*b1gfan

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The Crows of Mumbai

by *b1gfan, Oct 19, 2009, 9:49:44 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

The Crows of Mumbai
November 2008

The crows tell the story
as the story is told of that day
this way – honest as a bone
in the throat –

Was everything not just as it was
when, perched in tulip trees
above the street and skipping
from curb to fence, we bawled

our warnings to warn you?
Dark from the sea,
The Unwelcome returns,
we screamed – Hear

how you must run
to the shrine of MumbaDevi,
deal her garlands of jasmine
and pink lotus, lay them

at her feet. Were we not crying
all we knew? Hotels will burn;
bodies fall. Do not leave
your room – open your door

to no one. And when
your bodies, bloated
burnt, lay down at our beaks –
what was left to do?

Starless songbirds, black
against the black of night –
we said all we could;
all we wanted you to know.

Unseen

by *b1gfan, Aug 5, 2008, 11:04:10 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Unseen

Under the paint is paint –
a portrait under a patch of grass,
and under that an unfinished

commission perhaps: a banquet amid
ruins or half a winged Shedu guarding
an archway over which storm clouds

once lingered, pregnant with malice
and lightning, before the revolution’s
heroes gave their ground to baskets

standing lustrous in lamplight,
presumably full of casabas cut
to celebrate the suicide of a king.

And under each delicate stroke
we are looking for hints of a mark or
a line, looking for little things to tell us

the rest of what we don’t yet
know to ask, watching the Masters
revise their canvases amid

penury and uncertainty, exploring their
sense of which tilt of an arm or neck,
what vantage of the arches of St. Mark’ s,

unsuits a proper frame and precious
pigments, listening as they speak
the mute language of an unlit world

unexpectedly rising into transparency
like a model leaning back, unhurried
on her settee, waiting for

a brush, saying nothing more
than that she knows what it is
to be unseen.

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Triunfo by *b1gfan

4 Comments

Been waiting for... by *b1gfan

13 Comments

My Other NameMy Other Name

Sometimes it is to set out forks
beside each plate,
or folding shirts first,
dryer hot in the A.M.
half-dark.

Less often, thirsty from cutting trees
back away from the roof edge,
gutters clean.
Today, the dishes of breakfast clean,
draining, I
angle each blind against the sun,

sit then in the small cool
room,
feet flat upon the morning
My Other Name by *b1gfan

93 Comments

The Crane Wife

The Crane Wife
                Does that bird
                think of bygone times
                as it flies singing...
                        - Princess Nukada

There on the poor man's doorstep,
an arrow biting into my wing,
I flew into the arms of decision –
mThe Crane Wife by *b1gfan

49 Comments

ForbiddenForbidden
for Liu Xiaobo

Bold as palace tiles, yellow-glazed dawn
descends the Heavenly Gate,
setting itself upon the city of
emperors. There I am
arrested by your Tiananmen Square, Xiaobo;
there I am wondering

what it means to be forbidden –
as a palace, as
you, as words that, as love,
will be like always.Forbidden by *b1gfan

49 Comments

The Last SpeakerThe Last Speaker

Boa Sr, as you were known,
your passing parts land from earth,
earth from land, leaving no one
to lay your names upon the stones.

Now who is there to say, 'Mother –
Mother the howling wind, Mother
it has put night in my bones;
am I scared? Is that all

this is?' What should I call these
biscuits? How will I ask for scissors
without hearing you laugh
at what you've spoken

to yourself? How will my mouth
open to fruit peeled by the tongue
of its name? The sun is hot
as turtle bones roasting in fire.

The small boat of your sister's husband
approaches. A tree has fallen,
uprooted completely. I am
folding mThe Last Speaker by *b1gfan

30 Comments

Put some original text herePut some original text here

and then a body underneath. Put down
that ants have gotten into the body,
that the roses are red as humble ants storming for a kiss
and the little legs of rain itself shall slumber
light underneath each horse,
each door, the dress, the grave.

This is my sad sharp lettering, my downpour
in the making – the mind brings the grave,
sweet violets soup the beloved's bed,
and we are motionless; we are
stopped with sense; we are bodies
within voices, the memory of glass.

