best
to shame the snaky principalities,
the powers of Satan,
with his spiritual wickedness,
his slapdash knavery.
So Don Gonzalo
lies dead as a stone.
Undiscovered witness,
the green glass cat
traps no mice on the lawn;
the sun on her green head
falls neat;
like a green marble
the sun makes
with heated rhetoric
her feline stillness complete.
Death just dealt,
with sun delicate,
sparkling and deepening
the scene is watered.
Such a day
butchered Pentheus.
Don Juan turns away
and saunters and
saunters with a more
rapid pace
than his wont is.
A time for introspection?
Not for him;
too many open windows
in his corrupt soul,
too many opportunities
for lust and mayhem,
too many allegiances
to the depths of evil.
He eats his vittles and
uproariously waving
knife and fork,
condescends to cut up
with his butler.
A last supper beckons,
a joking invitation
to a guest of stone.
This is the narrow gate and
beyond the fable
the stone apparition asks
a favor not for himself or God.
Don Juan doesn’t care
one way or the other;
his humor, his sarcasm
hold to the end.
In fits and starts
even God has his limits
and wise-cracking cruelty and lust
will crack open the earth
to receive the perfect sinner.
Eaten by the earth,
walking into hell,
Don Juan winks back
at paradise lost,
smiles his arrogant smile,
and continues on his way.
=================================
Relics
on Goethe’s table
awaits interment.
The unspeakable,
the mothering earth,
impressed with too
many monuments,
is dumb;
unanswered Beethoven’s
out in the cold.
Mann’s Faust,
lost in spiritual ice,
like a crane stretches
from one shipwreck
to the next;
shipwrecked for good,
Schiller’s skull,
thrown up
by an unsteady sea,
lingers on the beach.
Consider the consequences
of genius or exceptional eyes
and ears, limbs and
all the rest;
like the rest of us
consigned to jumping over
fences till death
do you part
from the earthly part,
the dross, the gloss
on the text;
consider the ant,
you dreamers,
and fall back in line.
The fires of creation and
the winds of the muses
blew through Schiller’s head,
possessing him and possessed;
breathed on by divine lips,
eyes rolling like windmills,
he suffered the bread
of pain, the water
of anguish,
scribbled away and
the legions of the lesser
built their castles on his books,
built on his backbone.
Long ago
in the dark German woods
Varus had his problems.
Rome marched back and forth
in the damp and the cold;
the southern Mediterranean light
paled, and went out.
Centuries later
Schiller
turned south;
dignity and sun
drew on enthusiasm;
the sacrifices of yore
dimmed to a point
and then all was light.
Light from the dome
blasted the dark
sides of the temples
white as sheets;
Schiller, at the
zenith of his flight,
unmoving
as Zeno’s arrow
looks out:
an eagle fixed.
Now on a table
his skull
grins at the skill
not lost;
the bard shall not
go speechless to Orcus.
And Goethe,
setting like Antares,
sees a pattern everywhere;
moonlight and
hope at the last.
Goodbye both;
you served us
better than most,
raised us
high as the Venusberg,
sunk us
to the depths
of the Brocken.
Flesh and bone conjurers,
sufferers of human ills,
your secrets are safe
with us,
your honorable works
stand in unbroken ranks.
Immer besser,
immer heiterer,
the dark side,
the light,
live off the flame;
Schiller’s skull,
balanced in Goethe’s hand,
grins like an ape,
and then dies again.
=====================================
Guernica at the Prado
I looked and looked at it,
in my soul,
lived under the spell
of Picasso's baleful
grey and black fandango
of a bombed town,
a farrago of agonies
of bull and horse,
parts of people
caught and displayed
in sharp outline;
then it became too fine,
too perfect in its kind,
too much to take
and I had to turn away,
turn my mind and eye,
try to isolate and
banish the pieces,
try to burn away the vision
of that monstrous canvas,
bury a pretense, a practice,
a sacrifice of time;
none of it worked.
Never forgotten,
that huge ghastly swipe
of paint haunts me still,
hurts me and will
until the end of its world,
ending as it did,
and the end of mine.
