Monday, March 18, 2024

The Joie de Vivre of Kites

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Dawn Pisturino, Joe Nolan, and Caschwa
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Dawn Pisturino
 
 
NOT ENOUGH LIFT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I don’t recall the colors.
I don’t recall the shape.
I recall a futile flight
of kite into the air.
I hoped we would
get closer, give
love a little lift.
We needed more
than wind to send
a failure flying high.
 
 
 
 Red Kite
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 
RED KITE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Mosquito dancing, hover hair,
jig to ballroom, sudden fall,
though scooped before full fly to floor,
a shudder, hold, then swoops to whirl,
until it drops, bite leaves its mark.

Too, here be dragons, gold on black,
spitting fire in air attack
as pull on strings; or lighting wick,
moon rising lanterns, airlift shrines,
in clouds of witness, past enact.

Fast run and throw, for lift off, strand,
far reach of sand for landing strip,
with off shore wind, unwind taut line,
see soar of shape from clifftop site,
until that tug, pang hunger strikes.

Euclidian, so clear defined,
a quadrilateral designed
reflecting symmetry in kind,
diagonal, its axis line.
Unless a box, core type refined.

The kite’s a mark engraved in glass,
on labels where a sofa lies,
protection against smash in crash,
or feeding fire, its noxious smoke—
for quality, trade guarantee.

It’s BSI, the agency,
a British Standards Institute,
that flies a kite for safety first;
though fly by nights with shoddy goods
sure break the law from market stalls.

But flying kites in bedtime tales,
now column inches, stories leaked—
more floated schemes, political,
to test the current public mood,
as the elect, their safety first.

With forked tail, not the tongue above,
not dragon, red, flag field of green,
but plot, airspace, prey, red kites,
the poisoned raptor breeds once more,
Welsh nation’s, note, favourite bird. 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Dawn Pisturino


THREE POEMS ABOUT SAN FRANCISCO
—Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ

Flying Kites on the Marina

Spending the day flying kites on the Marina
While noisy seagulls circle overhead,
Making spectacles of themselves
Among the colorful alien objects
With long tails flapping in the wind.
Kites shaped like dragons
Breathe fire at the sun.
Oblong boxes made from scratch
And plain paper diamonds in rainbow colors
Reach to the heavens,
Tethered to the earth by eager children
And expert adults, so earnest in their endeavor
To fly highest and farthest.
Blow, wind, blow, and help the competitors
Outdo one another!
Crowds gather to watch the race,
Making mental bets on the outcome.
The excitement grows,
The crowd oohs and aahs,
And suddenly, the wind dies
And all bets are off.

* * *

San Francisco

I watch psychedelic flowers on the wallpaper
Turn somersaults, spinning like pinwheels
Against a green background.
Coit Tower emerges from this garden,
Rising high against an ocean sky.
The Golden Gate Bridge shines brilliantly
Against a yellow sun, its orange towers
A familiar landmark among the clouds.
19th & Irving hangs heavy with smoke:
Restaurants and coffee houses,
Reefers and incense from the
Head shops along the street.
I breathe in ocean spray and seaweed
On Ocean Beach, meditating on
The full moon and moonlight
Flung carelessly across the water
At high tide. A soothing scene
That captures my heart
And peacefully lays
My soul to rest.

* * *

Foggy City

Cold, clammy fog
Settles over the city
With stifling thickness,
Turning the living into ghosts
Wandering through an ethereal
World of white nothingness.
Muffled sounds break through the quiet.
Red lights flash through the foggy shield.
The dead rise unwillingly,
Already caught in their own purgatory.
The world of the living
And the world of the dead
Intermingle, recognize this mishap
Of Fate, withdraw, and return
To their own spheres of being.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo 
Courtesy of Joe Nolan


ZOOM VERSUS LIVE ATTENDANCE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
In portal,
A predicament,
About a carbon footprint
We have spent
Just to get here,
To our
Poetry reading.

Maybe we
Should have stayed
On Zoom,
Looking at 24 faces
Per page?

That way, we
Could have saved our gas,
That we burned on
Overburdened highways,
Coming and going,
Contributing
To global warming
And all the degradation
We deplore.
 
