Matryoshka Poetry Vol. 1

Over the past few weeks, I've been finalising the first Matryoshka poetry magazine and now that it is finished and sitting pretty on matryoshkapoetry.com web page I'm going to add a link here.... just because I'm so proud of all those who contributed.


http://issuu.com/matryoshkapoetry/docs/matryoshka-poetry-vol-1.docx?e=25202252/38736611

      Snake 

   Susurrations

Your rattle, 

   a porcupine prickle 

    transformed  to  sound, 

     sends the world a warning to be-

      ware. You caress the ground, secretly 

           stealing colour and earthy patina to polish  

               your scales. Unsuspecting travellers find spec-

                        tral skin you slough pinned to sharp stuff, 

                       like serpent husks or discarded clothing left

                     out, drying. It is a sneaky snake, conceit,

              that makes even reasonable people a n g r y. 

         One night, a mustachioed explorer in a natty 

        pith helmet approached while you slept,

      bringing a bomb of condensed hatred. 

     It exploded, ripping you apart

    to fall like sherbet bits

   that f i z z  e d 

  as they 

h  i   t 

the ground. 

Cursed by God and man

  to fashion deserts and shorelines,

    you slither at night, or when receding 

       tides give traction, in an endless task that 

          lasts even after death - ghost snakes taking

         up the action. The spectral serpents slither on 

         beaches, when the muddied boundaries between 

         wet and dry form rivulets and r u n n e l s   of 

       serpentine creations, and casts.

    Unrecognized by crafts-

 men you rise on the 

breeze, glimpsed 

briefly l e v -

i t a t i n g

inches above 

  your handiwork. 

   Hardy beachcombers, who

    deny your snaky interventions,

       daring to say it’s a phenomenon of wave 

         action, are coiled about on breezes salted

             with snake tears, their skin chaffed with  

                bitter disdain and calling-cards of sloughed 

                   scales and sand particles.    You leave 

                      yourself embedded in human skin, 

                          a temporary reminder of hom-

                            inid stupidity and your 

                                   obvious, sinuous 

                                        superiority.              

                                   Karen Barton

first published in Matryoshka Poetry Vol. 1