—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!!!
—And then scroll down to FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!!!
FROM ASHES
What conjured up these ashes on the deck?
Ashes soft as stuff of dreams I’d look back on
next morning, mysteries of midnight visions
too strange to be credible. Meanwhile,
days pass, dependable as Time over green
fields. Ashes sifted into spaces of decking
as March slipped into April. No more
woodstove fires—but ashes on the deck?
I watched a turkey hen pecking up birdseed,
then startling as I slid open the door. She
took wing, cleared a deck-bench, sailed
high over pyracantha, to land not far from
the ash-pile; puffed up her feathers, strutted
onto the heap, and proceeded to thoroughly
dust herself with cold ashes.
Mystery solved. Ashes on the wind.
What conjured up these ashes on the deck?
Ashes soft as stuff of dreams I’d look back on
next morning, mysteries of midnight visions
too strange to be credible. Meanwhile,
days pass, dependable as Time over green
fields. Ashes sifted into spaces of decking
as March slipped into April. No more
woodstove fires—but ashes on the deck?
I watched a turkey hen pecking up birdseed,
then startling as I slid open the door. She
took wing, cleared a deck-bench, sailed
high over pyracantha, to land not far from
the ash-pile; puffed up her feathers, strutted
onto the heap, and proceeded to thoroughly
dust herself with cold ashes.
Mystery solved. Ashes on the wind.
WHAT KIND OF COURTSHIP
Is he being shy? or sly? Tail slung low as if oblivious
to Spring. What kind of Tom doesn’t strut, parading
his splendid fan for the world to admire? Maybe
not enough turkeys around, only that odd white
wild hen. Or maybe the weight of his extravagant
showpiece is too much to bear. Maybe he lacks
energy for courtship anymore. Or he thinks
my camera’s a shotgun to end his April love-life.
All alone, he mopes from swale to hilltop and,
when almost out of sight, he flips the switch and
gives me just a glimpse of glory; then his tail
subsides like the hope of a jilted lover. What about
that white hen? But enough of turkey psychology.
No photo for me—I’ll try to capture Tom in a poem.
Is he being shy? or sly? Tail slung low as if oblivious
to Spring. What kind of Tom doesn’t strut, parading
his splendid fan for the world to admire? Maybe
not enough turkeys around, only that odd white
wild hen. Or maybe the weight of his extravagant
showpiece is too much to bear. Maybe he lacks
energy for courtship anymore. Or he thinks
my camera’s a shotgun to end his April love-life.
All alone, he mopes from swale to hilltop and,
when almost out of sight, he flips the switch and
gives me just a glimpse of glory; then his tail
subsides like the hope of a jilted lover. What about
that white hen? But enough of turkey psychology.
No photo for me—I’ll try to capture Tom in a poem.
WEEDS OF THE FIELD
O Indian Lettuce, green elf-umbrellas make a salad—
O Milk Thistle, prickles and purple crown, Goldfinch friend—
O Catchweed Bedstraw, you stick to my pantlegs—
O Redstem Stork’s-bill, needle-sharp awns wound like clock-springs—
O Dove’s-foot Crane’s-bill, Henbit Deadnettle, Sharp-tooth Sanicle,
O Common Fiddleneck singing with bees, resisting my weed-eater—
O Hairy Vetch, nitrogen-fixer, lacy sprays of purple bloom—
O Ribwort Plantain, nourishment for pregnant doe.
O Great Brome known as Ripgut, hazardous to dogs—
O Sand Fringepod & Creeping Woodsorrel—
you greens growing wild over field & rocky hill,
fodder & dainties for sheep, wildflowers in season,
folk medicine if only I knew the lore—
O lush green to weed-eat against wildfire season;
land of labor, meditation, & mystery.
O Indian Lettuce, green elf-umbrellas make a salad—
O Milk Thistle, prickles and purple crown, Goldfinch friend—
O Catchweed Bedstraw, you stick to my pantlegs—
O Redstem Stork’s-bill, needle-sharp awns wound like clock-springs—
O Dove’s-foot Crane’s-bill, Henbit Deadnettle, Sharp-tooth Sanicle,
O Common Fiddleneck singing with bees, resisting my weed-eater—
O Hairy Vetch, nitrogen-fixer, lacy sprays of purple bloom—
O Ribwort Plantain, nourishment for pregnant doe.