 
 
Don't mess with me on Mondays...
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain


THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN
—Joe Nolan
 
There’s a game in town.
Everybody, gather round.
It’s a game
Of up and down.
The losers take the latter.

Evictions and foreclosures,
People on the street.
That’s the way
We do,
These days,
When their circle is complete.

In a game of musical chairs,
Some must lose their seat.
The D.J. on the music-beat
Controls the needle-arm.
The timing of the trauma
Is meant to do you harm.

It’s a game
We’ve all
Signed onto—
To play, to
Win or lose.

It’s not a game
That we’d prefer, but
It’s the only game in town.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Illustration 
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

THE COLLAPSE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION
—Joe Nolan

The collapse of Western Civilization
Has happened before.
It happened to the Romans
And to the Byzantines,
One-thousand years, later.

It seems that a collapse
Is scheduled in the cards,
Waiting to descend.

Nations and empires
Have their beginnings
And also, their ends.

What are we
To make of this?
We, who
Wish to persist,

Within our own existence,
Though the gates of
Our nations might fall? 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


JOIE DE VIVRE FOR LONGEVITY
—Joe Nolan

Try to eat
A little bit
Of everything
Doctors tell you
Not to,
Each and every day.

Drink a drink of
Fish-can’t-drink,
Since they live
In water,
Every single day,
No matter what
Advisors say.

Stubbornness
Promotes longevity.
The more you do things
Your own way
The longer you
Are likely to
Exercise your will.

Continue to do
What you like to do
Despite the rules—
Joie de vivre
Is what lubricates
Your machine.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

KITEKU
—Caschwa

I’ve had several
good days flying kites, and they’re
still up there, somewhere

__________________

—Medusa, wishing us all a little more
joie de vivre
 
 
 
 The REAL cat’s pyjamas…
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 










A reminder that
Poetry in Motion read-around
takes place in Placerville
this morning, 10:30am; and
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
 Julia Levine and Susan Kelly-DeWitt
tonight in Sacramento, 7:30pm.
For info about these 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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, March 17, 2024

Then You Have Loved

 —Poetry by Vandana Kumar, New Delhi, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
REAR-VIEW MIRROR

Drops on windshield
the rains
still slow
been at it
since a few hours now

I like the haze
that keeps me
from seeing the ghettos
repeated head counts
after calamity

a decade ago
we still could use fuddy-duddy clichés
call our cities
‘melting pots’

I resist the wiper
as long as I can
larger drops
stain the car
the radio is on
nebulous days
when smokescreens
take us away
from city ghosts
and
the clarity of by-lanes.
 
 
 
 

A STILL WINTER

It isn’t the sort of cold that moves
static all around
I look for a pizza cutter
and ice cream scoop
I imagine making triangles
out of the dense fog
and consuming it
to make visible spaces in the atmosphere

I imagine the ice cream scoop lifting the fog
splashing it
into dessert glass

it is a decadent country
of stale debate
on fresh television screen

the Winter from another eon  
seems to have seeped into the bones
so quietly
there are no surface breezes
I am wary
a Winter without its wind-chill
is no Winter at all
 
 
 


LADY IN RED

You, in vermillion attire
with a slit that starts from the waist
and runs as long as the river Nile

how I wish you smiled
just for me
and not
for all the pirates of the Pacific

you!
With rings on fingers
on the hand, right
on the hand, left
are you a prisoner?
Of one of the men
whose harem you head?
Do you play out your politics in bed?
For an entire tribe?

You in your dress, oozing red
I wonder just how many doctors
run to your rescue
press the nerves
kiss every pore
suck out the blood stains

it is a day parched
such thirst
single malt
quality unquestionable

come to me
Oh woman, in scarlet or cerise dress
become every dirty thing
I want you to be.
 
 
 
 

WAIT UNTIL SUMMER!

When you hate the Winter
Oh! Those teeth that chatter
and several inches of snow
several days of it in a row  

the season harsh so
isn’t the best thing for the libido
the layers of clothes you must negotiate
the mere thought of undressing can wait  

if the parts of you down there —right under
refuse to cooperate, don’t wonder
such a bummer!
To leave the steamy sex
for Summer!  
 
