Saturday, October 18, 2014

Coffee Break





Am I having the flu I thought?
As my muscles screamed in pain
and stiffness.
Who the fuck knew I am having
a coffee withdrawal.
No coffee at home for a week now.
Not trying to give up just did not have it for a while
as it has become too stiff.

Sometimes I also suffer from soul mate withdrawal
Though I very well know that it happens
only in best sellers and you hardly can sail
a real life situation.

One day I will get inside her world of fantasies
with a whip real hungry for her skin
and she will start loving her nightmares.

For now I feel great after a mug of black coffee dark as night

Painting By Jocelyne Desforges
Poem By Subhankar Das

Monday, June 2, 2014

Thieves Of The Wind By Subhankar Das and Catfish McDaris


Remembering Tennyson`s words,
“Vex not thou the poet`s mind
With thy shallow wit
Vex not thou the poet`s mind
For thou canst not fathom it”

Perhaps in an earthly life full of chaos, like the lungs that need fresh air,
the mind longs for true happiness. The poems of Subhankar Das
in ‘Thieves of the Wind’ is a bold attempt to claim one`s sky where
mind burdened with loveless materialistic modern life harkens to
recollections, the golden reminiscences of the past days. The
metaphysical void by their absence stifles, suffocates, provokes to steal
moments to live all over again, to breathe to celebrate life.
Hopelessness of unrequited love pervades in most of the poems and
yet we find a mature mind deeply reflective by a dimension of human
experience. In his poems Subhankar Das gives us a slice of his inner
self while presenting the human dilemmas, pain and most strikingly a
glimpse of a ‘feeling’ heart of the poet that beats furiously for love and
the delicate sentiments. The lines : “I am just a coward/trying to hang
on” articulate the pangs of lost love like death. The poet celebrates the
guts ‘to love’ in the poem ‘Backbone’ in the lines : “At least let them
enjoy life/which is making me impotent” and “I even gave them free
condoms”. When the integral part of soul`s bliss is disturbed by
materialism and loveless modern times, what results is the disruption
of harmony and the eternal restlessness, the desperate attempts to live
knowing well the butt ends of romantic evenings, as in the
poem ‘Smoking’ : “you always smell of tobacco/but I am used to it”.
The bitterness continues in the loveless love-making in ‘And it doesn`t
always taste like chocolate’ : “May be there were a few house lizards/
which ran paused and ran again/up in the ceiling and a limp cock/which
I forgot to notice”. The exhausted mind rebels in ‘Up for sale’, a satirical
banter not at all on decadence but a loveless mechanical life, “God why
I am not a woman/then there won`t be this headache/to make it extra
long, extra strong/and I am even having trouble/in getting it up these
days”. The longing is omnipresent in ‘The Wait’ and ‘The Missing
Moon’ : “Only the naked lamps glared all around”. The reminiscences
of the past days are all transient : “But someone is erasing everything
with a rubber”. Even memories are scathed by time and the sulking
desiccated materialism.
The ‘Honey’ is a fine escapade into the trifle of the mind, relishing in
the dilemma whether to indulge into the captivation or to celebrate the
emancipated soul, the freedom of the spirit like the butterfly : “ Should
I just eat it up or kill it and stick it up on my fridge..”. It peeks into the
extended vision of the poet that comprehends the freedom of the soul
against the terrestrial desires.
The poems in the hand of a mature artist embodies the spirit of modern
times, marked by the bold and passionate expressions.
The poems of Catfish McDaris are replete with bootlegged pleasure
and with the punches of fantasy one wouldn`t mind to revel in reveries.
The language crisp with not any overdose of humor tickles your funny
bone. Again with eloquence of a story teller he relentlessly derides
the peccadilloes, the derelict culture that distorts the normal social
milieu. We find his stories subtle with didactic undertone like the
bewildered father Mongo in ‘Comanche Java’. Junita, his daughter,
emerges from dating losers to procuring a degree and a decent job.
His stories forsake pedantry and with deftness of prudent artist, he
peeks into the psyche of the characters. With their precarious traits and
eccentricities, they break forth the stereotypes as, “Rick hated black
people”. He would “fart up the living room and laugh and then stink
up the bathroom and not flush the toilet”. Joe had “a terrible gambling
problem” – a deleterious habit that ruins his prospects. Bill claimed to
be a vegetarian and crammed down mouthfuls of pork chops, chicken
or steak and “chewed with his mouth open”.
‘Lipstick on a Pig’ is another brilliant write up that addresses the alcohol
and drug problems: “There is no cure for alcoholism, my drug of choice,
along with plenty of other seriously bad habits but with training and
perseverance, you can relearn how to be human a day at a time”. The
aftermath of drug abuse is expressed in lines “I don`t know if the acid,
weed, cocaine, heroin, glue, cough syrup, peyote, and mushrooms
robbed me of my brain cells…How I walk a razor blade and ask God`s,
family and your forgiveness”. We find his perspicacious derision against
the social evils in the poem ‘Phalanxes of Tombstones’ : “There`s no
such/Thing as revolution, it`s just another word/meaning leap frog of
the rich, so they can/buy a bit of power with the blood of the poor.


