rivers to run

white lyrics spilling out, rivers to run
heads
crowing
old
swastika
heads
scraping
cleansing
bludgeoning
heads
spilling out white rivers, lyrics to run

***

Wall

nothing hangs on the Wall
each
drop
of
skulls
each
drop
of
history
each
wall hangs on the Nothing

Debasis Mukhopadhyay

Can hygge be outside? Yes it can, because whenever we go indoors from a chilly outdoors, hygge is needed for comfort. A winter walk followed by a bowl of homemade soup; a cup of tea after doing some gardening; a settling down after a journey. All these are hygge. I’ve arranged these three poems seasonally, starting with a very cold haibun, and a spring poem, then a poem looking at a tree in different seasons and finding comfort there.

Photo by Angela Topping

SUB-ZERO

It’s Boxing Day, noon.  And down “The Shroppie”, a mile below Bunbury, a solitary narrowboat lies trapped against the bank in ice and snow.  The boatman, a cheery soul, chops logs.  Only the fragrant woodsmoke from his boat’s stove mars the dazzling white.

Now a large hare scurries, skidding, over the frozen canal with a buzzard in pursuit.  They vanish from view but a thin cry…

I´ve been invited to participate in the 4th International Festival of Poetry in Marrakech, Morroco in April. I’m going to take mostly poems from I am not a silent poet.

The Festival covers hotel and catering costs but doesn’t pay anything towards transport. Like most poets I’m rather poor and therefore I’ve set up a crowd funding to cover the flights.

If you can contribute, I would be extremely grateful. If you can’t, don’t worry, I’m sure I go with your best wishes.

Here’s a photo of the invitation so you can see it’s not a con trick (the Mrs is a typo and they say it will be corrected!)

https://www.gofundme.com/travel-to-marrakech-poetry-fest

Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Boxing Day
shops display bargains decked to entice
feet follow the siren call and fingers tap
the dance of consumption’s cravings
for new, more, next , brighter, better.

As the tills click and the profits mount
the gnomes of the cities count the coins
charting the status of every purchase
calculating winners and losers in the race.

The gamble goes on but brings no joy
it’s an addiction of capital’s empty pride
strong as any legal high, heroin or hash;
the down is the bill at the end of the month.

But the Golden towers that glitter with pride
do not bring peace or care to the home
children loose childhood to tablets and phones
and the newest purchase quickly come old.

Would but we calculated each man’s worth
the success of a company not by the sales:
come out of this race, this addiction to…

Sensing the stable

New-born eyes don’t focus for a while,
but warmed by the breath of animals
and the love of a young girl,
the baby gradually became aware
of a cow that woke him when she lowed,
a donkey nibbling straw, the breeze
whispering through the door to ruffle his hair,
clouds of sparkling dust that made him cough,
the fragile peace pierced as anobium punctatum
punctured the wooden feeding trough
that was serving as a cradle.

He smelled the stable’s bitter pungency,
laced with a sweet scent of hay;
heard scratchy rustles as a mouse
dragged a husk of corn across the rough
stone floor, warm mumbles of a dove
shifting her feathers in the rafters.
He felt straw prickle on his skin, tasted
the sweet milk of a mother’s love, cried
for the lost Eden of her womb; then chuckled
at the donkey’s bray and cockerel’s fanfare,

Welcome to Issue 10 of Three Drops from a Cauldron – our last outing of 2016, and the last issue before our web journal goes monthly.