"jute" poems
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving*
*In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part
Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
naked heart's
thunder
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn
I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute
In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight
Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last
Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light
She taught me much that I'm still making
From her life that now I'm grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving
The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly
The vision of my eyes bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As depression stole her ev'ry dream
The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I'm now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
In sooth,
A suit suits me not,
Nor does a suit soothe me a lot.
I am no snoot,
But it makes me feel like a brute.
After a pursuit, I did find out that
a suit is definitely not smooth;
Oh, shoot! It feels like a layer of soot,
Probably like a bag of jute
Without the color of Groot!
I shall no longer hoot about my suit
As I always scoot up to fruitful roots,
But y'see, this poem bears no fruit.
What is that you say? Season 6 is en route?
G'bye, I'm off to watch the Suits.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
The Street Cleaner
He is not a lucky man, but he is happy but one day he won on a lottery ticket,
not a not a big sum of money but enough to by wheelbarrow got permission
from the local council to keep the town's streets clean. Happy, telling himself
he was self- employed and could sleep till nine in the morn if he wanted to.
A busy bee a busy bee he was till he collided with Mercedes was taken to court
and his wheelbarrow was confiscated to pay for the damage. He had a bike and
got a local garage to put a two- wheel contraption to fasten to his bike, the town
got rid of its trash again until an officious policeman asked him if he had a licence
for this he didn't and it was confiscated. Now he had a jute sack slung on his proud
shoulders and a walking stick with a nail attached, a weapon a police officer said
he was carrying a weapon in public and he was prosecuted. He didn't show up
to the hearing and when the law came around, he hung from a rafter sometimes
even serious optimists give up and with no cleaner the town sank into misery,
plagued by vermin the population fled, a town given into paper napkins pizza boxes
and burger wrappers and the poor who had nowhere to go. And if this reflects
the life of a typical inner city of our English speaking world it is purely incidental.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Dawn and I dawn my caftan
With pen in hand
I close my eyes
And start crafting
I put on my djellabah
Which begets my lojong
...and soon
I begin to float
Like paint, ink blankets
The sheets of my Bengali jute
...and soon
I begin to coast
In this moment
I exist happily
Outside of all I know
About me
* Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael'
© September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
|
teach me latin, so i can write dead words in a dead language and gift them to you in a skeleton leaf.
||
count my freckles and divide them by your lips.
|||
write lists of places and plan trips and pack our things, but never go. instead, build tents in the livingroom and sleep there for a week.
||||
dance with me when the frogs and crickets strike up a concert, dance me straight to the edge of the river.
|||||
polish stones in your pocket and hang them around my neck with a jute cord.
||||||
write books with every word misspelled and give them to me with most solemnity, a crooked knee and a bent head. i'll decipher them and paint the phrases in the clouds.
|||||||
paint the grass white and roll down hills until we're coated and stiff.
||||||||
hang mirrors on every wall and leave notes with scribbled words about the groceries, ps you're wonderful.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 8:13 PM UTC
i have a rope around my neck
and it's sliding
tighter
and
tighter on my throat.
my life is in peril
for a string of corded jute has proven stronger than man
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
The Poems Hunter who left long back
has yet not been returned.
May be straying in front of
the closed street shops, temples, steps of ponds,
bars, mujara dancing halls…
To fall on a big game, little ones ignored
or the hunted one pierced out cleverly while retuning,
or the prey which was at the gun point long back
hiding slowly behind the bushes, has stuck on the eyes.
‘’No No’’ the revelation eclipses
nothing is greater than today’s
horn of hare shot down.
while searching in darkness
which lost in light
the marrow ****** bone
thrown out by somebody hindered him
Or hesitant to come home empty handed,
putting back the loaded gun,
he may be roaming around at
riverside, bus stop, ladies hostels,
psychiatric wards……..
Having been not seen back home
even after the ghastly night fed up of
given birth to fumes of lava clotted darkness,
Keeping the gruel in that
smallpox clad aluminium bowl,
on the tiny corner
where poetry and light would never creep in,
spreading the raw jute sack,
unable to shut the mind and eyes
while closing the doors… slowly couched.
Yet, out to search the poet in the woods and
was fallen prey to the tiger,
that is what to the seekers from time immemorial.
now, time has given punishment
to the poet
To lie on the furnaced fever,
on the burning sack of the friend
scribbling elegy on the death of the friend.
====
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Ogres once hid behind rocks in the garden
Guarding grass and blossoms
From those who'd defile them.
Evil done from innocent oaks
Wrapped tight in jute ropes,
Those shows for the children
Who stared wild, wide
At white sheets and men dancing
Some curing like hams, hanging from branches.
We thought saints from distance had stopped it -
Carnage in leaves after parades
****** of hate in the streets.
Old stories torched, sealed lips
Evidence lost or forgotten.
Devils unmasked and converted,
Now singing hymns in pews
At white churches on Sunday,
Burning Jesus in secret at night in the forest,
Just trees and stars to bear witness
Their worship of wizards and spiders,
Prancing through ashes like white knights astride
Their grand, imagined white horses.
