I'm going to try to read 10 South Asian authors writing about South Asia.  You should too!
 

Black Dog

What starts as tiny gray moth wings,

turns into bat wings,

turns into long black legs,

thick black claws,

and suddenly he’s there.

Black dog.

Black dog, black dog.

Catches me up in his jaws,

chews me up, spits me out.

It’s like being born in reverse –

everything torn out of you,

spilled on the floor.

 

I think of blazing yellow primroses,

sky so blue it’s almost painful,

crackling pink geraniums,

but black dog growls,

and it spins away.

 

How I hate you black dog.

I kick, and punch, and fight,

and sometimes he runs.

But mostly he just bites

again and again and again.

 

Nothing makes black dog go away.

Not for long, not forever.

I shut down, shut off, shut away

and still black dog scratches at my door.

Sometimes I let him in,

sometimes he bursts in

slavering, growling, snarling.

His bite worse than his bark.

But his barking hurts me too.

 

Pools of turquoise,

jet black waters at midnight,

different than black dog.

This is velvet, he is barbed wire.

I can be drowning in happiness,

and still he makes me bleed.

 

Ode to black dog,

singing to see if I can soothe

the savage beast.

Only to discover that black dog

lives in me. 

Stays with me,

curled in my heart,

digging in my mind,

eating up all the lovely things,

and leaving destruction behind.

 

Go away black dog,

go back to the swamp, or river,

or hell you came from.

 

I water the primroses,

while black dog howls at the moon.

Alrighty folks, it's almost the end of April, National Poetry Month, and today is Poem in Your Pocket Day!!  So, here are the two poems that I'm carrying around and subjecting people to: 

He Would Not Stay For Me and Who Can Wonder?

He would not stay for me and who can wonder? 
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. 
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.

A.E. Housman


Wonderland is Hell

Trapped in a two way mirror
no matter where I go it's wrong
hands pressed steaming against
the glass,
pounding, shaking, beating,
crying, screaming fists. 

No one hears.

No adventure for this Alice,
imprisoned in my glass
I watch the world silently
my hands clasping and unclasping
in a desperate response
to feel something, anything.

Eat me, drink me.

Lose myself in the muffled
wraps of crinoline and drugs,
drinking until I cannot hear
the outside from the inside. 
Taking my medicine,
I suppose I'm getting,
exactly
what
I
deserve.

Uh oh.  I seemed to have forgotten that I'm not in front of a computer as much on the weekend!  I slacked for two days.  Perhaps I'll make up for it on an incredibly creative day with more than one poem.  I've failed you already!  LOL.

Well, today's poem(s) are about a season that I get very very excited about.  That's right, it's Baseball Season!  More important in my household than Spring, Summer, or Fall!  The season has started and my father and I will be glued to the Chicago radio stations listening to White Sox games (no razzing us Cubbies fans.  Or Indians fans, you know who you are).  I grew up with the Southside slammers, and I'll be a Sox fan until I croak clutching my beer and peanuts.  So....here we gooooo!

And...what goes better with baseball poetry than Haiku?  Japanese folks are nuts about the sport, so I'll give you a couple to mull over.

rumble of thunder
the boy still looking for the ball
in the tall grass

- Lee Gurga (who is a native Chicagoan and Sox fan!)

the night game
at the bottom of the stadium
the brightest spot on earth

- Yamaguchi Seishi

Over
the outfielder's loneliness -
the summer moon

- Suzuki Murio (one of Japan's most famous gendai, or modern, Haiku poets)

Now, before you all start counting syllables, remember that the two Japanese poems are translated. 

And, one from me:

Spring Training

My first taste of beer
was at Comiskey Park.
Sloshing over my two-year-old
fist as fireworks lit up the skyline.
Dad thought it was funny. 
I thought it was apple juice.
Driving home, the lights on
the Dan Ryan couldn't outshine
a perfect summer moon
floating over the city.

Punching holes in that moon
you get a whiffle ball.
And if you can dig up an old
red plastic bat
in the back of the garage
that smells like oil and
mown grass,
then you've got a
summer pastime.
Even when the little cousins
complained that we
cheated.

I felt cheated when I couldn't
get a good signal
for the Sox game,
and finally found nirvana -
Ed Farmer's voice cutting
through the static
on top of
Grant Street Parking Garage
in West Lafayette.
I'd sit in the sweltering car,
a Sprite and some Cracker Jacks.
Trying to recreate the second concourse,
third baseline seats
I love so well.

Day two!!

One of the things that I love about poetry is that it can fit in to almost anyone's life.  Even the most busy person in the world can pause before a haiku, a poem that only takes a few seconds to read, and perhaps a lifetime to digest.  Poetry can be written about anything, even the most mundane tasks, and it makes that task into something really fine and minute that can be examined. 

