
When you parse the science, it seems crazy that we’re carrying on like everything is fine, while life, as we know it, is hurtling towards an unceremonious end, Eliotesque, not with a bang, but with a whimper. It seems crazy that we’re reading Eliot. It seems crazy that we’re writing poetry.
trees and rhinos, bees and
kelp, waves and puffins –
how do they describe us to their young?
The prompt today is “New” – whatever strikes you as timely, relevant, in your face, here and now. Share your poems, old or new, using the Mister Linky widget. Or just stop by and say hello in the comments section.

Mousetrap
And when nature became a vengeful beast, a
monster unleashed, and every love poem became
a nostalgic ache for a time when the sea was a
troubadour on the street corner, crooning soft
ballads, the sky was the cloth around his hips,
and the moon was a pin on her shoulder, holding
the edge of her saree –
I remember when we caught the first mouse at
home, my mother setting an ugly wooden trap, a
piece of stale copra, the lure for some wretched
creature that would in the morning, half-crazed
with fear, its tail twitching outside its cage, realize
primal hunger had turned into modern sin. I don’t
know what happened to that first mouse –
She didn’t tell me. I never thought to ask. I was
seven. Now the earth shudders and I wonder
what will kill me first – the congenital desire, the
rotting coconut, the rusty hook, the proud woman,
the indifferent man, the interminable morning or
inveterate hunger –
In the distance, cold clouds find new syntax for a
familiar dirge.
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