*******************************
Dr Santosh Bakaya, academician- poet- novelist- essayist - Ted Speaker has been critically acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu . Her latest book is a biography of Martin Luther King Jr .[ ONLY IN DARKNESS CAN YOU SEE THE STARS] Her other published books are ; Where are the lilacs? Under the apple Boughs Flights from my Terrace A skyful of Balloons Bring out the tall Tales[ short story collection in collaboration with Avijit Sarkar ] |
The Ordeal at Sea
Rising.
The air whistled, and the ship swallowed the water,
with a furious sputter.
What was that? The startling sound of a raging torrent?
Shouts and screams, frenzied mutterings.
A roaring cataract?
Were we sinking in some deep abyss?
Brains were shattered, thoughts confused.
Was this the end of the world?
We were drowning, drowning.
The water rose to the bunks
and stopped there.
Were we saved? Faces lit up, a light kindled.
Parched throats croaked, choking on their own saliva,
“A swig, a swig,
not of brandy or vodka,
but plain drinking water, please.”
Quivering hands groped for the pitcher,
brows creased in anticipation.
Ah, the ministering angel healed parched lips.
The lingering echoes of the fog horn were drowned
as the strings of an invisible mandolin
miraculously twanged and scattered a merry roulade.
Dream chasers
Silencing my pangs of guilt, I walked on towards the window,
[there was no harm in window shopping, was there?]
But there was something eerie in the window,
what was it? Why couldn’t I see the items displayed?
The items showcased?
Was there a patina of dust on the window?
What was wrong?
The father who died chasing the American Dream,
trying to cross the River from Mexico to Texas,
his hope morphing into gut- wrenching hopelessness ,
his not yet, two year daughter tucked under his shirt,
one tiny arm still draped around his neck. All hope lost.
Why did this portrait of desperation
superimpose itself on the window?
My ears rang with the lingering echoes
of loud and caustic debates over border policy.
Did I see a tear in the eyes of the mannequin,
or was it that my eyes were blurred?
I gulped, as I saw a scrawny rag picker
scavenging in the garbage can,
like only a desperate rag picker can,
one eye longingly looking towards the shop,
window- shopping, chasing dreams.
Hope stirred in his tiny breast, his eyes became round
as he bent down and picked something from the ground.
The Darts of Darkness
I grapple with the darts of darkness
poking me from all sides.
A mind numbing collage of the past and present
superimposes itself on my heavy heart.
I see a chunk of a boy,
sitting on a log near the bank of River Lidder*,
looking at me, lost.
“Where are your parents, little one?”
I ask, ruffling his hair.
“I have no parents”, His voice is a muffled moan
as his lips threaten to tilt downwards.
The crossfire of hate continues and the drones drone on.
I see the beseeching look of another tiny one
peeping from a detention center,
the word ‘mommy’ frozen on his petrified lips .
Darker becomes my quivering soul.
I now see another five year old
dancing on prosthetic legs
[You see, this one had lost his legs in a landmine in Afghanistan]
I sigh, quickly shaking myself free
of these shards of a dystopian legacy
and willfully try to recall some happy scenes,
but a five year old superimposes himself on those scenes
dancing on prosthetic legs, and my soul is dark again.
* River Lidder- Famous river in Pahalgam , Kashmir . India
The ancient Embers
it suddenly began to rain, I hastily
picked up the picnic hamper,
scampering away towards the shady tree, and you?
You picked up your hat
[You have always been obsessively fond of hats]
and raced back into the shady cocoon of the willows.
Now, alas, you are hidden in the willows
of my imagination.
[But, you come at will, with your looks that kill].
Look, there you are again,
as a pallid sliver of the crescent moon
peeks from behind the clouds, with a soft diffidence.
Remember , when the late night tide was receding
I scooped up the bubbles , and blew at them ,
like a fool that I was , and your soft , lingering touch
on my cheeks that night was a ray of sunlight .
So sensuous, so soft.
Then, like a greater fool,
gingerly, furtively, I merged my footprints with yours,
smiling so bashfully. A sheepish smile.
Those ancient embers still burn bright,
lighting up my darkened soul.
Some intoxicated butterflies still stumble and tumble,
as I chase them with a reckless aplomb,
and gasp as I see you disappearing behind the willows.
Forever.
It is raining today
catapulting me to the time
when life was a harmonious rhyme,
belting out song after melodious song,
when nothing could go wrong.
Yes, when nothing was wrong!
A real peach of a life in my paradise,
laughing eyes, blooming cheeks,
a dazzling smile,
when nothing could go wrong.