 
 
 

AND NOTHING SHORT OF THAT!

There will be a mesh
after the hernia you got removed
it won’t reoccur
you are reassured

gall bladders
one kidney
one ovary or two
without it
sooner or later
we half-learn to survive

but with all the dangers fraught
O have your heart
right out
in your throbbing hands

and walk along the sidewalk
the one with leaves strewn
some freshly fallen
some dried
roads with egos waylaid
all that matters
to the heart that walks outside of you
is giving
even as it puts itself at risk

like leaving your home
front door unlocked
or entering wars unarmed
for battles meant to be lost

no collateral allowed
the rest is mere convenience
or serendipity
when put to test
your favorite clothes
also tear at the seams

walk into the night
starless
no candle-lit home around
to help navigate  
for hounds might bark and pounce  
conditions and consequences
only for the meek
 
sit and watch your heart wrecked
unable to distinguish
night from day
or the dance of one season
into the next

know that then
you have loved
and loved
and loved.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

your hand
touching mine.
this is how
galaxies
collide.

—Sanober Khan

______________________

Vandana Kumar first appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on Feb. 19 of this year. She is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites like
Mad Swirl, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Piker Press, Dissident Voice, Borderless Journal, Madras Courier, Outlook, Ink Pantry, Backwards Trajectory, The Daily Pointers, Synchronized Chaos, and everywritersresource.com, to name only a few. She has been featured in literary journals like Fine Lines, and anthologies like Harbinger Asylum, But You Don't Look Sick, and Kali Project, which was a Finalist for the 15th Annual National Indie Excellence® Awards. 

Vandana was a jury member for the All India Poetry Competition organized by Cocoa-Butter, and she also co-edited their debut print anthology that resulted from this competition in 2020-2021. She was the only Indian of 40 participating poets in the INĐIJA PRO POET 2023, a festival held in June, 2023 in Serbia. Her poem was translated into Serbian in the Pro Poet anthology published there. Her debut collection of poems,
Mannequin Of Our Times, was published in February 2023; it was awarded The Panorama International Book Award 2023 and The Mighty Pens Awards 2023. She is also a Pushcart Prize-nominated author-poet for the year 2023. Thanks for today's poetry, Vandana!

_____________________

—Medusa, wishing us all top o’ the morning and a happy St. Patrick’s Day—
 
 
 
 Vandana Kumar










 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Poetry of the Sierra Foothills
features Frank Gioia and Paul Godwin
this afternoon in Camino, 2pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!
 
LittleSnake is charmed
by Vandana's poetry!
 





















Saturday, March 16, 2024

Waiting for the Peace Dove

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
HOW TO FLY A KITE
     in one’s nineties

After sipping tea or coffee,
grip your kite string nonchalantly.

Loosen fingers, stretch your hand,
make small shadows on the sand.

Envision eagles flying high,
just missing trees, they climb the sky.                            

Your kite wins Nobel Prize for skies,
symbolically slicing truth from lies.

You say you had this dream before
‘mid driftwood by a windy shore?

This kite that flies to far and bold
is childhood for all who held and hold.
 
 
 


LESSONS IN REFUGIO PARK
              Hercules, Ca.


In this crowded local park,
I share a long picnic table
with a sign-language instructor,
her pages of paper hand positions
diagram words, the alphabet
spread across our dark green surface.

She is teaching two deaf children,
now playing nearby,
to read her hands and to reply;

A blind child, who joins her friends,
sits at table’s end. She reads Grimm’s
Fairy Tales
in Braille, one by one
fingering tiny paper-scrambled-eggs,
smiling as if she’s unearthing pure gold
coins. Sensing my admiration,
Maria smiles, moves to sit beside me.

Here’s hoping the teacher’s charges
learn to read today’s signed message:
You are loved, study well, be proud.

Blind Maria has progressed at close range—
all hands and their gestures
meaningful, marvelously moving.
 
 
 
 

ROBBIE

You, Robbie, warm
& real as you were,
became a scrap
of address, come upon
one cold day while looking  
in a catch-all drawer
for matches.

