Igor at the Kitchen Sink
By Alecsei Durbew
I saw him washing dishes at the sink.
He stood against the smooth, white countertop,
and tan, wood cabinet below his pink
thick, stalwart legs—bull in a china shop.
O, he was not Prince Hamlet at the court,
but rather more Prince Omelette or Prince Ham,
more like a chef than chief at Agincourt,
more like a servant, serf, or serving man.
But he worked hard, clench, scrub, rinse and release,
clench, scrub, rinse and release, again, again,
as if in some grand, mesmerizing piece
some mad, Romantic pianist had penned.
I wondered what would happen to that stack—
o, as he washed—would all the dishes crack?
A Snappy Happy Nap
By R. Lee Ubicwedas
He longed to get a little peace before the fireplace,
as one could see he had a bit of tension in his face.
He got down on his hands and knees and stretched each leg and arm.
He hoped that he was free from harm, and started feeling warm.
He only wanted but a light and fleeting bit of sleep.
He didn’t really want it long or heavy, hard or deep.
He felt Hypnos, the god of sleep, had brushed against his skin,
and opened up his lassitude to let the slumber in,
beginning first with just a nudge to reach unconsciousness,
and then a budge that shoved him off into a full-launched wrest.
On the Tortured Falun Dafa Man
By Li “Web Crease” Du
O, I must not forget his plight, here safe upon my bed.
I need to still recall the pain that through his body spread.
O, this was done for his belief, this Falun Dafa guy,
who faced his torturers in pain, but did not cry, or sigh.
I must not ever be so callous that I do not care,
how they then swung him viciously around, about, in air.
I still can see his open mouth, his teeth and nerves on edge,
while men in camo pounded him up to his very edge.
O, let him live, that fine young man, whose only sin is this—
he held on to his firm belief in tolerance and bliss.
Bruce Dale Wise is a poet living in Washington State who often writes under anagrammatic pseudonyms.
Featured Image: “Kitchen” by Vincenzo Campi.
“On the Tortured Falun Dafa Man”
I like the poem, it’s good. I found it interesting the juxtaposition of the torture with the light feel of the poem. At first glance.
On the third reading, I perceived that the young man is really forbearing the torture bravely despite the outlandish situation he finds himself in: being tortured for believing in what he chooses to believe in. (Even though, say if this was me, I would be screaming in hatred and anger if someone really shackled me up like this.) (This is what I thought when I read the line.)
And that the author just wishes for this young man to come through. I was really touched. I really had to look within the poem because I wasn’t able to perceive this on first reading. But your language is so good that I couldn’t just move on without really looking into it.
Again, this is all just off-the-cuff perceptions of the poem, but I have to really analyze my own reactions to the poem to even try to understand the poem itself.
The last thing is, the (2nd to last) line, “O, let him live, that fine young man, whose only sin is this—”
At first glance I thought, if this was me, I would instead think something like, those d—-d thugs, if only i could come in there and ——– (get rid of them). But then I sensed that this was the authors honest response, the thing that he or she feels would be the truly best way to help, to pray or to hope, or to wish for the life of this innocent good human being. (And that this man himself is truly doing his very best in the evil situation he finds himself in.) Very touching. Thank you.
You have the bent to be a critic, hey.
Thanks, B, to you, you really made my day.
Your deep analysis blew me away.
The first poem deals with a topic I continually return to, and that is, common everyday household activities. This Shakespearean sonnet splits into four parts. 1) the exposition, character and setting; 2) the contrast between the grand historical and the Twain-like histrionic satire; 3) the mechanical qualities of dish-washing; and finally 4) a question of the future [as James Joyce had posited in “Araby”].
Ten years ago—that was a time when I nearly always hand washed my dishes. Right now, as I am typing this response, my dish-washer is happily swishing about, though sadly not so long after I mishandled a pricy cup—crash.
The second poem, “A Snappy, Happy Nap”, is another poem in that realm of ordinary household episodes, a tennos on drifting to sleep, the opening anglo-saxon rhymes contrasting with the final couplet’s subtle distress. Here the allusions are quiet and mythological, most significantly at the edge of Statius.