In my experience, I have noticed that most poets are very detail oriented and thoughtful.  They may be gregarious and talkative (like me), but in the deep of night we lie awake and ponder the strangest minutiae.  My bedside bookcase is littered with scraps of paper, journals, and notepads that usually end up with hastily scribbled lines on them.  Sometimes in the morning, I don't even remember writing a line down, and I can't remember what the thought was that influenced the line.  But that's okay, I usually find some way to work it into another poem, or it will hatch all on its own. 

Speaking of hatching, for those of you that know me fairly well, you'll know I'm an avid birdwatcher.  I am fascinated by feathered creatures, big and small.  This was largely influenced by my grandmother, who passed her passion about birds on to me.  I love to draw them, watch them, listen to them, and I often write about them.  This is one of those "mundane" topics that I speak of many poets writing about.  Many people never give birds a second glance, but if only they would simply stop a while and watch, it is a complex and delicate world that birds live in.  They are graceful dancers, keen hunters, and affectionate partners. 

For the past two weeks, I've been obsessed with a barn owl named Molly who hails from San Diego County, California.  She and her mate McGee took up residence in an owl box that a retired couple put up in their garden.  Carlos (the guy), put a color video camera and a night vision camera in the box, intending for he and his family and friends to watch the owls, but much to his surprise, he was urged to put it online.  You can find Molly, McGee and their four owlets (Max,  Pattison, Austin, and Wesley) here.  I have rapidly become obsessed with this raptor family and have to check on them before I go to sleep every night.  LOL 

So, in honor of this owl family, I present to you a poem by Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets:

And then, a bird poem of my own:

Nuthatch

 

Sideways dipper

buff and blue,

clinging to

the sycamore

with claws

like tiny filaments.

 

Weaving and creeping

plunging into

creases and shadows

searching for plump

grubs and katydids

caught off guard.

 

Little acrobat

twirling upside-down

hopping along

the belly of branch

defying gravity. 

I cannot help but

smile

at his

daring.

So, I tried to do this last year, and it didn't work out so well, but I'm going to try again this year.  I usually spend most of April reading poetry.  It's hard to avoid in libraryland because NPM is a big deal, particularly in my library where my assistant director is crazy for it.  

So, in honor of National Poetry Month, and in honor of my totally useless degree in Creative Writing, I'm going to post a poem that I have read and liked, and a poem I have written every day for the month of April.  Now, most of ya'll know me, so I'll probably fizzle out mid-month, but I'm going to really try.  

And I'm pretty sure all the angsty, angry poetry has gotten out of my system, but there are no guarantees, so some of it may end up sounding purile and high school-ish.  Oh well, it's not like I'm published or anything.

And so, without further adieu, here we go!!!

From Columbarium by Susan Stewart: 

by the light of living fire
all things pulsing are drawn toward the sun
and bound to be unbound from igneous earth
the salamander stirs, the phoenix wings away
and ash sustains the frailest root

Build fires to worship the wood, burn wood to worship the fire

Read to me tonight by the fire,
                                           a book is burning in my hands

______________________________________________________________________________

AND....one from me: 

Arils (Pomegranate Seeds)

 

It is no wonder that

women are likened to

pomegranates. 

We are surprising,

sometimes tart,

often sweet.

There are many fruits

hidden within us,

it takes work to learn

how to take all of us in.

 

No other fruit

carries righteousness

and licentiousness with

the same hand.

No other fruit can cause

six months of cold and

darkness.

 

Offerings for the dead,

prayers for fertility,

present at weddings,

births and funerals.

Eat it, wear it,

offer it, paint it,

cultivate it,

until all bursts with goodness.

 

Primal and raw,

we stain your fingers

we bleed,

we bloom,

we leave an impression. 

Scene:  3 am.  I am sleeping peacefully, wrapped in my comforter, my sleep mask on (which says "naughty" on it), my ambient sound machine ambienting, my cat curled up vibrating my feet...when: 

WOOF WOOF BARK BARK HOOOOOWL.  The hell hound next door kicks up a fuss, particularly leaning his massive block head over my fence (he's a giant Great Dane) and barking at my bedroom window.  The glass is reverberating, my cat has just dug all four sets of claws into my freshly waxed legs, sending me flying up out of peaceful sleep like someone just dropped an A bomb full of razor blades on my house.  

F-ing neighbors.  Why the HELL can't you let your dog out at a decent hour?  Like before midnight?  I know damn well that he's not going out the doggie door, unlike your incredibly corpulent, ill-tempered, decrepit, geriatric Italian Greyhound that likes to bite my very well-mannered dog on the nose.  Which, incidentally, causes her to be so terrified of the backyard, now she pees on the deck, and down the basement steps.  Thanks ever so much.  

