THE Metamorphosis of F. Kafka
one day
he finds himself converted into
a giant cockroach
he does not know about it at first
until he wakes up
and looks at himself in the mirror
he changes his taste for food
now attracted to left overs
dislikes water and
light
dislikes people and
events
and cannot relate to the morning
news on TV
his door has now remained closed
and no one is allowed to enter
except his dear sister
who feeds him
morsels
in time he begins to understand
how is it to be a cockroach
how humans have been too cruel
to their state
and then
he writes about Kafka and
The Metamorphosis
that is the real story
until the cockroach dies
until Kafka recovers again
away from
Ward 10.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Prelude To Kafka
one morning
when i discover
that i have turned
into a cockroach
you may write
what i will
do
you may theorize
that since i will be
to shy to go out
of my room just like
what your character did
then i may lock my
room, not eat,
and only talk to
my sister
that i may soon hate
my father
and will soon forget
my mother
i can relate to all
these based on my
readings
but i can see
what i can do
when i stink and
soon fear light
when even the air
which is suppose to
hush a lullaby
now hurts too
just like the rest
of those who
are close to me
and turn themselves
into disgusting monsters
more disgusting
than my being a
human-cockroach
you know very well
that i am brave enough
to force the door
to the other room
the one that none of
you has ever entered
i can use a knife
an ax or a hand grenade
i can even use a bomb
to break this
back door open
i am brave and
will always be restless
on a broken wing
of a bird i can
always still manage
to fly
away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Note For Franz Kafka
one morning
when i discover
that i have turned
into a cockroach
you may write
what i will
do
you may theorize
that since i will be
to shy to go out
of my room just like
what your character did
then i may lock my
room, not eat,
and only talk to
my sister
that i may soon hate
my father
and will soon forget
my mother
i can relate to all
these based on my
readings
but i can see
what i can do
when i stink and
soon fear light
when even the air
which is suppose to
hush a lullaby
now hurts too
just like the rest
of those who
are close to me
and turn themselves
into disgusting monsters
more disgusting
than my being a
human-cockroach
you know very well
that i am brave enough
to force the door
to the other room
the one that none of
you has ever entered
i can use a knife
an ax or a hand grenade
i can even use a bomb
to break this
back door open
i am brave and
will always be restless
on a broken wing
of a bird i can
always still manage
to fly
away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Alien is gross, scary. There is something in a human being that looks at them and sees it as a cockroach. You can never feel nurturing towards the cockroach.
quote by Sanaa Lathan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.
quote by Joseph Wood Krutch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Both the cockroach and the bird could get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.
quote by Joseph Wood Krutch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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La cucaracha for lady Phoenix Rain
.
I have a cockroach for a friend.
I may just start a whole new trend
But when you're pent in the death cell
it makes it difficult to tell.
My friendly cockroach visits me.
He's not afraid to let me see
he wants the leavings on my plate
Though he’s polite prepared to wait.
I have no other friends who care
my leavings I will gladly share.
And when they strap me in the Chair.
I know my cockroach will be there
He will be waiting faithfully
to have his last free meal on me.
8-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Cockroach
a cockroach flies above my head
and lands
near my feet
my instinct kills it outright
with a sudden stamp and there
the cockroach lies
smashed and dead
i smell stink
and never felt any regret.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Kafka's Question
what if one day you turn into
a cockroach in your bed
and you wake up and
no one recognizes you
and one sees you
and drives you away
from your house and
leaves you alone
in the grasses under
the sun?
it was your very own
mother who snaps
you away from
the soft pillow where
you were sleeping.
what if? it happened to Kafka
it can happen to you.
what if? Really, what will you do?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Mockery
how does it feel to be mocked at?
children chase you and laugh at you,
and call you crazy
you react, you want to be a child
and wanting to play and they mock you further
you're big enough to be their monster cookie
your friends say there is something wrong with you
in fact, everything is wrong
your nose not in its place and your face is twisted
at your back they say
this man is crazy
he must be reported to the police
one day you find your family disregarding you
you have become Kafka's cockroach and shall suffer
the same fate
as his short story
you are shooed
and outside you go
you walk by the side of the river and still whistle like
a man disregarded by the world
a cockroach, a pig, a crazy man on the street
returning to the big mountain deep in the forest
where no one sees you
you look at yourself on that still pond in the middle of this valley
you wonder
it is their face
you are the children playing
you are the image of your family
and they all look crazy too
in that solitude
you become yourself away from them
sane and yes, too poetic to behold
laurels on your head
flowers in your hair
dews on your skin
song in your lips
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Scorpion and The Cockroach
It was in a cleanly washed jam jar that Frank put them in,
he wanted to know which would survive, which one would win.
The scorpion wasted no time as it arched its back and struck,
but the cockroach quite unaffected, for a way out it did look.
The roach disliked being attacked and tried to climb the jar’s side,
but the glass was too steep and smooth, and so it couldn’t hide.
Repeatedly it tried to climb the jar, but it fell upon its back
and so the scorpion launched another ferocious attack.
The cockroach tried desperately to become upright once again,
as the scorpion’s venomous tail tried to strike the roach’s brain.