O Great Brome known as Ripgut, hazardous to dogs—
O Sand Fringepod & Creeping Woodsorrel—
you greens growing wild over field & rocky hill,
fodder & dainties for sheep, wildflowers in season,
folk medicine if only I knew the lore—
O lush green to weed-eat against wildfire season;
land of labor, meditation, & mystery.
PSEUDOPROMPTEDHYPOLINGUISTICAL
wishes
always
hidden
rankle
within
*
might
poems
still
dwell
under
books
ECLOGUE
Poet:
Lovely Fiddleneck of golden flowers,
you unfurl in legions for this spring.
Fiddleneck:
Oh yes, we’ve grown in wit since you came
with motor-scythe and gas-techno powers
to mow us. How we cursed the noisy thing
that put an end to our song. It was a shame.
Poet:
I regretted every stroke. But now you sing
again with bees. I’ll spare you now, and mow
you later as the changing season turns
golden fiddles flammable. Don’t you know
your song is ashes if the foothill burns?
CATHARTIC COOKIES
Whisk together flour, baking powder, salt. Beat butter till creamy-smooth. Add sugar, beat till fluffy-soft. Repeat with egg and vanilla. Add flour, beat some more; then milk. Add raisins and magic dried apricots, chopped. Drop by spoonfuls onto baking sheet. 375 degrees till golden brown.
Enjoy. Get ready
to excuse yourself—
Nature calls. Sweet peace.
Today’s LittleNip:
WEED-WHACKING
—Taylor Graham
In our pasture and up the hill
the grass is crazy green waist-high.
Of hairy-vetch I’ve had my fill
and wild oat reaches for the sky.
Another morning mowing weed
before the foxtails go to seed;
another pathway through the rough—
knowing it never is enough.
______________________
Oh, yes, TG—never enough weed-eating—like laundry and dusting and washing dirty dishes. Taylor Graham tells the truth, and we send thanks to her for her fine Friday fotos and poetry! Forms she has used this week include a Wordy 30 (“Pseudopromptedhyolinguistical”); a List Poem that is possibly Pastoral also (“Weeds of the Field”); a Word-Can Poem/Pastoral (“From Ashes”); an Eclogue (“Eclogue”); a Recipe Poem/Haibun that is also Medusa's Ekphrastic Challenge from last week (“Cathartic Cookies”); and a Rispetto/Pastoral (“Weed-Whacking”).
Our congratulations to TG for winning Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 November Poem-a-Day Chapbook Challenge for her collection, November Home! Check it out at Robert's Writer's Digest site, “Write Better Poetry” (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry)/.
It’s not too late to receive poetry-writing prompts for the rest of the days this National Poetry Month from Poetry Super Highway. See www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/april-12-2022-poetry-writing-prompt-frogg-corpse AND/OR www.facebook.com/groups/poetrysuperhighway/.
And here’s something that applies only to some of us: Women in Their 80s is seeking personal accounts by women in their 80s for an anthology of prose and poetry on being an octogenarian. No restrictions on style/length; prev. pub. work OK. Send to detaylor@cabrillo.edu/. Deadline is Sept. 30.
And now it’s time for , , ,
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
WEED-WHACKING
—Taylor Graham
In our pasture and up the hill
the grass is crazy green waist-high.
Of hairy-vetch I’ve had my fill
and wild oat reaches for the sky.
Another morning mowing weed
before the foxtails go to seed;
another pathway through the rough—
knowing it never is enough.
______________________
Oh, yes, TG—never enough weed-eating—like laundry and dusting and washing dirty dishes. Taylor Graham tells the truth, and we send thanks to her for her fine Friday fotos and poetry! Forms she has used this week include a Wordy 30 (“Pseudopromptedhyolinguistical”); a List Poem that is possibly Pastoral also (“Weeds of the Field”); a Word-Can Poem/Pastoral (“From Ashes”); an Eclogue (“Eclogue”); a Recipe Poem/Haibun that is also Medusa's Ekphrastic Challenge from last week (“Cathartic Cookies”); and a Rispetto/Pastoral (“Weed-Whacking”).