Dress some original text here. Put out a love
to beat upon her door with its awful lettering,
a kiss to horse upon memory
lying therePut some original text here by *b1gfan

54 Comments

Ademir ReturnsAdemir Returns

                                       A Brazilian bricklayer reportedly killed in a car crash
                           shocked his mourning family by showing up alive at his funeral.
                                                                                    – The Associated Press

This is how we will speak of that day –
We will say his legs walked him
out of death. We will say his steps
kicked their dust from the road
into the sky, and the sky touches everything
the road cannot. We will say we must
sometimes go forward to get back,
taking the hearts from these things

as we speak. We will say we Ademir Returns by *b1gfan

71 Comments

Five Geisha and a Cat

Five Geisha and a Cat

In a photo meant to entertain
the turning centuries ahead,
they wait, now as then, forever
not looking at one another
under a sky above.

And though they may have left
their flower town – not to go elsewhere
beautiful, but gone all the same –
five women of art, knotted
by the beauties they dressed

in themselves – on that day
the smoke and perfume of their house
was in them as they posed
beside so intimate a fence.
And did crickets leap in the dirt?

Was the tree late to bloom?
Look, and look, and tell me –
are those two steps below them
out in front or behind the teahouse
where they Five Geisha and a Cat by *b1gfan

35 Comments

Up above

Up Above

i.
Up above,
birds in the tree, in the rain,
in the night

ii.
Clouds moving
across a field
of moving clouds

iii.
Below the horizon,
the ocean moon
waves

iv.
With each gust,
the chatter of leaves:
passing time

v.
What about a cold night
makes these lines
so hard to finish?

vi.
Fitful leaves
moving
a March day

vii.
Tomcat sneaks
a glance at me –
sparrows take flight

viii.
3:00 a.m. –
my pen falls
awake

ix.
Between fence posts
the spider's web –
still

x.
Watching puddles
of sparrows bathing
in evening sun

xi.
Encouraged by rain,
Up above by *b1gfan

108 Comments

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And a Delightful Valentines to You...

by *b1gfan, Feb 14, 2013, 8:09:44 PM
Journals / Personal

Bar Napkin Sonnet #11
By Moira Egan

Things happen when you drink too much mescal.
One night, with not enough food in my belly,
he kept on buying. I'm a girl who'll fall
damn near in love with gratitude and, well, he
was hot and generous and so the least
that I could do was let him kiss me, hard
and soft and any way you want it, beast
and beauty, lime and salt—sweet Bacchus' pards—
and when his friend showed up I felt so warm
and generous I let him kiss me too.
His buddy asked me if it was the worm
inside that makes me do the things I do.
I wasn't sure which worm he meant, the one
I ate? The one that eats at me alone?

Bar Napkin Sonnet #22

I want to fall in love, but not forever.
Is that the truth, or am I still confused
where love's concerned? Or am I simply used
to Solitary broken by Whoever
looks interested or interesting? Never
quite thought of it that way. What is the juice
that drives the flower, forces green the fuse
that sparks in me—what? Last night, with my lover,
I almost dropped the L word. O confusion!
He gathered up my hair the way they do
when habit seems like love. On top of him
I swear I found some new type of orgasm.
I've swallowed almost anything, but do
you think it's good to swallow I love you?

3 Comments

Listening to: As I Lay Dying - Within Destruction
Reading: The Atlantic
Watching: the horizon
Playing: the fool
Eating: far too much
Drinking: Mint Chocolate Cocoa

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*b1gfan

dave
Artist | Student | Literature

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=Emberblue Mar 24, 2013 Professional Digital Artist

Thanks for the

(1 Reply)

~Mhyrtot Jan 17, 2013

No worries-your poems are amazing. The Hungry Season was something that gave emotion and character to an otherwise very natural phenomenon. Good work!

*leyghan Jan 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

So so happy 'The Hungry Season' got featured. It's one of the best things I've ever read.

(1 Reply)

~Miss-Emly Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Photographer

Thank you for the Llama

(1 Reply)

*JohnPrisk Dec 27, 2012 Traditional Artist

Tanks Buuuuuuuday!!!

(1 Reply)

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The Crows of Mumbai

The Crows of Mumbai

Unseen

Unseen

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And a Delightful Valentines to You...

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