Yes, when nothing was wrong.
When life perched daintily on a sun- steeped boulder,
face covered with a healthy tan,
vibrant roses pinned to its breast
under a flood of golden sunshine,
a white straw hat sitting pretty on its head ,
when nothing could go wrong.
Yes, when nothing was wrong.
Night came and the moon beams fell
on a crackling fireplace and a kitten,
snuggling next to it in feline grace.
A mug of kehwa* on the frosted window- sill,
as the snow- flakes danced and pranced
with reckless joy.
And Frank Sinatra sang let it snow, let it snow,
as the pine trees head- banged in glee,
untrammeled.
Now, it is raining today,
a mug of coffee sits on the window – sill,
catapulting me back to the day,
when even the chilly winter months were warm,
and we sipped life to the dregs form huge mugs of kehwa.
Yes, it was the time when nothing ever went wrong.
Kehwa - kashmiri green tea , garnished with saffron , crushed almonds
and cardomom .
Kushal Poddar authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press) Author Page - amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe |
A Sonnet For Paradox’s Repeat Offender
and its strict policing,
yet here we stand- midst
a street of broken houses, holes for the walls.
Memory’s widened its reach.
We have souvenirs from the life this far
in a handcart we can
afford and drag across
the spine of the serpentine lanes, asphalts.
You carry the child we never have.
The other inmates stare through their panes.
Rain crosses a feline.
Cars remain stalled for a tick.
Silence holler from the shanties- “Repeat offender, fáilte.
Dodos Bite Back
on the clothesline spliced
to hang our family size peace,
abraded nonetheless.
My sister is found later
inside the car
James hotwires from the Good Garage.
Pop threats both with
a senile gun last fired in a fib
about a war in Far East.
Mother plagues the array of porcelains.
I turn from them, see
the Dodos leaving a bite deep
in the sky,
its body Cheshire all but those feet.
Tea
moveable merchandise. His singsong
voice penetrates the humdrum - Tea?
He asks the ironing man, balloon man,
father buying a Pokémon blimp
for his whinny offspring, chow mien seller
who avails tea service again and again.
The tea man dares the drizzling, makes merry
of the monsoon binge. His kettle on the heat
caged in a tin volumetric curve emits
a visible hiss every time he pops the paper muzzle
as if unbridled, the madcap kettle would go berserk
on the ones less agreeable.
Lemon tea? The tea man asks the people
conspiring sitting on a stone and the ones
their flagrant cabal desires to unsettle.
The kettle hisses at all.
Sparrow
as a sparrow, named for the call-sake -
'Saki', serves rain in tintinnabulation,
and of course rain is a witch of sorrow.
This feeling runs amok to and fro
through the lanes of my veins.
It reminds me of the postman asking the man
at 50/4 if he knows me of the 50/4/A.
Imagine all those notices drop from his hands
on the wrong staircase, and the wrong man
for the right reasons tells the postman,
no 50/4/A exists.
The sparrow leaves a fistful of crumbs
on the sill. Do you think those will appease me?
Do you think it flies over the 50/4 and the postman?
Inertia
begins when we hear the gun-wounds fife
the song of the State.
We hark at the firings and re-wear our apathy,
draw the quilt overhead and in its dead envelop
the unwritten letters of our beings
choose reveries over realities.
Perchance you battle those demons.
How shall we know? Perhaps
you blame us, call us ‘escapees’.
Why should we know?
Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on a novel. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Lewis Milne, Orson Carroll, Blinded Architect, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com |
YOUR POISON FOLLOWS
they will seal the door
and rush to the sky
and I will be the furthest from you
I have ever been,
and yet,
yet, as I feel the echo
of your shudderingly shattering words
rearrange the marrow of my bones,
I do not think
that will be far enough.
LIVE, SIMPLY LIVE
of lightning
across the sky
of the mind
of the world,
burning bright for mere moments
before crashing into the ground,
casting destruction
and broken beauty
in our brief existence,
our unavoidable demise.
NOT CHOSEN
but there are only feathers
in my mouth,
caught between my teeth,
piercing my tongue.