Our congratulations to TG for winning Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 November Poem-a-Day Chapbook Challenge for her collection, November Home! Check it out at Robert's Writer's Digest site, “Write Better Poetry” (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry)/.
It’s not too late to receive poetry-writing prompts for the rest of the days this National Poetry Month from Poetry Super Highway. See www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/april-12-2022-poetry-writing-prompt-frogg-corpse AND/OR www.facebook.com/groups/poetrysuperhighway/.
And here’s something that applies only to some of us: Women in Their 80s is seeking personal accounts by women in their 80s for an anthology of prose and poetry on being an octogenarian. No restrictions on style/length; prev. pub. work OK. Send to detaylor@cabrillo.edu/. Deadline is Sept. 30.
And now it’s time for , , ,
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
WHEN POETS DREAM
—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
A poet loves to mull upon the sheep
that tinkle softly up and down the hill:
she loves to contemplate them from afar,
to cherish every squeak and bleat and blatt.
The skinny dreamy poet despises that
disparate image which may dull or mar
her sheeply idyll—something which might kill
this pastorale she spins alone: a heap
of dung, perhaps, that tell-tale sheepish smell,
some loud, obnoxious ringing of a bell,
a surly lad who gestures with his crook
in churlish ways, politeness long forsook.
Yes, poets love to re-write ticklish dreams—
they hate to think that all's not as it seems. . .
* * *
Such is my Pastoral Ars Poetica, killing two Challenge birds from last week with one limp-wristed stone. Keep writing those Ars Poetica poems (www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica), as we celebrate National Poetry Month throughout April!
—Public Domain Drawing
Here is an Ars Poetica from Joe Nolan about the way we use words:
“WHATEVER!” & “ANYWAY”…
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
“Whatever!”
I say it my way,
Not your way.
My way’s
A little different–
It just means,
“Ç’est la vie!”
It doesn’t mean—
“It’s useless,
Hopeless and forlorn,
A matter for scorn.”
My, “Whatever!”
Is not necessarily
Forever.
I just wanted to mention,
We often speak
In differenced language
And don’t mean
The same thing,
When we say
What we say, like,
“Anyway...”
“WHATEVER!” & “ANYWAY”…
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
“Whatever!”
I say it my way,
Not your way.
My way’s
A little different–
It just means,
“Ç’est la vie!”
It doesn’t mean—
“It’s useless,
Hopeless and forlorn,
A matter for scorn.”
My, “Whatever!”
Is not necessarily
Forever.
I just wanted to mention,
We often speak
In differenced language
And don’t mean
The same thing,
When we say
What we say, like,
“Anyway...”
—Public Domain Photo
Joyce Odam has sent us a Daisy Chain; the last letter of the preceding line becomes the first letter of the next line:
MISGIVINGS AT TWILIGHT
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
How
wounded we are,
evening’s defeated lovers,
sighing hopelessly—
you full of old lament,
trusting in love’s whip
proving its sting to you—
unless I deflect
the blows. And I,
in my own haphazard way,
yearn for the old perfection,
not this exchange of sad
dyings we always feel—
loss after loss—the sun going down,
no way to return—
nothing to return to,
only what we tell, and retell,
love we would let absorb—
but we don’t know how.
MISGIVINGS AT TWILIGHT
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
How
wounded we are,
evening’s defeated lovers,
sighing hopelessly—
you full of old lament,
trusting in love’s whip
proving its sting to you—
unless I deflect
the blows. And I,
in my own haphazard way,
yearn for the old perfection,
not this exchange of sad
dyings we always feel—
loss after loss—the sun going down,
no way to return—
nothing to return to,
only what we tell, and retell,
love we would let absorb—
but we don’t know how.
The Appraisal by Grant Wood, 1931
—Public Domain Painting Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
Here are two Pastoral Poems (Bucolics) from Stephen Kingsnorth addressing our FFF Challenge last week:
ESTEEM
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
From farmyard flock to factory,
could they foresee come-chlorine dressed?
Urbane leisure faced rural work,
whose hint of curve, whose firm-set lips,
which eyes to read or shaded brim?
