Thursday, August 07, 2025

Poets in Disguise

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth and Medusa
 
 
SEERS

We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.
 
 
 
 —Image by Marie-Michèle Bouchard


CARBON CAPTURE

A pile-up for sum petrolhead,
here’s clash of crash, less colour clash,
for pastel paintjob in the sky,
a canopy without the green.
like campanile where bells toll
both steel and steal, stealth killing us.

A nut tree, shells and husks array,
with buries of that paler hue,
this headstone over graver seen,
its trunk, whose memory outlasts
all flow of living xylem, phloem.

But Beetles thrive to rove the land
from rings of growth now sadly capped.
Was this Sequoia, Zephyr stripped,
once haunt of Spider, Hornet nest,
where Robin, Skylark, Tercel preyed
with Rabbit, Ram and Fox displayed?

Here’s trunk topped trunks, storage to boot,
with bonnets, hoods, though poor for rain,
will rain forest reign, pour again?
Hear heavy metal funeral songs,
totemic of that death we face?
 
 
 


FLORIOGRAPHY OF WAR

Find hips and haws, where might, arose,
hung over row of lane-edge hedge,
hair of the dogs, trimmed farmer’s scythe;
where derring-do from primrose banks,
and scarlet pimpernel lies too.

There’s deadly nightshade, nettle rash
for those who creep, preparing war
on Dover’s cliff top, Kentish ways,
past dents de lions, sycamore
blades, time, tide blowing in the wind.

For airmen, dogfights in the skies,
above Kent cotts they to defend,
right royal battle of Britain
for cottage gardens, lupin swoops,
for cornflower, kingcup, our set ways.

Their funerals, Canterbury
bells, tolling ’neath that battlefield
of clouded skies where interweave
the Spitfires in snapdragon mode
above the Weald of Churchill’s pose.

Red poppies, trench art for our lost,
the soiled earth rising to new birth;
a peony for paeon praise
where victors parade on the stage
as hop poles fruit to carry bier.
 
 
 
The Reverie of Mr. James
—Painting by Rene Magritte (Belgium) 1943


TO BE OR NOT, A COMPLEMENT?

Regret masters Réne Magritte.
Analysis he would reject;
the boy’s lost mother, suicide—
Régina, queen, face-covered, drowned—
all blamed each other’s escapades.

To cap it all, she milliner,
devoted as a Catholic,
yet father anticlerical.
For roses, thorns go hand in hand
in wispy, wristy floral tryst.

An egg, drawn bird with outstretched wings,
to liquidate conventional;
the mirror glass that sees behind,
or handiwork for trellis growth—
so many questions framed for us.

His meet to marry, seven years,
that butcher’s daughter at the fair,
the girl Georgette his later muse,
for first exhibits, critics rose,
but piled abuse served, moved him on.

The Rêverie, entitled dream,
but did our Monsieur James think so?
And would he care, or others dare?
He did not look outside the box—
denied the box was ever there.

Through periods, and phases, styles,
the occupation, war, mind more,
those forgeries of headline names
and currency in leaner years,
but were notes printed cash for real?

Try Ceci n’est pas, for a line,
the pipe as concrete through the gap
to what stand painted, poster pen,
when artist seen and not the thing;
surrealist in play-along.

His oeuvre, time and time again,
by repetition, trauma marked,
but each unique though looked the same
for image seen not image been,
a complement in every scene.
 
 
 
Ceiling Toadstools in Porcelain
—Painting by Carsten Höller


FLY AGARIC!

But fly agaric, not so fast.
I think that you misunderstand—
I spoke your name, but not command;
as ‘hang in there’ is your reply,
with hint of magic mushroom speak,
I’m keeping my feet on the ground.

It cost me, sixties, £sd,
those flights of fancy, Kubla Khan,
my extraterrestrial mind,
as psychedelic orbits found
around my skull within my head
before black holes became the norm.

Above your bulb, though underneath,
in ceiling sunk, mycelium;
I root my worldview, gravity.
These humans stand too stable here
to be space station sentinels
afloat, as upside down, in fact.

I doubt those floor lights might be fans;
more likely planned exhibit scams.
But few harms done by second look,
another scan, fresh point of view,    
in changed perspective, new field probed.
That is a rôle of poetry.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us”.

―Robin Wall Kimmerer,
Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry!
 
 
 

. . .new field probed. That is the  rôle of poetry. . .
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
 























 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Poetry Night in Davis
features
Keith Ekiss and Robin Ekiss
tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
 

 


















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, August 06, 2025

Poems On Italy

Egyptian Pyramid/Front of Basilica/San Giovanni
—Poetry and Photos by Mitali Chakravarty,
Singapore 


ROME…

Monuments drip in
   every nook of Rome.

