Nature's Art

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

SWEPT-WING

Tiny fighter jet
landing right on target to
probe blue to center—
perfect fit in nature’s art
elegant blossom with wings.

INSECT, FLOWER

Lacily gracily
Pickpocket-Pollinate—
what is this insect so
sveltly designed?

Long of proboscis and
aerodynamically
sucking up sustenance
darkly divined.

TINY UNNAMED

Black-lace jet? an arrow?


Insect finds its flower;


slips inside, and bravo! 


pollinating power.

CALLING BACK

We meet masked in cloud-dim early morning at the school, its lost scent of children, cast-off jackets, empty pockets lined up on the fence as for roll-call. Wind through corridors whispers in hedges and leafed-out trees, lunch tables and ball-fields. Off to the east, low murmur of loudspeaker, Sunday church, worshippers gathered in family groups on lawn, wind carrying their songs of praise. Your son, grown tall since school shut down, leads grandfather through a maze of deserted classrooms. Roses bloom un-sniffed. This is where we do history. A crayon’d sun smiles from inside window-glass, a silkscreen owl observes with huge frontal eyes. Window sign reads It takes a big heart to teach little minds.

waiting for children
the school fills with distant tones
of Hallelujah

DRIVING TO THE CITY OF BURNED ANGELS
        after the riots, May 1992

Butterflies burned against the grille,
we're driving to L.A.
No angels but faceless in the noonday glare
a man from somewhere—Selma,
Hermosillo, Chicago—a man
plucks litter off the gutter strip, keeping
our California clean. The smoke
hasn't settled yet on Hwy 99.
        We're driving to South-Central
where angels don't survive a city
that burns in its dreams.
We're driving California's butterflies
on the beak of our machine.
                It's thunder weather
and the clouds smoke.
Rain and dust dirty on the glass,
we're driving down daylight to the black
strip center of Angel City,
its timbers grilled against its wings.


first pub. by James Lee Jobe, 2007

SOULS ON MAIN STREET
             

              June 2020 



Black leathered on his bike 

not a cop, just a guy westbound at the T,
braked in the intersection gunning 


his machine—oh it could stop a life


mid-passage,


those schoolkids with their Peace signs


sitting on the sidewalk waiting.  


No procession, it isn’t safe.


He balances on his bike gunning
it in place, going 


nowhere. Yelling at the kids to shut
up, get out of there.


What were his eyes, face
shadowed by helmet, pitting


space between him 


and the children—souls in waiting


holding some calm 


of child faith in their pockets


as he wobbled his bike


cursing the honk that told him 


to move on.


What could come of it?  


a thrown bottle, runaway truck 


through the crowd?


When do police start or stop
kneeling?
 

Today’s LittleNip:

SOLEDAD
—Taylor Graham

Of 7 chicks, 6 tumbled from the nest,
found their wings rising, flash of neon-blue.
At last, Blue-Girl feathers-out, joins the rest.

_______________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poems today! She and husband Hatch and their dogs were active in Search & Rescue for many years, so the current riots bring a lot of that back, I imagine. She writes:

“I’m sending you an old poem (“Driving to the City of Burned Angels”) I wrote on the way down to L.A. to search for anyone caught in burned buildings after the '92 riots; and a new one from protests now. Also, three poems on one subject (an insect): tanka (57577, no rhymes), double dactyl, and rinnard (an Irish form: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rinnard-poetic-forms). Maybe your readers can tell [Taylor] what kind of bug it is.”

Note on aicill rhyme in the rinnard: An aicill rhyme means that the final syllable of line three rhymes somewhere in line four (usually the middle).

As for the dactyl, you might consider this Master Class given online by Billy Collins at www.masterclass.com/classes/billy-collins-teaches-reading-and-writing-poetry/. You are all master poets, of course…

Speaking of Master Poets, Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe continues his online poetry reading series on Friday, June 12th, this week with the poems of the French poet, Francis Ponge (1899-1988). This free reading will be posted online by 7:30 p.m. at both james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com  and at www.youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

Also online tonight, 6pm: Nomadic Press’s #13 Virtual Press Open Mic. Info: www.facebook.com/events/565129650845296/?notif_t=plan_user_invited&notif_id=1591502408363009/.
 
________________________
 

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen. 


Today, Tom Goff has sent us two smooth-as-silk Villanelles (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle). Always glad to have a little silk pass by the Kitchen window:
 

BLUE HOUSE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

Once more to the Casa Azul of Frida Kahlo!
Hayden Herrera’s new book first led me there.
If only I hadn’t been when young so callow,

In poems I could have distilled my Mexico,
Understood Coyoacán, its light and air,
Once more near the Casa Azul of Frida Kahlo.

