—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
TIDEMARKS
Is this opportunity or fear,
dawning break or dusky cloud?
The launch, fresh hope in brave new world,
beyond the bar, the haven sound?
Tidemarks ripple with histories—
the stand Canute made in the sand,
sad farewell waves to pilgrim clan—
your choice declares which zeitgeist land.
Camargue, sea horses in the brine,
main Cresta Run on snowy slopes,
the roar of Forties round the horn,
can all these be same element?
A storm to focus who dare trust,
caveman to sit in his right mind,
a catch to haul on other side,
thrice affirmed whom cock timed lie.
But here anachronistic source,
no plankton glow or Elmo fire—
luciferen, corona charge—
seems no escape that tidal wave.
This scenery, chicanery,
the juxtaposed grit filament;
perhaps transparent oyster shell,
the lightbulb should be pearl not clear?
Is this opportunity or fear,
dawning break or dusky cloud?
The launch, fresh hope in brave new world,
beyond the bar, the haven sound?
Tidemarks ripple with histories—
the stand Canute made in the sand,
sad farewell waves to pilgrim clan—
your choice declares which zeitgeist land.
Camargue, sea horses in the brine,
main Cresta Run on snowy slopes,
the roar of Forties round the horn,
can all these be same element?
A storm to focus who dare trust,
caveman to sit in his right mind,
a catch to haul on other side,
thrice affirmed whom cock timed lie.
But here anachronistic source,
no plankton glow or Elmo fire—
luciferen, corona charge—
seems no escape that tidal wave.
This scenery, chicanery,
the juxtaposed grit filament;
perhaps transparent oyster shell,
the lightbulb should be pearl not clear?
OUTLOOK STUDY
After Roof Tops in the Snow
—Painting by Gustave Caillebotte (France), 1878
A standpoint chooses what is seen,
which angle, insight—window pane?—
another, unexpected scene,
perspective, maybe overview.
Of outside in, from upside, down,
a parkour pupil on the run,
this aerial, receiver set,
retuned from level-headed plane.
The blanket lays a common bed,
to neutralise distinctive marks,
and emphasise contrasting lights,
sourced from surrounding filtered sky.
Acute, that angle is obtuse,
an outlook from a rooftop space,
that covered ground is in the air,
and lightweight snow hides what beneath.
So why is fixed and statuesque,
the image raised by standpoint cue,
when changed and new, though overdue
is need to climb that balcony?
After Roof Tops in the Snow
—Painting by Gustave Caillebotte (France), 1878
A standpoint chooses what is seen,
which angle, insight—window pane?—
another, unexpected scene,
perspective, maybe overview.
Of outside in, from upside, down,
a parkour pupil on the run,
this aerial, receiver set,
retuned from level-headed plane.
The blanket lays a common bed,
to neutralise distinctive marks,
and emphasise contrasting lights,
sourced from surrounding filtered sky.
Acute, that angle is obtuse,
an outlook from a rooftop space,
that covered ground is in the air,
and lightweight snow hides what beneath.
So why is fixed and statuesque,
the image raised by standpoint cue,
when changed and new, though overdue
is need to climb that balcony?
GOLD DUST
What is the book that spiders read—
some novel text on web design,
instruction how to wait and prey—
as if religious tract in place,
or spinster’s line, left on the shelf—
in shady room, this dirty book,
eight legs entwined, arachnid tale?
Here, sadly, one unread, ill-used,
though no excuse for such abuse—
the case in point of Roman font,
our classics born, though unbaptised,
a volume, knowledge, hidden, waste?
Where is the renaissance of past?
Stillborn I fear, unspoken times.
Those bookworms who consume the page—
they burrow in from wood below,
like tubifex in library,
skeletal spread, insect debris
of brittle legs and dehydrate,
decaying flesh here on display,
by Monsterkoi on Pixabay.
Find Attic script with lofty thoughts,
Greek tragedy or worthy prose;
perhaps we’re here in Plato’s cave
where every word has shadow phrase,
empirical, disputed proof,
like watered whisky from still life,
or sloe gin needing faster pace.
Or Ovid, Metamorphosis?
Transforming literature I hear—
mark Hero’s features, myth nineteen,
as Byron, swam the Hellespont,
the strait between two airwave seas,
a channel, victim Covid’s strain,
breast stroke of love with gasps for breath?