    Squeezed between buildings,
and dancing with wildflowers,
History, spanning the passage
   of civilisations that rose and fell,
smiles sunrises, besides modernity.

Next to the Termini,
     the temple of Minerva
        soars enclosing the sky.

The 3000-year-old obelisk
brought from Egypt stands
next to the cafe serving
breakfast to zillion worshippers,
      who gaze in awe at the city
named after a wolf child.

They gather in droves
   between the artifacts
from Egypt and Rome,
   in front of a basilica
that smiles benevolence
   at the ancient Colosseum
peeping from between
   young buildings that reside
graciously with the old. 
 
 
 
Inside the Colosseum
 

IN THE COLOSSEUM
 
On an ancient rock I sit.
Thus, must have waited
adoring fans for their
favourite gladiator.

Here they collected
water that bathed  
the muscled warriors,
watched them fight.

I sit here and wonder,
the open skies stretch
like a blue awning, as
tourists come and go.

A seagull muses in the
shade of a tree at a
distance from walls
that grew history.

It stares at streams
that pour to gape at
unyielding bricks
reminiscent of yore.

I sit and gaze at the
blue skies, waft on  
a cloud that defies
time, sprays sunshine.
 
 
 
Dome, Vatican
 

AT THE SISTINE CHAPEL

Under Michelangelo’s skies,
Hundreds of people glide.

Spellbound by the creator,
do they sigh over mortal art
or the power that inspired
devotion born of expulsion?

Do they wonder as a voice
blesses with compassion,
reviving with sonorous psalms,
ringing a sense of calm?

The Sistine smiles at the crowds
hushing to sense peace and love. 
 
 
 
River Arno, Florence
 

UNDULATING

Clouds float
    in the waters of Arno
      while parakeets
                        flit across.

On Tiber,
              seagulls swoop,
      to settle
as a lone moorhen
paddles
            against
                          the current.

Rivers flow
      with memories—
history, art, life
           —both past and present.

          Bridges that survived wars,
                  floods, over eons,
           gaze at sunbathers.

An island—linked
            by legends long ago,
and bricks—
       smiles at tourists in the sun.

     Tuscan stories mingle
with waves
          like Roman ones—
     waves that lap shores
to empty into the sea,
       undulating—but connecting—
        time, people and geographies. 
 
 
 
Flagstones/Rickshaw Tours
 

FIRENZE*

She reposes by the shores
    of Arno—ringing in stories
from the past, dreaming of life
     and Tuscan pizzas that delight.

Though known by the Nightingale’s name
  --- no nightingales ever sing here—
    only Michelangelo and Galileo
       lie buried in the silent Croce.

You can see sunbathers now,
   far from the tourist-filled basilicas
lazing in the unrelenting sun.
    Dogs swim to beat the heat.
 
Arno flows lapping distant hills
   dotted with cottages and pines.
The sun sets behind the Ufizzi
    silhouetting its magnificence.

   Calmly, Firenze glows
lost in dreams of yore.
    Life pauses by its shores.
Assimilating the past, visitors move on.


*Firenze is the Italian name of Florence.
 
 
 
 

EPIPHANY

  An epiphany rings forth—
a moment of truth as a
  benediction prays peace.

  Who is it that dares speak
 peace as wars on walls
         and ceilings of Sistine
    colour current tides?

    While people weep and die
of hunger, poverty, war, while
many are killed by bombs,
     who dares dream peace?

    Seas foment in anger.
           Climate change wreaks
havoc as flames and floods
            together ravage Earth.

  And yet, this voice speaks
peace, benediction to the few
that can make it into
      the pristine Sistine?

  Can peace be found in life?
Can it be found strewn amidst
blood and gore of battle scenes?
Oh, tell me please, where can
            I find peace?

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN ITALY…
—Mitali Chakravarty

Flagstones of old
watch centuries
walk the same
cobbled path.

_________________

SnakePal Mitali Chakravarty traveled to Italy recently, and when she got back, she sent us these poems—thank you, Mitali! Mitali wafted on the cloud and came to rest of the one where she found borderlessjournal.com. She also has three books of poems, the latest being, 
From Calcutta to Kolkata: City of Dreams.