Saints, grown bored of the chore they started,
Taught men new words to pretend
They'd never offend - at least not in public -
As smoke still corrupts lungs of the children,
Playing old games with new rules they've been given.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
Way down south
beneath the line
where stories muddle up
with time
there are some trees
leaves of green
and flowers white
decorate the
southern night
from these trees
branches marked
but not by time
burned out by
jute and knotted twine
from these trees
close your eyes
and think when
these trees
were weapons of the men
these trees
nothing grows
out from the root
of these trees
no strange fruit
on these trees
once the fruit
that hung up here
filled many folks
with mortal fear
of these trees
not apples, pears
grow here today
and no strange fruit
of Billie Holliday...
grow on these trees
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
In hunt of sustenance..
his hawkeye were rolling.
In search of something..
unknown unnamed.
*Alongside of the drain filled with stink water..
holding a ***** jute beg on his shoulder.
Some time on side footpath..
walking silent, in search of something .*
Something that could quench his appetite..
sun was shining like a goblet of fire.
Looking upward with animosity..
he wiped the rushing sweat.
*Whole day passed..
he gathered several items.
Sold them and arrange some food..
dusk of evening was approaching fast.*
He reached home..
was feeling tired sleepy.
A deep lifeless sleep..
to gather courage.
*For facing new challenges..
as every day is like a whole life.
Full of struggle, mysterious..
Strange, alike a unknown puzzle .*
*deovrat - 08.08.2014 * (c)
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
A glassblown apple
Built with my own breath,
Absolutely clear
With refraction betraying structure,
But a hell of a hassle
To carry to death,
It shatters more readily
Than amnions rupture,
So,
I am forced to conclude
That mine is missing the years
That dotted the mighty fruit
That I liken to constellations,
But unless I am *****
My teeth and fibers make tears
So to preserve the jute
I stare at red contemplation.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
Did you pick up
a spirit in that bottle?
Intoxicated by the
lure of what lies?
Dancing on the left
rope full throttle?
Begging plight sweet
release plea savour nye?
Tethered, fetter,
even weathered cries.
Jute,twine, bound
tight not for sails filled.
Dock the time
glass message until.
Just at a glance,
discovers we've swallowed
swill.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
A Winter's Tale
It was clearing up in the afternoon
fingers of sunlight lit up the olive grove
a slight mist and a bizarre story
I saw him the old man dressed
in a soil dark suit, with a jute sack over his shoulder
picking up lost souls.
This time, of the year there is many.
The clouds in the sky have many hues some are black
others rosy
and ephemeral shifting colours with the light,
pushed by the wind
Church bell tolls before noon.
This miasma of ages,
stubbing a toe on the exposed root of an olive tree
when trying to follow the track of yesterday.
It has no future
What was it all for?
Is there a god?
The end is silence
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:46 AM UTC
Have you seen her yet?
haven’t you still met?
the little girl that you bet
would grow up to be
a woman
your favorite object?
So she could marry
a man whose beard
covers his double chin
and whose hair likens
grayish and doddering lint?
so she could be a
piñata doll to the cane?
a helpless dame
to scoundrels who became
guiltless sinners
only to taste her breast
and spit on her shame?
When will you see her?
this damsel you’ll set
soon in distress
but in the mind of whose
you’ll set a dream of
turning her into a mistress?
You must be quite sly
you’ll surely agree
in your little trap
she is much liable to sink
that she can be as strong
as a man or even Hercules
but would she know
that there would be
no one
when she would feel
human and cry
barely a soul around her
to hear her pleas?
That she is to trick
herself into faking
her real sentiment
into a heartfelt grin
because she will be
nothing
but a smiling condiment
amid the flavorless crowd
because how else can
she make you proud?
Will you tell her
that she was born
with her skin
not to cover her body
but to cover it again
by animal silk?
or better yet,
cotton, jute or laced pink?
That just a glimpse
of her ravishing thigh
can cause an ********
a sublime indication
of a man’s lusted high?
What about the time
when she would shudder
with desire
of feeling love
in its prime?
Or when she would
want to fly across the seas
and the mountains?
Would you simply
push her within
a four walled room
and shut the doors
while she rips the curtains?
Would you let her
learn to write
with a pencil
or make her sit
by the stove
by the window
in deadly still
while growing men
learn how to pay a bill
how to exercise a will
and gasp at life’s thrill?
She would still be a girl
if she came into this world
you made for yourself
a precious pearl
you’d only carve her into a stone
so she could be unfurled
to the wind and the perils
of man
Because you barely built
a world for her
along with him
together
little would she know
that we live in a
man’s deadly clan.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Rest in torpor
Mi amour
I'll awaketh thou in the morn
Wherein the sun shalt free us
Balladrys we'll be
Coacting with ourn lips
Clove-pinks to essence ourn wayside
Expanse of ourn high regard
Not as the others love
Drinking sorrows to rye and hard
Exonerate me for mine day
Ourn bodies as foliaceous
Don't worry amour
I got the mess from last night's dishes
Foliose ourn quills shalt be
Thou hast gladdened me
To wake another marvelous hour with thou
How doth one do this somehow!?
She's and angel!!!!!