I had my work to do; picked up some lingo,
Could conjugate easy verbs like entender;
But what if I’d not been so young, so callow?

I could have popped hot poppers of jalapeño
Easy as marshmallows, worldly-never-a-care,
If I’d hung around Blue House, casa de Frida Kahlo.

In my life’s kind of September (follow, follow)
Somehow I should scrounge time, cadge the plane fare
(If only when young I hadn’t been so callow),

On swallow’s tail or, falcon-beaked, wrist-flung, Hillo
Ho ho bird, with a desperate Shakespeare flair,
I’d again fly straight as Rivera to Frida Kahlo’s
Casa Azul. Once again young, not callow.

* * *

EUGENE / ANTONIN
—Tom Goff

Eugene O’Neill’s westward trip to Danville;
Tao House to rise in hill pastures, vineyard grapes.
Dvořák’s train ride takes him to Spillville.

Both artists feel their inner spirits refill
with energy, their forward thrust, escape.   
Eugene O’Neill’s westward trip to Danville,

his California reverse sojourn through hills
brings reveries, of ships’ decks, East Coast seascapes.
Dvořák’s ride, to Iowa’s Spillville,

reenergizes him, with vireo trills,
other birdsongs he hears for his, and shapes.
Eugene O’Neill’s westward trip to Danville

can’t possibly be quite like the Czech master’s thrill;
Rosie, the player piano, can scarcely scrape
out songs Dvořák would (not?) love in Spillville.

ONeill’s theater seems at times to kill
him: sagas of James Tyrone or Hairy Ape.
Is it for him or Carlotta, this new Danville

venture? Dvořák, steadier of will,
composer prepared for New Worlds, opens his drapes
to summer, to notes on wings, amid folk in Spillville.
A Long Day’s Journey, left for the man in Danville.


—with thanks to Carl Westphal

________________________

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent a Soledad (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/soledad-poetic-forms), including “internal assonance and consonance” (we talked about that last week). Bravo, Carl!


FEATHERS (a Soledad)
—Caschwa

old keg now raised bed with flowers
Eden’s edible edition
sunrise summons hungry powers

absurd blue feathered bird was heard
claiming dibs on the digs beneath
two squirrels vie to get the last word

imprisoned in dirt, arisen
fine fruit for the harvest artist
blue feathers flappin’ and whizzin'
 

And a Canopus (poetscollective.org/poetryforms/canapus):


EXOTIC & QUIXOTIC
—Caschwa

canned octopus is sold as Canopus
on our first date I let you sample some
a kind stranger opened the can for us
you must have thought I was some kind of bum
no spoons around so we used a shoe horn
resourceful we were, quite distant from dumb
we’ll date again when you’re over your scorn

***

we call police when life is in peril
trained professionals all up to the task
monkeys appear from out of the barrel
put us in handcuffs, what more could we ask?
they take us to jail and lock us up tight
coldest floor ever, odors one can’t mask
then we hear them laughing all through the night

***

I heard you got in trouble again, Don
Juan, no protection left you wondering
would this leave a problem you could not con
your way out of by talk or thundering
maybe fake it like your golf score, or you
could always pin it on an underling
but that’s how you work, so what else is new? 

Carl asked the age-old question, “Do poets lie?” Well of course they do! (See www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2012/08/are-we-often-seeing-what-is-untrue-as-true-anne-boyer-on-poets-and-lying  AND/OR  agonist.nietzschecircle.com/wp/poets_tuncel/.) Carl says this is a made-up drink:


GET IT RIGHT
—Caschwa

my turn in the drive-thru line fast approaching
rehearsal commenced for speaking my order
and now, at last, the car ahead is leaving
the barista awaits as I lean toward her

“a Volte Rispetto Latte, extra cream”
my favorite beverage, goes down like a dream
been getting that drink every day for some years
traffic behind me, better use forward gears

* * *

And a Rispetto:

FULCRUM (a Rispetto)
—Caschwa

what is the biggest rock that you think you can
pick up and hurl all the way across the sky?
if you said “Earth” your predictable human
flaw is to tell the absolute biggest lie

if you paused, lips silent, and had no answer
but to plant one leg as a ballet dancer
suggesting delicate balance is the key
then we can hold a discussion, you and me

_____________________

So: Our thanks to today's artists for outstanding work! Be sure to try your hand at a form or two ~ Time does march on . . .

—Medusa

 —Public Domain Photo

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Yee-Haw!

Saddle up, Poets!