_________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 
Mitali on her cloud~
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
 






















For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
 

 







































Tuesday, August 05, 2025

Whisper of a Song

 The Soul Of A Bird
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
 
 
CIRCLE ME DEEP
—Joyce Odam       

arc me into long flight
indiscernible curve
arrival
no thought backwards
sigh
whisper
here

pin me into staying
I with my
butterfly shape
and moth journey
and no love for velvet

circle me deep
of one continuous spiral
I who am always falling

brace me with edges
I who collect things for boxes
and fill them with dust and
never open them

scribble me sane
I with my loud dark line
all in a tangle

blot me with slow surrealistic white
in drift of easiness
tender phasing into dream flight
fancy me the soul of a bird
no song
no care
vision me everywhere

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/13/13) 
 
 
 
 A Torn Page Lies Waiting


IN THE RECESSES
—Joyce Odam

In the murk of remember,
a torn page lies waiting
for this poem:

I prefer the damaged—
the substandard—over the
sleek perfection of unmarred pages;

I favor this wrinkled sheet with its fading,
its stain from some old spill, its torn corner
from an uneven stack of such pages.

this page will do for my first draft
of whatever poem will come to me—
those phantom words I try to find

to honor the imperfect moments,
the illusive and unexplainable,
unworthy of acclaim.

I would dig deep into the rising
of mind-fragments for
what I would say

in empathetic musing
that would mean
the way my heart feels when it is broken.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16)
 
 
 
 Before I Wake


INSOMNIA XI
—Robin Gale Odam

Eyes closed in the dark of the hour
I remember a melody, where it lifted

into its higher register—I used to sing
when my voice was younger, resilient

and fair as daylight. I hum a rasp of alto
in the asylum of nighttime.
                            

(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2016;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/4/23) 
 
 
 
 I Remembered


INSOMNIA XXI  
—Robin Gale Odam

crescendo of night
silver light through window blind
whisper of a song
syncopated memory
hollow night, echo of prayer
                           

(prev. pub. in
Brevities, August 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/26/23)
 
 
 
With Hours Made Of Time


TO A MENTOR
—Joyce Odam

I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,

and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—

thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :

poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind

with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back

—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/7/17; 6/1/21) 
 
 
 
Promising Everything
 

THE WAY OF WORDS
—Joyce Odam

You touch the gray light
at the edge of that dark word.
How you speak—

so dense and deliberate.  
Is it regret you say—
so heavy with pleading—

promising everything . . .
                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/9/22)
 
 
 
 The Perfect Day


PSALMS
—Robin Gale Odam

i read your
beautiful songs,
closed the book,
dusted the cover
         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/23)
 
 
 
She Wanted Me To Know
  
 
MOTHER CALLS ME WITH HER DYING
—Joyce Odam

Mother says she is dreaming that she is dying and
just wanted to warn me, prepare me for the phone
call that would come.

I am calm, remove myself from responding. I
don’t want to hear this. Mother’s voice is turned
down low. I can barely hear her.

She says she has to be careful, that they listen at
the Nurse’s Station, but she is dying in her sleep
and she wanted me to know—wanted to hear
my voice—hundreds of miles between us, and time
itself three hours away.

Now, I don’t want you to grieve, she tells me in her
old no-nonsense voice, and though I try to open my
mouth to answer, she keeps on talking.

I cannot interrupt her, though she dwindles off again.
Wake up! I want to say—but don’t know what that
would mean—if she is really dying—in her sleep—
in her mind—in my imagination.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/13; 10/22/13)
 
 
 
You Whisper Back
 

I WHISPER INTO THE TELEPHONE 
—Joyce Odam

I whisper into the telephone.
You whisper back.

We talk of silent things . . .
we talk of silent things . . .

repeating ourselves
and offering questions.

Oh?
and, Yes?

Dyings are like this.
And waiting for dyings,

which is what we
have no words for,

though we speak and speak
in these whispers.

                     
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, 1994;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/11;
10/22/13, 1/5/21; 7/19/22) 
 
 
 
Confess Myself
 

ADMISSION
—Joyce Odam

Talking into a dead phone, I apologize
to the silence, confess myself
to the listening . . .
as if through a
curtain . . . imagine a
response . . . imagine a sigh of sympathy.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/19/22; 
9/20/22; 3/19/24) 
 
 
 
 The Long Quarrel With Time


Let it whisper away

all you meant to say

the long quarrel with time
and its occasional rhyme

all the sorrows and woes
all faith as it goes

wondering again
in search of an amen

to contradict the prayer
that is ever there

beginning of the aftermath
in God’s hollow laugh

whisper then alone
faith is the undertone

that burns into the soul

the part of you that’s whole

 
—Joyce Odam

                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16) 
 
 
 
 Life And Its House


Today’s LittleNip:

TEARS
—Joyce Odam

They were never for this symbol
—not the tender image of a poem,

softly jeweled by a glint
of light
on a smooth face—but a

smear of dark feeling, salty to the taste,
making wet stains upon some pillow.