Whatever tune I might have had,
I swallowed it,
possibly by accident,
possibly because a unsourced shadow
fell hard across my back
my taste buds now coated
in counterpoint lead;
a flavour that repeats on me,
repeats and repeats,
causing me to burp,
the only sound I can make
as the conductor
lowers his baton
and consults his notes,
his tutting like a metronome
behind his shiny teeth,
fresh feathers dancing
across the lapels
of his angel-weaved dress-suit
THE LOVER KNOWS NOT WHAT THEY SEARCH FOR
open so many times,
your chest no longer closes flush;
I can see your wounded heart
as it beats
with such obvious strain.
It is a wonder it can beat at all,
and with this thought
I realise the reason
you asked me
to accompany you
to this nondescript hotel room,
the lights flickering off, on,
the curtains already drawn.
FALL
are now dust on the floor,
still hot to the touch,
burning small holes in the stone,
immortal in their dying,
their shattered edges lethal
after their long fall
from above,
like rain
to signal the end of the world.
Cameron Morse was diagnosed with a glioblastoma in 2014. With a 14.6 month life expectancy, he entered the Creative Writing Program at the University of Missouri--Kansas City and, in 2018, graduated with an M.F.A. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, including New Letters, Bridge Eight, Portland Review and South Dakota Review. His first poetry collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press's 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Terminal Destination (Spartan Press, 2019). He lives with his pregnant wife Lili and son Theodore in Blue Springs, Missouri, where he serves as poetry editor for Harbor Review. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website. |
Father’s Day
in the mail for doorframes and peaches
into a Father’s Day bouquet.
I remove urine ring from toilet bowl.
Theo throws a tantrum over the brush dripping
in its little stand. The moment I close
the door, he wants out of the guest bedroom
where he had been so contentedly
building blocks. On our seven-year anniversary,
we drive him to the Burr Oak Woods
Nature Center where only one sticker per visit
is permitted. Alone in the bathroom I apply
mine to the inside cover of my notebook.
You attach yours to Theodore’s chest.
With so many options, we both pick
MAGNIFICENT MONARCHS!
The Antagonist
sawdust off the slide. Remove my T-shirt
and squeeze rainbows out of my spray bottle.
I watch the white welt of the mosquito bite
rise on my forearm. I have always been a problem
to myself. I has always been a problem to me.
After Theo steals my Contigo, I steal his.
Turnabout’s fair play. The difference is
I drink his water, he pours out mine
over the dusty pavement. I dunk my feet
in his kiddie pool, lawn-chaired in maple shade,
slip out of my Crocs and capsize the caddie
that contains his cups and sponges, his
waterworks-designated tray.
Folding Clothes
my fly open. Always in
a hurry to return. I reach out
in the dark and knock
over my glass of water
on the nightstand. Fall asleep
thinking I should drape
the towel over the bedpost.
Lili makes my folding
look very sloppy indeed
with her neatly stacks of bath
towels. What am I not
seeing? What am I choosing
not to see? How does the mind
know? How do I know
what to look for? In this jumble
of details falling
into place? Hazel eyes, hospital
pacifier, son, I slide
the newly folded shirt warm
below the cold ones
in the drawer I’ll warm before
I see it surface, re-
surface, cold.
Roasted Seaweed
blocks, I interrupt him with a board book.
When he concentrates on a board book,
I distract him with the blocks. I pull him
through the yellow snail kiddie pool.
Just to make him chase me, I pluck out
the binkie in his mouth and fling it at the sky.
After lunch, I can’t imagine how we’ll fill
the time before dinner. After dinner,
I can’t imagine how we’ll make it
to bed. There’s no shine to it any more.
Before lunch, Theo and Lili snack on banana
and roasted seaweed. Before dinner, they
munch slices of Swiss cheese
and almond-buttered toast. I feel useless
as a father. Even Lili doesn’t ride me
like she used to about language nutrition
and maintaining a sense of order.