Did you slip or soar away?
What is your story,
your name for or claim
to glory--
you, Robbie,
   warm & real
      as you were.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/7/22; 8/12/23)
 
 
 

 

OUT OF THE BLUE

We remember when
songbirds kept
circling our doubts.

We might have caged
them for clarity.
Instead, we let

the flock circle,
as we listened
intently to their song.

    
(prev. pub. in Brevities, revised) 
 
 
 
 


POET WITH  DOVES                 

If the dove
you released a week ago
has not yet circled back
to your shoulder,
hold out
your writing hand
palm pitched up and watch

a peace dove land
on your lifeline
which long ago  
a fortune teller’s story
enlivened when
unveiled she read
your lifeline into glory.
 
 
 
       
 
AGAIN THE CLOUDS ASK.

Again the clouds ask
while draping the hills
of home: must war keep
speaking, sickening
this water planet?
 
While framing the hills,
again the clouds ask:
where is healing rain,
clean air for forests       
and river willows?


Regal in white robes
celestially clean,
again the clouds ask,
will industry go   
solar/wind full-bore,

resist resistance?
May clean inner skies
bring cosmic colors?

Again sky-clouds ask,
though mostly are mute:

when will more windmill
birds top hills, reap wind,
solar fields humming
power for people?

Again the clouds ask.
 
 
 
 

HOMEWARD NOW

        A house of cobwebs
    is not
for me and you
since we need golden rooms
of flowers and sun.
In finding ourselves,
we’ve sipped to the dregs
a bittersweet brew:
have neither lost nor won.
Still and evermore
no house of cobwebs will do,
though sometimes our steps
run shadowy and blue
and we grow misty
from walls pulsating gloom.
No house of cobwebs
   ever dare loom,
       only golden rooms
           of flowers and sun.

_________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT IF…

through every
mild and harsh
life experience
trees
of our spirit

add another
growth ring
until we stand tall
like Sequoias
leaned on by ferns?


—Claire J. Baker

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire J. Baker for her fine poetry today!
 
 
 
 Claire Baker at work while she waits
for the peace dove


















A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
features
Danny Romero and Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair
today in Sacramento, 4pm;
Beers Books presents Authors in Conversation
with Josh Fernandez and Jamil Jan Kochai,
also in Sacramento, 6pm; and
Out the Way on J features 
poets and music tonight,
also in Sacramento, 7pm.
For info about these 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!
 

 
















 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, March 15, 2024

The Ides of March

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Caschwa, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joyce Odam
 
 
INSUFFICIENCIES

It’s an early Monday mood, families having
breakfast, getting ready for the work-and-school
week, worrying about practicalities like money.
I’m looking out my kitchen pane sprinkled
with more than the forecast “intermittent light
rain,” meteorologists uncertain as stockbrokers
about what’s really going to happen. Beyond
the window, my garden where nothing grows but
ground squirrels, and a solitary crow heckling
from the wellhouse roof, protesting that I don’t
provide a field of golden corn. Be glad
for what you’ve got, I tell him—and myself.
 
 
 
 

SANDBAGS DOWN THE CREEK

Winter of sailing
sandbags down the creek becoming
a river, sandbags
off the levee that was

road, water remaking
landscape that was
pasture, was neighborhood and home.
We woke to new year

back to zero which was
mud from which
the water creatures crawled ashore
to live under

waves of uncertain weather, sandbags
sailing like clouds.
 
 
 
 

BRIGHT SPOT

This small wordsworth of
golden daffodils in full
bloom with lush green grass
outside RV storage, by
a campaign sign fallen flat.
 
 
 


BEFORE SPRING

What does white moth seek?
A spirit dances spirals
of woods light above the trail.

How does the earth tilt?
Four dogs come bounding unbound
from human leashes to joy.

What does river say?
Man gazes across water
rushing his footprints away.
 
 
 
 

SEASONAL

Behind the concrete dumpster wall,
not far from financial planner
and dentist, sits a car-seat which
served as resting place for someone
last summer. Now I find only
assorted storm-sodden items
of clothing, fallen leaves turning
to compost, and a plastic soft-
drink cup, mold’s permanent abode.
 