I mean really, I don't even know what the damn animal is barking at anyway.  I haven't seen any signs of rodentia, raccoons, possums or other disgusting night creatures that would cause that beast to go ape-shit.  He's about as intelligent as he is quiet, so it could be the wind blowing the plastic bag that has been hung up in her tree for the last year.  I don't see why she couldn't have pulled it down last spring when she was out there hacking up MY lilac bush.  Although, I hated the thing, so I'm glad it's gone, but it was on MY property.  I should have her pay for the hydrangeas I ordered to replace it.

I'm embarrassed to have anyone over to my place.  Not only do I have an ugly, totally jury-rigged deck, my next-door and back-yard neighbors have irritating yard rats that have to come out and bark at anything and everything.  How the hell am I supposed to enjoy my tequila and lime glazed shrimp and crisp white wine while being serenaded at 500 decibels?  I can't wait until I tear that thing down and put in my beautiful colored stamped-concrete patio in the "Roman Arch" pattern.  I'm going to put in a fire pit, a fountain, and a hot tub.  In the order that my pathetic salary can support.  Preferably the hot tub first, and then a privacy fence to keep that farking huge Great Dane from leaning over my fence and baying like a demented thing.  Not to mention then I can hot tub naked.  :)  

I wish I could just transplant my neighbors.  The ones on the other side are totally white trash, and didn't even wait a full six months before installing a car up on blocks in the back yard and covering their lovely-looking veranda-esque back porch with Vis-Queen.  Gag.  Not to mention they pulled down all the morning glories and climbing roses that attracted a zillion hummingbirds.  Heathens.  Their child is a puling, drooling idiot who spends most of his time watching Spongebob...at full volume...with the window open...in February.  Given the astonishing IQ that his parents obviously display, I'm not surprised that he has as much personality as a shoe box...and a Christian Louboutin shoe box is giving him entirely too much credit.  Not to mention that none of my neighbors would know Christian Louboutin if a truckload showed up at a Rural King.  By mistake.  God forbid.

Okay, I admit I have champagne taste on a beer budget, but we had such a nice neighbor next to us before the Beverly Hillbillies moved in.  And the other neighbor was tolerable when it was just the grating snausage of a shrinky-dinked track rat on the other side, until along came big, dumb, and loud.  Too bad Earl (yes, that's the Dane's name) is cute.  I could hate him a lot more than I do.  But I am about to sneak him a Xanex in a Beggin' Strip just so I can get some fucking sleep.

1. I loathe cleaning.  Especially dishes.  If you don't know how to cook, expect to be forced into some sort of alternate domestic servitude.  Cleaning toilets is beneath me.  If dishes aren't done?  Angry: It's what's for dinner, and you'll be hustling your ass to Taco Bell.

2. I hate holding anything heavier than my purse.  If I have something in my hands, I will attempt to trick you into carrying it for me.

3. I am not a great listener a lot of the time, although I may appear to be.  I may be nodding and saying "Mmmm hmmm.." when I'm usually just trying to think of a way to steer the conversation back to me.

4. It is always about me.  I'm really effing sick of it not being about me at all.  Time to change that.

5. I complain.  A lot.  Be particularly cautious if I am hungry, hot, or tired.  May God have mercy on your soul if I am all three.

6. I will avoid driving anywhere if I can help it.  Driving implies that I have to concentrate (therefore, I can't talk about me as much), be sober (which is a travesty in and of itself), and can't read (when I get tired of hearing you talk).  I will happily drive if it means that:  I am shopping, I am going to be fed or given alcohol,  I'm going someplace exciting, you can stand to listen to me belt out 70s funk tunes.

7. Speaking of friends, none of them are cuter, smarter, or thinner than me.  Ever.  Even when they are.  Just look the other way and pretend you didn't notice.

8. There will be occasions that you breathe too loud for my liking.  Ditto on chewing.  This also applies to snoring, talking, or simply existing. 

9. If it comes down to shoes or food...it will always be shoes.  Period.  No exceptions.  Do not interfere in my retail therapy.  Spend that time figuring out how to make more money so I can do more shopping.  Time is money.

10.  I like change.  I like to rearrange furniture and acquire new duvets.  You must be good at and willing to move bookcases. 

11.  Yes, I know there's no 11th commandment.  Hence, we play by my rules.  I am a selfish, bitter, demanding, high-maintenance bitch with a burgeoning alcohol problem.  But the sex is fantastic, so make me a Martini and shut the fuck up.

I have been an altered being since your silence.
I tried to keep you, feeling all the while that I had lost you.
Do not think that I am not fully aware of the defects on my part 
that might call forth your reprehension.
How hateful I must appear to you,
the thought presses and stings me.
I have known no peace since,
I never expect to know it again.
Were I to say forget me, would you reply?
I cannot forget you.
I can only be an object of distaste to you -
so isn't it best then that I be forgotten? 
I wish I could do myself the same courtesy,
and scratch you from my mind.