Standing before
the full length
mirror
I am taken aback
raising my left arm
my palms face you
imitating those saints
in byzantine icons
the image raises
its right palm
not i
(but i-image)
darkness swamps
images
converges under
water
cover
my right it’s left
my crooked he’s
a crook
Nocturnal creatures aren’t
ready to die
in fear of being nocturnal
only we the day ones
living under sun
are as blind as bats.
There’s a glorious sound system now
in the restored train depot where recruits
from all over the nation once took a
train to Camp Breckinridge before
taking a plane to Korea.
A fellow who came back from Korea
stopped in at the depot on one leg
recently for a moment of nostalgia.
A burger and fries cost him 20 bucks,
up from the two bucks he paid in ’51.
And the music was not quite the same.
A waiter in a bow tie and derby said
they still had the old juke box,
the big Wurlitzer, in the basement
under a sheet or a shroud.
Plug it in and give it a quarter
and he said old Frank would sing.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
House mired in quiet
childhood overlooking
plum trees ripening in
nascence doors opening
in rattling corridors
a Siamese cat half drunk
in father’s bedroom
mother’s remains lying in
her prayer room
the funeral pyre lit
I took a step forward
to sagehood.
I match steps
As we walk
One little detail
Escapes my eyes
My longer feet protrude
They may touch the finish line
First
You notice though
You always do
A tug
At my sleeve stops me
In my tracks
You stop too
I try everything to no avail
You cannot watch me struggle
And rush to help
You always do
Your eyes cut the feet to size
Perfect
Being equal
I hear a proposal
that starts with a ‘send’
and ends with the same.
When have I not sent?
Only that I try to recall
what I had sent
and fail miserably.
I feel out of stock
all of a sudden.
I feel, she is much
more capable than my giving.
There are chances,
I may not even understand
how much
she will return.
I am failing at present
on ‘how much she can’.
More at http://daipayannair.wordpress.com.
For years cars wouldn’t drive
down our street, even in broad daylight,
pigeons and sparrows would hang
out on the telephone wires above our house,
a yellow and brown triple decker with
concrete steps and a mahogany-colored,
foyer, the door to the building
was never locked and would swing open
when the occasional truck drove
by carrying materials for new homes far
from our street, a different neighborhood
with tree-lined sidewalks, pristine parks
with inviting playgrounds, cool sprinklers
and welcoming benches to watch the world,
go by, cars would be near, parked and gleaming
in the sun, neighbors would gather to chat as their
children ran with abandon in the park, chasing
pigeons and each other until the street lights came
on and it was time to go home for dinner,
back to the two-car garages and the cars on
the street at the end of the day, glistening
now under the stars, silent sentries of the
homes and people who live in them, while
our street is empty, vacant and unguarded.
medical advances only offer slim chances
like raffle tickets loaded with unpleasantness
empty your bank account, ride at your own risk
side effects outnumber the therapeutic promises
while “quality of life” is given homage so glibly
the oncologist is just trying to make a living
“survive my poisons and you’ve got it made”
decades of stagnant statistics
masquerading as great progress
walk jog run swim for the cure
Galen remedies dare you to try
American medicine delights in self-adulation
everyone smiling on the evening news report
—–
Galen was a Dark Ages physician. Burns were often treated by pouring hot oil on them. Survival was very much in question. Galen once wrote that his methods worked in nearly every instance, or sometimes the patient just died.
Three men
sit in front
of a shop
shuffling whistling
dreaming in the sum
three men
I don’t remember faces
simply three whispering
shuffling shutting
sitting
as the milling crowds
swaying heavily under
weight of traffic
three who are constant
only in numbers.
Some said he was a hero
with bulletproof chest,
defused mines with a foot.
Others said he was a wife
beater, giving her cheeks bruises
like they were a knot in wood.
Others said he treated his
kids as if they were made
of eggshells.
Some said he beat his
neighbours until their bodies
were like jam inside.
Others said he’s buried without
fault. Some said the soil refused
to cover him up, such was his bile.
More at http://www.gculshaw.co.uk.