 
 
 

IN PASSING

Among a herd of Angus and Charolais, one heifer
lies flat on pasture ground. Too far away
to tell if she’s breathing. If I’d seen my horse
like that, I’d have called the vet. No farmhouse
in sight. My dog and I keep walking the trail.
The day is overcast and so is my mood.
At the bridge we turn back. There’s the field.
There’s the heifer awake, alive—
not trounced by anything but maybe a touch
of pre-spring fever. Grazing now
with the rest of the herd. Clouds persist, but sky
and earth look brighter.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:


BEFORE THE READING
—Taylor Graham

We wait under tilting circles
of one turkey vulture—scanning
for dead poets among living?
Are our poems alive?

___________________

The Ides of March bring (or is it brings?) us more fine poetry and photos from Taylor Graham, including a Tanka (“Bright Spot”); some 8-syllable lines (“Seasonal”); a Bema's Best (“Sandbags Down the Creek”); a Ryūka that is also a Question Poem (“Before the Reading”); a Word-Can Poem (“Insufficiencies”); and a Katauta (“Before Spring”). The Question Poem and the Katauta were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features Frank Gioia and Paul Godwin in Camino this Sunday, and Poetry in Motion read-around meets in Placerville on Monday morning. Then on Thursday, Cameron Park Library Poets and Writers Workshop meets at 5:30pm. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

Another workshop that is coming up in ED Country, this one in Georgetown on Saturday, March 23, 1-4pm, is Explore Riparian Landscape Through Art, Poetry and Native Plants with Alicia Funk, Corina del Carmel, and Lara Gularte. You need to pre-register for this one at www.eldoradolibrary.org. April, National Poetry Month, will be crackling with readings and other events, not the least of which is another Wakamatsu workshop in Placerville with Taylor Graham and Katy Brown on April 14. Register for that at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  
 
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)



There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!



* * *
 
 
 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo


This week we received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Caschwa, Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth. Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) took the surprising slant of the lion’s teeth; Nolcha used the “out like a lion” angle; and Stephen wrote about some of the many roles of the lion figure in England; he included photos:


MAKES ME WONDER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

should I pay a little more
and get one of those
electric toothbrushes
that swirls in circles?

it has really been tough
going using the straight
handle ones they give
away at the dental office

maybe next time I’m in
town I’ll stop by the store
and grab me some of
those newfangled (pun
intended) devices

* * *

MARCH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The lion and the lamb,
a march to a hill,
a ribbon of roses
I followed to you,
the blood and the spear.

* * *
 
 
 Lion Statue, Trafalgar Square, London
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Stephen Kingsnorth
 
 
UPROAR
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

If British Empire is its stand,
does lion roar with bleat of lamb?
It takes me to the prophet’s text:
both will lie down, in peace, as one.
But human trait, genetic trail,
is snarl, growl, teeth, claim monarch’s name,
a domination, king with pride,
the mane cat prowling on the veld.

Now this is mode. one of attack,
like those which guard Trafalgar Square —
a battle won, past days, acclaim.
‘Land of hope and glory’ remains
anthem, nation’s prime concert, ‘Prom’—
flag wave music, lyrical shame?
So there were two kings, left their stamp,
just as King Richard, Lionheart,
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Stephen Kingsnorth

With katzenjammer, caterwaul,
its rumble with a five mile spread,
the highest count of decibels,
for any beast in prairie lair;
is this the carcass, Samson’s tale,
bee swarm’s retreat for honey sweet,
brand syrup tin for Tate and Lyle?
It’s changing now, for world’s moved on,
Bible, empire, but not uproar.
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Stephen Kingsnorth

* * *

Taylor Graham sent us a poem made up of 8-syllable lines this week (“Seasonal”, see above). Here is a moody tour-de-force by Joyce Odam that is made up of seven-syllable lines:
 
 
 
 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
 

THE MOODY HISTORY
—Joyce Odam
After “Natural History Museum, London” 
(a photo by Tony Ginger)