                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/21/10)

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was Whispers in the Night, and the Odam poets have sent us whispers of all kinds—whispers in the night, whispers of words, whispers of a song—and we are most grateful for their magical touch.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Vacation”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 “. . . a glint of life on a smooth face . . .”
Woman in a Red Head Tie
—Painting by Constantin Aleksandrovich, 1939



















 
 
 
 
 
 
For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
 

 




















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Monday, August 04, 2025

Wispas in the Night

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,
and Medusa
 
 
WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Grandchildren snacking, midnight feast,
their Wispas shared, hushed giggle fun,
aerated dense chocolate bars,
beneath the duvet covers, done,
their whispers heard, memory Mum.

Lit by the moon, lace tracery,
those wispy clouds, more air than drips,
keep searching out substantial cloud,
though sympathetic fallacy,
white wispers floating cross dark skies,

Deprived of sight, where nothing’s bright,
all other senses to the fore
with space for fear, first nurtured hint,
here’s echo chamber for afraid,
each noise, sound basis, further fright.

Boy Samuel on Temple mount,
Elijah quaking, still in wind,
there, lores galore would claim the voice—
though prophets rarely spoke so soft—  
breath, spirit, ruach, whispers, God.

But Chinese, most, such whispers ‘heard’,
from ear to lip many a slip,
long distance call, and cheeky too,
translated as men wont to do—
a late night party strategy.

So gossip tendered, palm to mouth,
campaigns to undermine some truth,
Iago to Iachimo;
by sleight of hand or slight from tongue,
the green-eyed monster is released,

In folklore of strange histories,
here horse and whispered mystery;
I heard achieved by biting ear—
expected pain, so Pavlov’s dog.
It dawns that day has followed night.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth


IN THE NIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Gossip floats in windy dark
from tree to tree to tree.
In moonlight, branches
wave their leaves
to tap-tap on my window.
Did you hear? they whisper,
knowing I don’t know
the language of the night.
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


I LIKE TO BELIEVE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

nearest stars to earth
whisper in the night
in lullabyes that
babies listen to.

Some whispers we hear
are nearly drowned out
by moon’s loud chuckles,
by planets in choirs.

If you ask some stars
to whisper, they won’t.
Then, slipping to sleep,
one hears that soft sound. 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa


WE’VE MET THIS CAST OF CHARACTERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(prompted by Rachel Maddow’s recent mention
of a “protean set of facts”)  


To say that something is a "protean set of facts"
means that the facts are exceptionally changeable,
variable, and capable of taking on many different
forms or interpretations. This phrase is derived
from the Greek mythological figure Proteus, a sea-
god known for his ability to change shape at will
to avoid answering questions.

Koalemos is the Greek god of stupidity, considered
a daemon or a minor deity who personifies foolish-
ness and stupidity.

In Hinduism, Apasmara is a demon who embodies
ignorance. He is often depicted as being subdued
by Lord Shiva, symbolizing the constant struggle
between knowledge and ignorance. In some inter-
pretations, Apasmara is considered immortal,
representing the ever present nature of ignorance in
the world.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa


IS MY BATH READY?
—Caschwa

Sure, just walk out to
the end of the pier and then
take a few more steps

* * *

RIGHT SIZE
—Caschwa

This is the secret
How to please everybody?
Keep household at one

* * *

FIRST AID
—Caschwa

Hit by a heart attack?
Grab the foil of one corner,
peel it back and chew
 
 
 
 
Naked Lady Lilies
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
 

My mother-in-law has naked ladies in her yard, and the welcome sight of them inspired me to dig out this old poem of mine. Maybe, if you listen, you can hear these ladies whispering in the night:



NAKED LADIES ARE DYING
 
in dusty fields alongside abandoned farm-
houses, where well-worn hands once planted
a few friendly faces. . .  Late August heat
 
has finished short leafless lives:  faded pink
bonnets bob away from searing sun, bow
to the golden grass crowded around their
 
feet. Farmhouses are just as faded: porches sag
as paint peels off the dry wood.  But the naked
ladies will be back when next year's sun climbs
 
once again into August:  fresh faces will
remember those well-worn hands that
planted them in the past.
 
 
—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

OBJECTS OF DESIRE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Objects of desire
Are drawn away,
Stretched into abstract
Things that pull away
From every form of substance,
Into papier-mâché,
Slopped onto
Rounded hubs
Brought into play

Throwing plaster
Onto molds
Carved and shaped from clay,

We feel the way
The hollows
Bring forth what we would say
When they are filled in
And brought to
Permanent reflection
As granite shines like skin.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


LOOKING BACK
—Joe Nolan

All messed up
And all gone, gone.