By Paromita Bhattacharjee

Thursday, November 29, 2012

WOLVESOUL




we
are

taken in secret
wolves of the soul

our
prey

taken in secret

wolves
soul

prey



Jim Wittenberg

11/24/2012

Saturday, October 20, 2012

action, not behavior




action
not
behavior
behavior
not
action

it's better when words
mean
nothing
too many clues
people think/believe
they understand
you

as a shaman
as an artist
as a poet

the truth is they mean
nothing

you have no reason for embellishments

do something
no one remembers

---
Jim Wittenberg
10/20/2012

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

2 new poems By Catfish McDaris




Jupiter’s Great Red Spot

I got a job as a delivery man,
in my first week the last address
of the day was to a tavern on
a seldom used street

The door was open, but the
place was filled with shadows,
except for a bright spot light
radiating a pulsing red aura

A naked lady in sparkling stiletto
heels, built like a brick shithouse,
wearing a Scarlet O Hara hat, & a
smile jabbed me in the eyes with
her dynamite volcano nipples

“Do you have a package for me?”
she stared at my stone boner,
I could’ve jacked up a Thunderbird
with four flat tires, all I managed
was to shake my head, affirmatively

She led me to the back pool room
& I sunk the eight over & over again,
she poured me a single malt whiskey
& we played until my stick got tired.



Mountain Splashes Gone

Rainy mornings in your arms
the sky a purple bruise
cedar fire under blacken coffee pot
ponderosa pine & blue spruce shadows
velvet slopes & valleys

Anasazi ghosts dance above
crumbled adobe & stone kivas
shards of fading pottery
basalt flint arrowheads

Elk antlers locked
in battles never finished
skeletons bleached sun white

Streams sing to rocks naked
red dogwoods blush while cutthroat
trout wait for dragonflies.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Home Front



I can’t make any money working from home
Not with you around
Brushing out your hair
Softly singing Beatles songs
And wearing my Ramones shirt
And those French school girl underpants
I can’t make any money working from home



By-Doug Mathewson

Sunday, March 18, 2012

New Poem



Advice

the young man stood reproving me:
you see this is the age of the asshole
you have to be an asshole to get ahead
everyone is an asshole
I had to learn how to be an asshole
then I had to learn how to be a bigger asshole
I have a master’s degree in asshole
the only thing you can trust
is that everyone is an asshole
you didn’t teach me to be an asshole
your friends aren’t assholes
those old beat soldiers saw the asshole as an old comrade
the academic old men gloried in the products of the asshole
reams of old man shit fill the libraries
Dr. Williams would say today that
there are a lot of assholes out there
the wrinkled hole, the nether eye, the backdoor, the crab like joker,
no talent texting driver
parking space grubber
the one your lover always leaves you for
bully neighbor
if you are not an asshole – you are an asshole
it takes one to know one
I am learning to be a real hole in the ass
your ears are little hairy holes like your asshole
every word I say is going into your asshole
and every word you say from now on
is your asshole talking through you
that new: job, book contract, lover
awaits you
you lucky assholes



Bob Rosenthal
December 26, 2011