Everywhere there are stairways
and halls, curved walls and windows,
ornate shadows and random
echoes that burrow through the
old places that seem to be
inhabited, though they are
empty now—all the olden
palaces and castles and
cathedrals—some in forests,
some on moors. Even the seas
remember them—nearby or
distant—all the old tourists
with their fables and tales. I’ve
read of them and lived a few.
I know how they feel, and smell,  
and moan, ever-so-slightly
at every departure. Their
musty draperies still hold
together and their cellars
still guard the wine. Their stories
are buried in forgetting—
their stairways still climb, and their
walls still curve together in
searchings and followings. Damp
halls disappear into rooms
that watch the widows fill with
captured views that never change.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/27/19)

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth, wherein he writes about the importance of poetry to him despite his ongoing battle with Parkinson’s Disease:
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Stephen Kingsnorth
 
 
CHARLATAN VS. CROWN OR CLOWN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I am a poet, foremost, first.
I’ll not let symptoms interfere—
though balance wayward, sway or turn,     
twitch, stumble, gout, or catch a fall,
handshake infirm or aching joint,
kick boxing though the woken night,
afflictions’ visit of the old,
arthritis—yes, the list is long.
But they’ll not dominate my lines,
or freeze me out from what I do,
as shuffle through the tipping point
to reach beyond imposed ill health.
Such imposition will not steal—
some claimed pathetic fallacy.

I am a poet, foremost, first.
I’ve words to write, as muse dictates,
a smith to bend wrought curlicues,
as wonder, wander through my world
of grief and joy, community;
apprentice journeyman unfolds
both secrets and the obvious,
with craft of glyphs laid side by side,
by rhythm berthed at pulse’s core.
I’ll not provide my illness space
to bully, assert, cower me.
This charlatan can’t have his way,
that sham, fake, but a shameless quack;    
my days are mine and so will be.

I’ll prove I’m poet first, foremost,
and not an advert, symptom’s reign.
It has no voice, less give it so,
can claim no power, unless allowed,
for it’s my verse from first to last,
that moves, if so, beyond that chance
encounter with drained dopamine—
whatever is afflicting you,
some metaphor that draws the line,
that illness claiming it is prime.
If you read me, my sick complaint,
then I have failed to dominate,
instead of being, complement,
the stanza as my one concern.

Treat as imposter vain disease;
why rant, accord significance?
Exhibit crown, though maybe clown
that versifies because I must.
I’ll not use fighting talk again,
as if the bout what’s all about,
this cheat who thinks the knockout his,
but won’t deflect me from what’s mine.
So while my will, ignore the lout,
his spouting in my ear I’m ill—
it’s an ill wind that blows no good—
creative stirred in paint and word,
and peerless gold when friends involved,
as I count peers in my surround.
 
 
 
 Stephen and Denise Kingsnorth


Our recent Ekphrastic photo challenge featured a tea set, and Stephen sent this photo of him at tea with his lovely wife, Denise.


___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!    

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Here’s a crazy-maker, the Barbee. (One of our SnakePals is Sam Barbee, but I’m sure this has no relation to him...)

•••Barbee: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee

•••AND/OR the equally exacting form with an interesting name, the Blood Quill:

•••Blood Quill: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill

•••AND/OR a form that is appropriate to the season and the times we live in, the Bryant:

•••Bryant: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Kites”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Barbee: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee
•••Bema’s Best: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best
•••Blood Quill: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill
•••Bryant: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Katauta: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy
of Public Domain



















 


A reminder that
Luna’s Cafe retired barista/owner
Art Luna will speak today 
about his experiences at Luna’s—
CSUS, 3pm.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.
 
 LittleSnake celebrates Spring

with crocuses






















 

Thursday, March 14, 2024

I Am A River

 
 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Nolcha Fox
 
 
STUCK IN THE RESTAURANT OF HELL

Any time I want to do
what’s easy, not what’s right,
I know I’ll find myself
locked in the Restaurant of Hell.
Servers could take centuries
to notice I am there.
They pour my coffee down my neck
instead of in my cup.
The roast beef is still mooing,
and bleeding on the plate,
and leaves a cake of poop
before it wanders out the door.
The salad sags and vibrates.
It grew from nuclear waste.
The bill is triple even though
I sit here all alone.
I’m paying for the privilege
of gagging up my food.
Best to choose some better moves
before it is too late,
and make my reservations
for a seat at heaven’s gate.
 