Love Between the Seasons
you in
the blue sky,
you
became
a dark cloud
I dream
of you in
a rainbow,
you dream
of me in
autumn
Am I
no longer am I the knight of a stranger’s dark dream
sad am I,
with a thirsty spirit seeking for a bloody river
lost am I,
I cannot find a way to heal my wounds during the day
drunk am I,
running away from people’s hateful judgments
sick am I,
waiting on the bullet to end my miserable hope
fool am I,
for believing in tears, and ignoring the mouths of lies
who am I,
today I am miserable for writing on the city walls
who will I be,
nothing but a drunk writer in a forgotten cemetery
Writing a Letter
to nobody brave or I know
I want to say I am sorry
for the ones, who hurts me before
I know that life is more
than one locked door
perhaps, my heart is the
house with broken lock to protect me
yet, my enemy win over my
innocent moves, his words
are sharp knives, and my answers
are the seeds of the plants in heaven
being blind means, you are
gifted, you just believe in the
ones who wishes you death
and nothing else of good in darkness
I am not Alone
my spirit may be tired of my wounds
I’m seldom hopeless to find the door
to knock on, to open and, forgive me
they say that love comes very softly
under the stars, in front of my sight
she will be beautifully hostage on the
one-way bridge to the blinding light
up in the smoke of my cigarettes
I taste her lips, when I add a teaspoon
of earth and sea, in my cup of
nostalgia, of her body and scent
the bitter flavour of lonesome
it’s the time, I draw her on the mist
a stranger is watching me in tears
even though he doesn’t know me
I am not alone, but you are alone
you will miss me, when my blood
will be the cut of a sacred river,
File numero X11V
Apathy
in America
the truth
but you can’t
make it think.
The Fake Race
in every room
smoke and
mirrors
and clowns
dressed
as candidates
for the
presidency
of Wall Street.
Reality
the truth
of anything
ignorance
superstition
and apathy
are the enemy
of humanity. .
***
Jesus got Laid
by a psychic
Harvey Weinstein
as a rooster
to appear as
a symbol
of purity and vice
to the KKK
meet a few pedos
Including the Pope
before
a nostalgic trek
to the
Garden of Eden
somewhere in Utah
to fuck a hen
absolve
America from sin
and return
to heaven via CNN.
Drawing in The Sand
where the water meets the shore.
Quicksand, emulsion, salty air,
crashing waves.
Sunshine, clouds, wind, fog.
The surf comes up
and erases my soul.
Was it ever there?
Two Days
I have always been hesitant.
It’s funny how you only
have two days.
Two days to forget about it all.
Two days to soak it all in.
Two days to do laundry.
Two days to cut the grass,
clean the house, food shop.
Two days to get some slack,
some relaxation.
Two days to pretend
that they last forever.
Two days to wrap your
mind around the fact that
you are going back.
Idle
while my mind runs wild.
Out of the window,
I can sense that
the sun is setting.
Looking up at the ceiling,
I see the long soft shadows.
As my eyes gloss over,
I see the white noise.
The kind that used to be on
the old TV screens when the
broadcast was over.
I wonder if I’m seeing
the ether or some sort of vail.
So many regrets.
So many broken promises.
I lay idly by and do nothing.
untitled
an astronaut destroyed
the earth and with a
final birth we
said good-bye.
The star gazer wearing the
plaid blazer blinked
as identity fused
with infinity and
everything went dark.
Somewhere I chuckle
knowing by tomorrow
black surrounds black
and compounds all,
condensed at last.
Revolution
swaying in the breeze like wind chimes
without the gentle ringing
alerting us of the comforting breeze
she’s falling
downward into the widening
mouth of time that slowly lurches forward
with each inch she unclimbs,
uncertain and unknowing.
she’s falling.
The sun rises and I look into
her eyes again for the first time.
Eternity unfolds like an accordion
playing love songs in polka dots
because stripes run too straight
and she encircles me,
her axis atilt as she dances
around space, spiraling closer to me,
each new day a revolution
and she engulfs me.
time is reborn with each dawn
and rejuvenates with each sunset.
misery wears a crown
misery wears a crown,
resting politely
on his head.
old men wave
as indifference
flutters by.
stars don’t dance
tonight.
acquiescing,
I step into
a cloud of purple.
II.
the sunlight plays
Mozart as I waltz
beneath the shade
of a tree,
empty of leaves,
leaving me grazing
among barren
waves
of grain.
anticipation
open the lid
and watch you
spill on the floor and mix
with me
now before you.
Break the silence
only miles create
and
drop
the words so they
travel through
space
only traveled by You.
Go before
me and
I’m sure
to come behind until
we walk
among the garden
fingers entwined, the world forgot.
Categories
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AAMIR ABDULLAH
AHMAD AL-KHATAT
AJAY KUMAR
ALAN BERGER
ALEX DERAMO
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DORIAN J. SINNOTT
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EDWARD LEE
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