Here dust jackets work overtime—
no leather or stag beetles. Mites
and maybe sleepy mice abound,
as dropping off, or shutting traps,
the reading room for quiet types,
a workbench for the printed press,
true gold dust, stored for future reads.
What is the book that spiders read—
some novel text on web design,
instruction how to wait and prey—
as if religious tract in place,
or spinster’s line, left on the shelf—
in shady room, this dirty book,
eight legs entwined, arachnid tale?
Here, sadly, one unread, ill-used,
though no excuse for such abuse—
the case in point of Roman font,
our classics born, though unbaptised,
a volume, knowledge, hidden, waste?
Where is the renaissance of past?
Stillborn I fear, unspoken times.
Those bookworms who consume the page—
they burrow in from wood below,
like tubifex in library,
skeletal spread, insect debris
of brittle legs and dehydrate,
decaying flesh here on display,
by Monsterkoi on Pixabay.
Find Attic script with lofty thoughts,
Greek tragedy or worthy prose;
perhaps we’re here in Plato’s cave
where every word has shadow phrase,
empirical, disputed proof,
like watered whisky from still life,
or sloe gin needing faster pace.
Or Ovid, Metamorphosis?
Transforming literature I hear—
mark Hero’s features, myth nineteen,
as Byron, swam the Hellespont,
the strait between two airwave seas,
a channel, victim Covid’s strain,
breast stroke of love with gasps for breath?
Here dust jackets work overtime—
no leather or stag beetles. Mites
and maybe sleepy mice abound,
as dropping off, or shutting traps,
the reading room for quiet types,
a workbench for the printed press,
true gold dust, stored for future reads.
THE MOVEMENT OF MOSS
A name, owned home to peat in bog,
long spades to lift the winter fuel—
now that’s a movement of the moss
for those in Ireland’s rural space
though not why it’s termed Emerald Isle.
Seems aerial of jungle growth
or hillocks shaded on one side—
a sign of life left undisturbed
or cover up, where pointing needs,
like ivy’s sucking tentacles.
How slowly goes this spreading rash,
its menu, mostly damp for growth,
a creepy tale of horror genre
or semi-precious peridots.
The brightest lime with bottle shades,
as groupies say, the rock must roll
for rolling stones gather no moss.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.
—Isaac Asimov
___________________
Poking his head out from the storms the Welsh having been having this week is Stephen Kingsnorth, bringing us more fine poems and pix to go with them. Thanks, Stephen! We can even forgive him for his rolling-stones joke, for the rock indeed must roll . . .
For more about Gustave Caillebotte’s Rooftops in the Snow, go to www.dailyartmagazine.com/winter-in-paris-gustave-caillebotte-rooftops-in-the-snow/.
•••Today (Sat., 2/26), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Dave Boles plus open mic, Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy 49 (where Hwy 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.), Diamond Springs, CA. Host: Lara Gularte.
A name, owned home to peat in bog,
long spades to lift the winter fuel—
now that’s a movement of the moss
for those in Ireland’s rural space
though not why it’s termed Emerald Isle.
Seems aerial of jungle growth
or hillocks shaded on one side—
a sign of life left undisturbed
or cover up, where pointing needs,
like ivy’s sucking tentacles.
How slowly goes this spreading rash,
its menu, mostly damp for growth,
a creepy tale of horror genre
or semi-precious peridots.
The brightest lime with bottle shades,
as groupies say, the rock must roll
for rolling stones gather no moss.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.
—Isaac Asimov
___________________
Poking his head out from the storms the Welsh having been having this week is Stephen Kingsnorth, bringing us more fine poems and pix to go with them. Thanks, Stephen! We can even forgive him for his rolling-stones joke, for the rock indeed must roll . . .
For more about Gustave Caillebotte’s Rooftops in the Snow, go to www.dailyartmagazine.com/winter-in-paris-gustave-caillebotte-rooftops-in-the-snow/.
•••Today (Sat., 2/26), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Dave Boles plus open mic, Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy 49 (where Hwy 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.), Diamond Springs, CA. Host: Lara Gularte.
•••Tomorrow (Sun., 2/27), 4pm: Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc. presents Tim Kahl for a reading/discussion: The Intersection of Music and Poetry via Sound Design. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/82146184841/.
___________________
—Medusa
___________________
—Medusa
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