 
 
 

TAKING SIDES

It’s true that we must take a side,
left or right, up in the sky
or down below.
But I can choose another place,
perhaps the center of the room.
Or I can choose to hold my ground,
to claim what’s mine,
refuse to yield.
 
 
 
 

SOLITARY

A sickly sun behind a cell tower considers being swallowed into the mouth of a sullen steel bridge. A rusted shopping cart, the only vehicle parked in an empty lot, steels itself to roll into the concrete river under the bridge. Gone are the sticky fingers, the heavy loads, the metal-on-metal collisions. In this desolate world, it dreams of basking in warm, green water, of sparkling in the sun. It dreams of beauty.
 
 
 
 

YOU ADORE MY FEET

You swaddle me in fuzzy crush,
you keep me from the snow and ice.
You don’t mind acrylic stench
when my wool socks are in the wash.
I love you more than you are worth.
I swoon for you when days turn cold.
You are my only darling
til your laces break or soles wear out,
dear winter boots.
 
 
 
 

CARRIED INSIDE

I thought I left everything behind when I walked out with two suitcases and a typewriter.

I thought I left behind the blinds that rippled from too many days with a humidifier, and too many summer evenings I pushed them aside to watch my friends play when I was supposed to be in bed. I thought I left behind the confusion I was for the woman I wanted to be. I thought I left behind a shattered marriage, anger, and neglect for something better I’d never seen.

I opened my suitcases. It was all there, everything I thought I left.
 
 
 
 

SHUT UP

I heard a voice inside my head
that was dissatisfied.
You’ll never learn to cook a steak.
You’ll never be house-trained.
You’d fail as a mother.
You barely rate as wife.
Your hair’s too gray to wear so short.
Your butt is way too wide.

I tried a bribe of Reese’s
to make that voice go quiet.
The voice was unimpressed
and snarled she’d only eat Godiva.
I gave the voice a ticket
to a tropic paradise.
She said she went there yesterday
and prices were too high.

I joined the local marching band.
I played the music loud.
The voice gave up and went away,
but now I’ve lost my hearing. 
 
 
 
 

IT’S ALL WATER

1.
Rivers empty into the mouths
of other rivers that kiss the sea.
The sea spits up water into the mouths of clouds.
Clouds open their mouths to drench the land with
rain.
I am a river, drinking the rain, thirsting for the sea.

2.
You stare for hours at the waves,
your feet tangled in kelp,
sea and sand in soggy shoes.
Sun or rain or heavy seas,
you let the cold into your bones.
Perhaps you see your younger self
splashing in the surf.
Perhaps you see the ship
you never took sail out to sea.
Perhaps you’re waiting for the time
you turn to salt,
to melt into water.
 
 
 
 

MEMORY KEEPER

You were the one I went to
when I could not recall
silly things. What do I take
to make congestion go away?
What remedies can ease
the aches of living every day?
Family stories, recipes,
you kept them in your mind.
My soggy brain was free
of all the weight of memories.
You left with all your treasures,
and now I have to find
a box to keep what I retained
before it slips away.
 
 
 
 

SIGNS FROM THE BEYOND

My family was never a model of clear communica-
tion. I had to ferret out the meanings on my own.
Closed doors, silence, facial rictus, walking out the
door. Most often, I was left alone, puzzled by the
absence.

They’ve refused to tell me what it’s like when
bodies turn to ash and bones, to tell me of their
wanderings now that they’re only souls.

Or maybe I just miss the little things they send to
tell me they’re ok, to let me know they’re helping
me when I don’t know what to do.

Or maybe they do now in death what they did when
alive. Just leave without a wave goodbye, to never
speak of where they are, to travel on their own.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I JUST WROTE,
BUT DON’T I SOUND SMART?
—Nolcha Fox

Decay of plausible resignation,
vanquished regret,
exit from a circus of addiction.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry!
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!