Tis
All I know
Intrant of this intrados
Mine all
Mine most
Mine jute berry
Lantana of mine linterna brightly accumulating
Exhilarating!!!
Lar of ourn humbled abode
Didst thou knowest
That thy heart is mine home
Tis
It is
Tis
Tis
It is!!!!
Thou communicator to God!!!!!
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
The bed is clean,
the floor unoccupied
I see you in every corner,
under every canopy of incidence
Where have you gone,
my constant companion?
Leaving me with a heart
the size of your paw?
Are you loitering down the alley?
Or comfortably where the stars lie?
Have you only lost your way home,
or found a better one somewhere?
It can't be true what they say
about nine lives;
you been granted too many.
Then why now, do you stay afar?
Cross the enemy of divide,
and leap back to your jute bag of joy!
I can't survive these shades of grey,
they are nothing without white and black.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Images ran wild, they boiled the water,
Like a train running off the track
They trickled down, metaphors poured out
The world, million voices, reverberated
Buzz-buzz-buzz, inside my head.
I was alone in that room
With panic attacks, lust and voices-
That slipped in through my half-window.
I broke the mirror, the brutal paparazzo
Who printed pictures of my many facades
I looked at him and grinned,
Clink-clink-clink they smiled once-
Dancing with wine glasses and alcoholics.
I walked, walked fast and twirled-
Like a tornado inside my cube
People spoke outside-life tales, notebooks,
Their late night phone calls and fine men.
The world didn’t bother to open the door,
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the clock yawned.
I sat on the floor and opened my pen,
It vomited blue letters on the yellow paper-
The customary dilemmas, past and blunders
But something was new, a story.
I looked for The English Patient, the nurse
And his burnt skin I misplaced
They did not appear, I lost hope.
Gur-Gur-Gur, I snorted like a mad cat
Misdirected to an old jute sack.
I climbed up to my bed, hid under the rotten-
Blanket and closed my eyes, the images ran,
Ran away from me, climbed the hardwood staircase
And fell down, I broke my knee.
I opened the books- USSR, Pasha, Buddhism,
Laughed loud like an unbalanced bloke,
Tore them apart into pieces and pieces,
Hush-Hush-Hush, my yellow monkey warned
And I played with him “hush-hush-hush”.
I sat next to my half-window
The pseudo city, dozy walls and the distressed-
Street light. Out of track.
Images flashed again- chewing gums, pink house,
The anonymous Christmas gift, malnutrition
And the hibiscus my mother planted,
“Incey Wincey Spider- Incey Wincey Spider”
I sang all day looping around a pole.
I sneaked down to the floor and dreamt
Eyes wide open, a black and white old film.
There was no exile, no god and his sins
No wafers and secret lessons upstairs.
Only the sea, popomatic, DD evenings
Cassettes and a rocking bamboo chair
Aw uck- aw uck- aw- uck , the seagulls squawked,
I slept.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
Bind your shins with jute rope
to the base of the tower,
and pull -- until the Earth is running
retrograde like VHS cassettes
your kids will never get to watch.
Be kind,
rewind,
remind me not to ask about
your day again.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
We sat in shade, watched cirrus circle sun, robbing temporary
warmth
Hands through burlap & jute, clutching at photons illuminating
eyelashes
Cedar sap & crushed pine needles, fragrant on our hands, amber &
ambient
Saw your heart through crooked teeth, the same as
mine
A hundred pounds of saw grass hair & pliable
emotion
Speaking of a hitch through New Mexico, a night on that lake,
where you convinced me you could
make clouds disappear
Speaking of a first kiss in a creek bed, that night we watched
Javelinas and Mule Deer
Fireworks by the river, smoke so thick we lost
each other
Our ugly handwriting, tucked into breast pockets, notes on
the back of old receipts
Empty bottle love, scattered & sporadic,
ours, ours, ours
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Small Issues
When she unlocks her heart
It all comes out
Pouring in a stream
Without seeming end
Everflowing, not always like a river
But rapids
Frothing and bubbling
Heart flushing out poison
Like after a hard night of drinking
When a friend holds hair back
And all the ugliest, nastiest parts roar out
Pushed , upchucked
Without control.
Outflow of bitter
Salt of tears
Tears, unsewn, sometimes ripping bigger
Sometimes just bearing it
The worse for wear.
The fabric of her soul
Is often many-layered
And multi-hued.
Rough-spun jute
Next to softest silk.
But today, as heart is opened,
The key misplaced,
She cannot hold back.
Dizziness and nausea take over.
Silk is torn and waves like a flag.
She raises hands, in supplication
Before holding onto the nearest
Steadying object, be it chair or rail.
Hope arises
for sweet beneath bitter
for clean, warm blood
pumping with life, and flowing purely
for feeling clean after all the poison is out.
She knows it is there, deep down under
muscle and tissue
She knows
light-filled energy is
somewhere shining
in a low rock pool
right around her solar plexus.
"How we only need,"
she thinks.
"To work out
a few small issues."
Relief
And exhaustion
Take over
As she reaches
for tissues
to wipe away pain
and lie down to rest.
There is some down time
before the next test.
Feb. 2014
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC