Friday, August 14, 2020

A Silence of Leaves

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA



WILD OATS, RIPGUT BROME,

and this unnamed grass that falls
to the whirling string of my weed-eater
clearing a way up what used to be wagon road
before we came. Our sheep grazed it all
down as I learned to name filaree,
orchard-grass, milk thistle. Sheep are gone
now. I clear my path through brittling, dying
life that changes in the whirl of seasons.
Yet the same weeds sprout green under dead
weeds standing, and none of it cares to name me. 






SEPTOLET

Do counted words
count
to make
a poem?

Words let loose
from their
cage. 






DEAD END

Is this papyrus growing rank
with blackberry, wild rose, a grass
in bloom, and alder? Who’s to thank
for such profusion as I pass

from last paved place to this dead-end?
And, off beyond the “dead,” extend
oak woodlands under a blue sky
and something wild I couldn’t buy. 






SUNFALL

dusk
fills bedrock mortar—
who lived here
is gone

the rock
lifts me
down 






JUST WONDERING

Is it hearsay, these stories you tell me? how a trench was dug to discover if people lived on a certain ridge for ages without lease or title. Then came a landowner, and a survey transect to find or not find evidence. Nothing but native rock and soil. But is it true, just beyond the digging, a granite slab with deep holes from generations of women grinding acorns into meal— meals since the dawn of tribal memory. Do spirits inhabit such a place? They have no voice. Now will the land be parceled and sold to generations of mortgaged souls?

granite holes filling
with rainwater, fallen leaves—
earth-tea for spirits 






Today’s LittleNip:
 
BEHIND THE FARMHOUSE
—Taylor Graham

By shade of the keyaki tree
stir memories from across a sea—
a silence of leaves
brushing ghosted eaves
the breeze weaves, then lets be

__________________________

Friday again? Where do the weeks go? Anyway, the good news about Fridays is Taylor Graham is perking us up with with her graceful poetry, including some forms today: a couple of Septolets, a Rispetto (“Dead End”), a Clogyrnach (“Behind the Farmhouse”, using her favorite Welsh form), also a Haibun. See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.

__________________________

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, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.)

Our dear poet friend, Carol Frith, who passed away in May of this year, pioneered the form of the Unrhymed Villanelle, which she often brought to workshops that Katy Brown and I attended. Here is Katy’s fine example:


DEATH OF A BLACK WIDOW
IN THE TIME OF PANDEMIC
—Katy Brown, Davis, CA
 
We are all sheltering in place, now
—not leaving home, mostly—
except for food or other essentials.

I hadn’t been outside the house for
over a week.  The Honda went unused.
We are sheltering in place, these days.

Last week, I went out—all day and
into the evening.  I took photos instead
of going for food and other essentials.

When I got home, a black widow, living
beside my door, had come out into the open.
She was not sheltering in place anymore.

She was working to web-in my entry.
As big as an olive, she wove back and forth
—planning to trap food and other essentials.

I do not usually kill spiders, even black widows.
But she was laying her trap across my door
—I was the food item she’d stepped out for.
We’re almost all sheltering in place, again.

________________________

Carol Frith and her husband, Laverne, also co-edited the poetry journal, Ekphrasis, which published only Ekphrastic poetry (www.ekphrasisjournal.com). Such writing is a bit tricky, since it’s important to go beyond mere description and to broaden into interpretation. Here is an article which is very clear about what’s required in order to be truly Ekphrastic: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry/.

Our current Seed of the Week, in fact, is an Ekphrastic one based on the below illustration, followed by Caschwa’s (Carl Schwartz’s) excellent Ekphrastic interpretation of it:  



  —Public Domain Illustration
 


HEAT OF THE MOMENT (Ekphrastic)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

She stands before blooms
as if she is one of them
brilliant leaves of passion
vining around her tender arms

holding up a decorated fan
like it is the sun in the sky
bestowing rays of color
on all things growing

body snugly encapsulated
in writhing blue snakeskin
which she will shed when
the moment is perfect for love

her mind dismisses daily house-
hold chores, the rude expectations
of others; she is one of the flowers
politely waving to one another
 


—Public Domain Photo

 

Carl also sends us three other forms: a Kyrielle Sonnet, a Double Etheree, and a Clogyrnach:


IS THIS ALL REAL? (Kyrielle Sonnet)
—Caschwa

reality failed the big test
left-handedness, not like the rest
like being miscast in a play
the script and I go our own way

the plunge taught fear of the high dive
we tried it and we’re all alive
lifeguards powdered their nose each day
the script and I go our own way

got really good treading water
dove under when it got hotter
that worked as long as I could stay
the script and I go our own way

reality failed the big test
the script and I go our own way



 —Public Domain Photo
 


An Etheree—in fact, a double one:


DESTINATION UNKNOWN 
—Caschwa

steam
rising
vibrations
felt in the feet
watchmen check their clocks
firemen ease off on fuel
brakemen working, shift’s not done
passengers huddle at exits
firm grip on baggage, waiting to stop
a more static world awaits their coming
restrooms, hospitality services
on top of the list of things to find
world peace has to just wait in line
abolition, the new rule
reconstruction, says who?
watchmen check their clocks
just as before
all those darn
changes
made

* * *

And also a Clogyrnach:


DISEASE
—Caschwa

the park was full of empty heads
balloons with smiles, blues, yellows, reds
all would soon fizzle
tears sure to drizzle
hot sizzle
lacking meds

_____________________

Many thanks to today’s fine poets! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world—forms or not—including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

_____________________

—Medusa



 Machine of My Dreams
—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.







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