—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And Form Fiddlers’ Friday, too!
—And Form Fiddlers’ Friday, too!
FIELD CHERITA
In the sun-burnt field of dead grasses
you searched a field guide
for this living green just opening
in milkweed blooms
a moth delicate as old lace
chose it above all lilies of the field.
In the sun-burnt field of dead grasses
you searched a field guide
for this living green just opening
in milkweed blooms
a moth delicate as old lace
chose it above all lilies of the field.
QUICK-STEP
He’s practically blind but
can see her moving ahead of him
down the hill, dodging rocks
and stumps—this land
he used to walk in the dark
without a light, land he knew
by heart back then, and even now
by quirks of memory.
She’s become his eyes, guiding
ahead then walking back-
wards to keep him coming true,
keep him from driving
into the ditch with his rancher’s
quad. She doesn’t wish
to be run over, either. It’s
a dance she does in work boots
and the give-&-take of
forwards and back, to music
of his freedom machine.
QUICK FIX
(a Haibun)
She dreamed or woke to sound of mice rummaging the bedroom, rushing the hall, gnawing tin and glass fortifications of kitchen, pantry. As if the house lacked latches, mouse scat everywhere. Mouse traps flipped end over end, cheese-bait stolen. On the window-sill, trap sprung, blood sprayed over pane and sink, one mouse caught in trap-jaw, another dangling by a paw. Their dead eyes, ears, whiskers. Two mice with one stone. Why feel guilty over dead vermin? A rodent dynasty to take their place. No. A cat shall join the mix, she thinks. Quiet as cat-paw,
dark as the crevice
whence comes the mouse and whither
it shall steal away
BIG BOOK OF WHY
(a Book Spine Poem)
the message of the stars
more than soil more than sky
wild
sound and sense
pity the beautiful
house of light
on the wild edge
straw for the fire
pale fire
questions about angels
fooling with words
hidden in the chaparral
silent spring
cloud of sparrows
in search of the wild dulcimer
the branch will not break
THISTLE KING
(an Imago)
Milk thistle rules the creekbed—
purple crowns in spring,
thorn-blade leaves brittle by June,
thistledown in breeze—
but there’s no breeze this morning
to make the dead stalks
quiver, bow—flash of wings, gold-
finch loves thistle-seed.
FIRE CLOUD
(some Ivors)
The eastern sky’s on fire.
Gold-amber sunlit cloud.
Our fields gone dark as night.
Raincloud full of lightning?
Birds asleep on branches.
Flaming dreams past sunset.
Hymn to moon-cloud’s silver.
Today’s LittleNip:
BLUEBIRD
(a Pleiades)
—Taylor Graham
Beginnings of a new nest—
bluebird nest of field grasses
brown, rough, dead, woven in a
box installed on pasture fence
by bird-loving folks who build
boxes and watch the sky for
bright blue flashes of bluebird.
____________________
Bushel of thanks to Taylor Graham this week for her fine poetry and for intriguing forms such as:
•••a Cherita (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=cherita);
•••a Book Spine Poem (law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry);
•••a Haibun (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form);
•••an Imago (eight lines in alternating syllables, 7 5 7 5 7 5 7 5);
•••Ivors (6-syllable Imagist poems); and
•••a Pleiades (www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pleiades.html).
Check out today's post above for examples of these.
____________________
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Lately in this Snake pit, mention has been made of the Book Spine Poem (law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry), which is actually a close relative of the List Poem (www.rcowen.com/PDFs/Franco Ch 20 for web.pdf) and the Found Poem (www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/found poem). The List and the Found Poems can be all sorts of subjects and forms, often including Anaphoras (literarydevices.net/anaphora). The Book Spine Poem is more restricted, using only book titles—but of course, since poets do lie, who’s to say that the titles you use actually ARE real books… Anyway, whatever your version of the truth is, see Taylor Graham’s Book Spine Poem, “Big Book of Why”, on her post today, and give this fun form a fiddle!
Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has been doodling with forms this week, as always (he likes making them up as well as going traditional, or variations on traditional). About this first poem, he writes: “Here is a poem in the syllable form of 8/8/5. I didn’t see a reference to this exact form on the Internet, but then, no one lives that long to see all that is on the Internet.” [Or, we might add, all the forms that have popped into existence over lo, these many years—and still pop up even as we speak.]
Here is Carl’s 8/8/5, which probably should have a name, if it isn’t already an officially formal form. (Wow! an “umlaut convention”!)
WE’VE MET THEM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
those individuals who bring
their fanciest tilde to an
umlaut convention
psychiatrists who have you lie
down and blurt out all you know, while
they do Sudoku
politicians who spread their arms
widely enough to reach into
your deepest pockets
little children who easily
comprehend the inner workings
of modern gadgets
poets who capture our most well-
kept secrets, and publish them for
all the world to know
For the difference between the umlaut and the diaeresis, "The Curse of the Diaeresis", go to www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-curse-of-the-diaeresis.
As for spilling secrets, Carl, it’s the poets themselves who spill. Just read between those lines…
Carl writes a very smooth Villanelle. Here’s his latest:
SELLOUT
—Caschwa
sold down the river, trusting ticket sales
but they didn’t show up because “enough”
only got minnows when expecting whales
sign a release in case your body fails
you just can’t make up this dubious stuff
sold down the river, trusting ticket sales
diehard fans stand and lean against the rails
no matter what else happens they are tough
only got minnows when expecting whales
don’t bother fact-checking these holy grails
believe the experience in the rough
sold down the river trusting ticket sales
batten the hatches and trim all the sails
watch for the lighthouse up high on the bluff
only got minnows when expecting whales
hard to look faithful when confidence pales
birthday cake candles that fight your best puff
sold down the river, trusting ticket sales
only got minnows when expecting whales
You must remember this, a hiss is just a hiss…
—Public Domain Photo
—Public Domain Photo
And here’s a sonnet from Carl:
AN EVOLUTION
—Caschwa
pen to paper poetry, classical
expressions of heretofore forbidden
feelings released, comical, musical
shielding our eyes from squalor, rat-ridden
furniture, low life, service to the king
then someone invented the typewriter
clickety, clackety, ring and then ding
words came out faster than people could sing
the microchip, word processor, faster!
writers sit at a triple manual
bass pedals below that shake the plaster
words drawn from your senior high annual
and where are we going with all these toys?
just girls will be girls, and boys will be boys
____________________
Between SnakePals Taylor Graham and Caschwa, we have plenty of food for thought, pen and computer today! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com.
Remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