No tears will spill, pass aquiline,
until too late, when passion spent,
for who the beak-like nose presents?
Neat produce patch is mirror-work,
hug-clutched within olecranon
and glimpse of dress above the bird.
Is either supplicant, resigned?
Fashion followed or eschewed,
bucolic end prosperity,
is harmony repressed or cooped?
While paradigm plank formal framed,
a cleft or double for the chin,
the comb, as bobble, crowning pate,
but what is pinned stays under hat—
no blue-rinse felt beneath crush-hide?
The best coat is firm finger-held—
like some masonic signal spread
as though set square is soon to melt—
but who views whom, and what esteemed?
—Public Domain Cartoon
BUCOLIC
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Why do I think of red flushed face—
it must be olic at the end,
as too phlegmatic close to phlegm,
or cold and moist of stem course phloem.
Yet work of Wordsworth spoke, as teen,
in ‘Michael’, verse of Lakeland fells,
a shepherd, sheep flock, father, son,
the lad, lost fold, rife city strife.
At fourteen, stranger in my class,
that pastoral should speak to me?
Did I appraise city surround,
in contrast to the fields around?
It changed my life that rural move
away from London sixties streets.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Why do I think of red flushed face—
it must be olic at the end,
as too phlegmatic close to phlegm,
or cold and moist of stem course phloem.
Yet work of Wordsworth spoke, as teen,
in ‘Michael’, verse of Lakeland fells,
a shepherd, sheep flock, father, son,
the lad, lost fold, rife city strife.
At fourteen, stranger in my class,
that pastoral should speak to me?
Did I appraise city surround,
in contrast to the fields around?
It changed my life that rural move
away from London sixties streets.
Home of the Kingsnorths
Here is a combination Ekphrastic Ars Poetica Pastoral Poem from Stephen:
BLOCKED
—Stephen Kingsnorth
While we sit quiet through the clock,
she reading, I, my poetry,
unphased whips roar from high to low,
regaling rips wrap round this home.
This is a noisy lodge.
Though wooden beams no longer sway
and quarried rocks that block the walls
have held since miners built their place,
the chimney sweeps, stacked with gusts
which tunnel into breathing space.
The shifting draughts search narrow slits
between the jambs and wooden frames;
uneasy doors graze partner woods,
contrapuntal sounds protesting grains,
though none respond to grating knots.
Will yellow flags which fly from pond
find poles too thin, be wrenched from mud,
or supple subtlety supplant?
Will flowing sapling, scraping grass, snap,
greenstick fracture, bearing pulpy cambium?
The lane is closed by rolling trunk,
blocked movement, waiting tractor haul,
though mail, milkman determine through.
With spitting twigs and keening boughs,
a Schoenberg symphony which veers then jars,
this threnody threatens to drown verse.
I peer by pane, watch wrecking works,
clematis pagoda blocking climb of
postman, bearing job rejection slips.
BLOCKED
—Stephen Kingsnorth
While we sit quiet through the clock,
she reading, I, my poetry,
unphased whips roar from high to low,
regaling rips wrap round this home.
This is a noisy lodge.
Though wooden beams no longer sway
and quarried rocks that block the walls
have held since miners built their place,
the chimney sweeps, stacked with gusts
which tunnel into breathing space.
The shifting draughts search narrow slits
between the jambs and wooden frames;
uneasy doors graze partner woods,
contrapuntal sounds protesting grains,
though none respond to grating knots.
Will yellow flags which fly from pond
find poles too thin, be wrenched from mud,
or supple subtlety supplant?
Will flowing sapling, scraping grass, snap,
greenstick fracture, bearing pulpy cambium?
The lane is closed by rolling trunk,
blocked movement, waiting tractor haul,
though mail, milkman determine through.
With spitting twigs and keening boughs,
a Schoenberg symphony which veers then jars,
this threnody threatens to drown verse.
I peer by pane, watch wrecking works,
clematis pagoda blocking climb of
postman, bearing job rejection slips.