With a flick of its sturdy wings the roach became upright,
but still it didn’t resist attack, or put up a fight.
The battle weary scorpion grew tired of attacking its foe
and ceased hostilities at least for a moment or so.
But then the cockroach became hungry and had a desire to eat,
so approached the scorpion and nibbled at its feet.
This act of war enraged the scorpion and so it attacked again,
but the roach never flinched and gave no sign of pain.
The scorpion was exhausted and couldn’t attack any more,
it collapsed breathing deeply on the glass jar floor.
The roach attacked the tail the part with the deadly sting
and severed off a large piece to show who was king.
As the ravenous roach gorged itself on the fresh food supply
the scorpion panicked and gave escaping another try.
Frantically running around the jar at high speed it went
until it suddenly stopped, all its energy was spent.
Meanwhile the busily eating cockroach paid it no mind
this scorpion was going nowhere until mealtime.
poem by Orlando Belo
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A poem for Kafka
My elder brother Lalith.P
Who taught me to read and write
And lot of things about fading life.
He's a humble Encyclopedia.
We drink together as friends
When our holey pocket bit sounds
And we had a common sickness
Allergy for money but not alcohol
Villagers amazed of our Brotherhood!
He who introduced me Kafka.
'You should read his The Trial, The Castle
Amerika, The Metamorphosis and the penal Colony.
Most of his unfinished novels published Posthumously.
And He's a German speaking-Jew.'
My brother was really mad of Kafka.
I read few lines of Isaac Bashevis Singer's short story recently
'A friend of Kafka.'
And I write this brief poem underneath for him;
'I am sorry Kafka and still I couldn't touch
One of your golden books
But my inner feeling speaks
You're great among others.'
As I always respect of my Corsican brother's word!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Perfect Crime
the walls have as always been mute
the lizard who sees it left to another ceiling where
there are more mosquitoes
the curtains are dirty too
and dusts and stains make a good companion
and so the only witness left
to testify about the crime that has just been committed is this
cockroach
no one believes what it is telling
no matter how truthful can it be
and with one stroke of the insecticide spray
everything is erased away
the walls wish for a tongue
the lizard comes back and has nothing to tell
the mosquitoes are inside its belly
the curtains are tied with a rope
the dusts are blown by the wind
the stains fabricate another companion
a funeral for the cockroach is done
i am present there, and i too have nothing to say
about the murder
pure white magnolias are laid
on the ground
on that bright day
it rains....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am At Home With Kafka
.
I AM AT HOME WITH KAFKA
I am at home with Kafka -
I know his soul
I read it as mine own so many years ago-
His father as my father
And his face as my grandmother's,
Lean and white and long
With its own deep beautiful sadness-
Anxiety is mine-
And fear is mine-
And parable is mine-
And yet
His genius is his and not mine
He is Kafka
And I am only one of many readers-
I am at home with Kafka
I know his soul
But I am not Kafka-
Kafka is a genius of mankind
And I am a little man writing forgettable lines
Still alive
Many long years after the age
The holy genius went to his grave unrecognized.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If you step on people in this life, you're going to come back as a cockroach.
quote by Willie Davis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roaming...
when the soul is blocked
there is a reason, could be that the soul has become too familiar
and as it insists, has become too unpleasant
for the body,
at 2: 30 in the morning the body is behaving like a dead man,
pretending, perhaps since there is still that
alcoholic breath, saliva sticking and
nostrils wriggling
a mosquito bite becomes too irrelevant,
a cockroach tumbles down on your hair and
laughs,
nothing is happening to life,
the soul and body at war, there is this room closed,
morning light seeking an entrance
to a night window
that is still magnetized to
dream.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gromphadorhina Portentosa
Gromphadorhina portentosa
is a cockroach hard to miss,
evil, as in Nostra Cosa,
you can tell one by its hiss.
Many evil people are
friendly when you first approach,
but a wise man will stay far
from them like this hissing roach.
If you’re forced to shake their hand
afterwards you have to wash,
but don’t let them understand
that you really want to squash
them like these roaches. It’s forbidden
by both State and Federal law:
best to keep your feelings hidden—
hurt no feelings, and withdraw.
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Pre-menopausal Drama
when you leave
your panty on the
white tiles of the
bathroom
and a cockroach
comes along
and sniffs it
i, your husband,
shall pick it up
and wash it well,
i think, i must be
the one to understand
you more
in this period of
your shaky existence
when all the
love is
gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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With Kafka.
Kafka would have liked
the way you said that.
You kept his books on
the shelf next to those
of Burroughs and Joyce.
You like the painting on
the book’s paper cover.
Paperbacks are cheap
and soon worn out,
Thornton used to say.
He liked hard covered
books, first editions if
he could afford. He said
Kafka was too morbid
for you. You need a lighter
read, he said, something
that doesn’t mess with
your female head. You
take down the Kafka and
read again where you read
before, the whole drama
unfolding, the printed words
bringing a different world,
and ghostly by the window
with steady stare, Franz Kafka
in silence just sitting there.
poem by Terry Collett
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If you've never been to a pit latrine, you will never know that cockroach is a chief.