All the ones I catered to
Have all moved on.

Was I so unworthy
To keep them here with me
Or was it just they
Never identified
With what I mean?

Looking back
On every broken urn
That used to hold some water,
But only for awhile,
I think about living and capture
That go into raising a child--
Taking up the yolk
And plowing down a field
Over and over each year
With blinders on
To not stray from the track,
Always keeping busy
With no time to look back.
 
 
 
DIno Buzatti
Dino Buzzati is an Italian fabulist 
whose novels and short stories are 
often called “Kafkaesque.”


BIRTHING BUZZATI
—Joe Nolan

If existential dread is your flavor,
Then Buzzati is for you.
Who is Buzzati?
What does he mean to you?

The flavors of summer
Are meant to be sweet,
Juicy and delectable,
Joyful, without retreat,

Ripe fruit
And ripe women,
Bared skin
From the heat,

As every heated hunger,
Unleashed, without surcease,
Inclines toward winter’s
Later births
That come in from the Fall.

We wince.
To acknowledge it all
The way that surly winter
Brings forth the births of Fall.
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


A HUMMINGBIRD
—Joe Nolan

A hummingbird
Fetches drops of water
In the air
From an oscillating sprinkler
Set out on a lawn.

It seems the bird is happy,
Delighted to drink pure,
Pure water
Before it touches earth.

It moves so lightly,
Dancing from place to place
Around the streams of water,
Taking just a drop each time
It goes in with its bill.

Delighted,
Like a man in love.  
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


FOREVER
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India


Forever and always with you
I find the beauty of your soul growing
With your blues
Thunderstorm over this town
I can escape burning with your hand
The little unnamed flowers along the path
where river flows a sublime zeal
Dance and music nature's flowing through
Shimmering and shining with your cityscape
I always find a reason to be with you
My forever and always earthen song.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:


Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

—James Joyce
 
______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our contributors for their poetry and photos today, some of which are responses to our Seed of the Week, Whispers in the Night. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. And check each Friday, too, for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be closed for reforms
throughout August.
For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
 

 




































 


Sunday, August 03, 2025

Death's Delicate Silence

 Can you see the critters hidden in the shade?
—Photos of River Red Gums in the
Flinders Ranges, South Australia,
by Ginette Pestana
—Poetry by James Aitchison,
Melbourne, Australia

 
 
river red gums

gray sentinels
rising from
forgotten creek beds
spreading love
twisted roots
tussling the rock
holding stories
remembering old storms
praying water will again
this way come
 
 
 

 
power lines

is this where they’ll run

across this valley,
gossamered in mist

where quaint old farms
guard lush treasures,

and will they squat
on ugly haunches

predators in repose,
 
and will they corrupt
the landscape

to feed far distant
cities

and will no one care? 
 
 
 

 
INGRID IN THE BUSH

When light of sun fades
The bush softens,
Becomes softer, the translucence
That once lit Bergman,
The soft deflected haze of
Eucalypt-scented air in lazy
Twilight, the dewy composition of
Her face, in wan tones devoid of color.
The day is closing,
Ingrid fading now,
Into the eternal evening.


(First published in
Quadrant, Australia, 2021)
 
 
 

 
LOST

There, on uneasy hills,
pastures are appropriated.

And on the river flats,
where vegetables like
soldiers marched, machines
crucify mortal soil.

Morning fences lean into
one last sunrise that spikes
with gold the mourning shed
where harnesses once jingled.

In one eucalypt, magpies are
demagogic in its naked branches.

A farmhouse, beyond redemption,
its chimney brick and staunch,
soon will be devoured.
 
After pillage—an exhibition village;
an unpretty paradise with plastic flags,
manned by flash-suited locusts,
honey tongued.
 
 
 

 
Today’s LittleNip:

DAWN
—James Aitchison

I saw the sun rise,
rise into the truth,
the truth of the soul,
and I saw we are eternal.
Dying, I saw white light
at the end of my days,
death’s delicate silence
as soft as butterflies
on clouds, and I saw
we are eternal.

_________________

Aussie Newcomer James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. Of his 203 books, many are horror stories written for middle readers, written as "James Lee". They inspired the Netflix series,
Mr Midnight: Beware the Monsters. He believes in the transformative power of poetry; many of his poems address mental health issues as well as the beauty of the world around us. Welcome to the Kitchen, James, and don’t be a stranger!

_________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 James Aitchison




















 
 
 
 
 
 
For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!