—Public Domain Cartoon
This next poem is from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), the title of this one a play on the word, “Pastoral”. It could also be said to refer to the cookies in last Friday’s Ekphrastic Challenge:
PAST ORAL FARMS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
savor the epicurean delights
of favorite foods caressing
taste buds, but the process
doesn’t end there, not at all
visit doctor’s office for routine
checkup, put in a little room
where vitals are taken by “big
Eddy” who swirls around you
with various devices, then
leaves you waiting for someone
with a higher medical degree to
assess what is wrong with your
ass
on the walls in that little room are
endless pictures, diagrams, and
text to describe a wide variety of
hidden places your favorite foods
go once you have chewed and
swallowed the meal
absent are all the Madison Avenue
ads for elixirs, miracle cures, and
such, allowing the good doctor to
lecture instead on the values of
proper diet and exercise
on the way out, you get your parking
validated, return to your car, and
decide which eating establishment
best deserves to get your business
PAST ORAL FARMS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
savor the epicurean delights
of favorite foods caressing
taste buds, but the process
doesn’t end there, not at all
visit doctor’s office for routine
checkup, put in a little room
where vitals are taken by “big
Eddy” who swirls around you
with various devices, then
leaves you waiting for someone
with a higher medical degree to
assess what is wrong with your
ass
on the walls in that little room are
endless pictures, diagrams, and
text to describe a wide variety of
hidden places your favorite foods
go once you have chewed and
swallowed the meal
absent are all the Madison Avenue
ads for elixirs, miracle cures, and
such, allowing the good doctor to
lecture instead on the values of
proper diet and exercise
on the way out, you get your parking
validated, return to your car, and
decide which eating establishment
best deserves to get your business
—Public Domain Cartoon
And speaking of cookies, Carl found this on Facebook:
The next poem of Carl’s is in Normative Syllabics and refers to Medusa’s Kitchen's Tuesday Seed of the Week: “Prisoner/s”:
AFTER THE VERDICT
—Caschwa
we’ve all been waiting in the wings
while incontrovertible facts
have been offered as proof of guilt
there’s no way Mexico would pay
for the wall, never was, not true
that and other preposterous
lies were fed to folks already
steaming mad with axes to grind
but now the liar in chief will
be brought before his accusers
Executive Privilege stripped,
forced to face those same rules of law
he’d made such effort to ignore
finally! some consequences
best solution: cut out his tongue
in the kindest and gentlest way
AFTER THE VERDICT
—Caschwa
we’ve all been waiting in the wings
while incontrovertible facts
have been offered as proof of guilt
there’s no way Mexico would pay
for the wall, never was, not true
that and other preposterous
lies were fed to folks already
steaming mad with axes to grind
but now the liar in chief will
be brought before his accusers
Executive Privilege stripped,
forced to face those same rules of law
he’d made such effort to ignore
finally! some consequences
best solution: cut out his tongue
in the kindest and gentlest way
—Public Domain Cartoon
Here is a Waltmarie from Carl:
HAUL ASS
—Caschwa
well hello
hallowed
hale halo
hula
hoop, hope hop
heap help
hump the hill
halted
hall passes
haul ass
HAUL ASS
—Caschwa
well hello
hallowed
hale halo
hula
hoop, hope hop
heap help
hump the hill
halted
hall passes
haul ass
—Public Domain Cartoon
Claire Baker has sent us a smooth Triolet, also based on “Prisoner/s”. [See more of Claire’s work on last Wednesday’s Kitchen, along with photos from Katy Brown (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/04/innocense-and-little-red-wagons.html).]
SOMETIMES I WONDER
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Am I a human made from sticks?
Come on, seedling, make the call?
Is life so full of dum-dum tricks
that I’m a human made of sticks?
An ice cream cone that no one licks?
Mother Mary in a manger stall?
So, come on, seedling, what’s the call?
Last week's Ekphrastic Challenge
And here are the cookies we’re talking about. Stephen has waxed up his poetic about them:
TRACING THE DIET
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I fear those cookies, laid before,
at every place I visit now,
track and trace of social whirl,
hacking, if in airwaves sucked,
need weigh with care the tempting ‘yes’,
much easier than saying ‘no’;
decisions to accept or not—
rejecting all seems impolite—
as others swallow, little thought,
while I debate some half-baked claims,
or count the cost of belly flop.
So many choices on my plate,
far simpler, take what first at hand,
though not the burned if home tray-bake,
or branded, not the ones I like.
There’s no aroma clue on screen,
so if my eyes poor, chocolate chip,
but rather, I think, fruitfully,
here’s currant crowd and raisin rush,
The Sultan’s wife, sultana show,
like spotted dick in custard bowl;
it takes the biscuit, British stodge.
_____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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 CHALLENGE!
TRACING THE DIET
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I fear those cookies, laid before,
at every place I visit now,
track and trace of social whirl,
hacking, if in airwaves sucked,
need weigh with care the tempting ‘yes’,
much easier than saying ‘no’;
decisions to accept or not—
rejecting all seems impolite—
as others swallow, little thought,
while I debate some half-baked claims,
or count the cost of belly flop.
So many choices on my plate,
far simpler, take what first at hand,
though not the burned if home tray-bake,
or branded, not the ones I like.
There’s no aroma clue on screen,
so if my eyes poor, chocolate chip,
but rather, I think, fruitfully,
here’s currant crowd and raisin rush,
The Sultan’s wife, sultana show,
like spotted dick in custard bowl;
it takes the biscuit, British stodge.
_____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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 CHALLENGE!
See what you can make of these poetry forms, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenges, with thanks to and examples (above) from Taylor Graham, are:
•••Wordy 30: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wordy-30-poetic-games
•••Recipe Poem: medium.com/@apm_poetry/poems-of-the-week-014-write-your-poem-in-the-form-of-a-recipe-6083fdef1289 AND/OR poetryteatime.com/blog/poetry-prompt-recipe-poem
•••And see Joyce Odam’s example (above) of the Daisy Chain (poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain) and give that a try.
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one. And of course we have the weekly challenge, the Seed of the Week, that appears every Tuesday. This week it’s “Prisoner/s”.
_______________________
RESOURCE OF THE WEEK:
•••Writing Forward by Melissa Donovan (www.writingforward.com/blog).
Check out this site for articles about writing.
_______________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain
•••Eclogue (Ecologue): A short pastoral poem is called an Eclogue (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue).
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Pastoral Poetry (Bucolic): poets.org/glossary/pastoral AND/OR 4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples/. A short pastoral poem is called an Eclogue. (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue).
•••Recipe Poem: medium.com/@apm_poetry/poems-of-the-week-014-write-your-poem-in-the-form-of-a-recipe-6083fdef1289 AND/OR poetryteatime.com/blog/poetry-prompt-recipe-poem
•••Rispetto: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-rispetto
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
•••Waltmarie: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/waltmarie-poetic-forms
•••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.
•••Wordy 30: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wordy-30-poetic-games
_____________________
—Medusa
•••Wordy 30: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wordy-30-poetic-games
•••Recipe Poem: medium.com/@apm_poetry/poems-of-the-week-014-write-your-poem-in-the-form-of-a-recipe-6083fdef1289 AND/OR poetryteatime.com/blog/poetry-prompt-recipe-poem
•••And see Joyce Odam’s example (above) of the Daisy Chain (poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain) and give that a try.
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one. And of course we have the weekly challenge, the Seed of the Week, that appears every Tuesday. This week it’s “Prisoner/s”.
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RESOURCE OF THE WEEK:
•••Writing Forward by Melissa Donovan (www.writingforward.com/blog).
Check out this site for articles about writing.
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MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain
•••Eclogue (Ecologue): A short pastoral poem is called an Eclogue (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue).
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Pastoral Poetry (Bucolic): poets.org/glossary/pastoral AND/OR 4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples/. A short pastoral poem is called an Eclogue. (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue).
•••Recipe Poem: medium.com/@apm_poetry/poems-of-the-week-014-write-your-poem-in-the-form-of-a-recipe-6083fdef1289 AND/OR poetryteatime.com/blog/poetry-prompt-recipe-poem
•••Rispetto: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-rispetto
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
•••Waltmarie: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/waltmarie-poetic-forms
•••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.
•••Wordy 30: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/wordy-30-poetic-games
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—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo
* * *
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
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.
mighty poems do come . . .
