—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker, Caschwa,
Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
BEING SMART?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The trainers I saw yesterday,
were, for catwalk, smart wear parade,
but never saw athletics ground.
What is so chic about your cell—
though ‘mobile’ labelled in UK,
perhaps a prison transport van?
Design, pink pastel patterns pack,
or brighter swipes on screen surround—
is this what make your brick so fine?
Or maybe capabilities—
like trawlers in the fishing grounds
use networks riding the high seas.
Does this compute as smartly dressed—
a crab to grab, fish restaurant,
a hermit, shell cell, watching back?
My footwear in the sixties gym
were run along the plimsole line,
specific gravity on beam.
I dreamed of CB radio—
for mobile cells were barred as came,
to show the signals weak, power drained.
Those days of aerials, long, gone,
as, sadly, kiosks, phone boxes,
like pillars, bright red, in the street.
So much is gained from apps, that chat,
though miss our table talk at tea,
when children told us of their day.
They pick at food, their eyes on screen,
like TV dinner in middle age,
undreamt of manners, when a lad.
But now I need to make an app,
appointment in my diary,
an application, permit sought.
The audience should come my way
unless a tweet or text holds sway,
and face to face ends in a book.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The trainers I saw yesterday,
were, for catwalk, smart wear parade,
but never saw athletics ground.
What is so chic about your cell—
though ‘mobile’ labelled in UK,
perhaps a prison transport van?
Design, pink pastel patterns pack,
or brighter swipes on screen surround—
is this what make your brick so fine?
Or maybe capabilities—
like trawlers in the fishing grounds
use networks riding the high seas.
Does this compute as smartly dressed—
a crab to grab, fish restaurant,
a hermit, shell cell, watching back?
My footwear in the sixties gym
were run along the plimsole line,
specific gravity on beam.
I dreamed of CB radio—
for mobile cells were barred as came,
to show the signals weak, power drained.
Those days of aerials, long, gone,
as, sadly, kiosks, phone boxes,
like pillars, bright red, in the street.
So much is gained from apps, that chat,
though miss our table talk at tea,
when children told us of their day.
They pick at food, their eyes on screen,
like TV dinner in middle age,
undreamt of manners, when a lad.
But now I need to make an app,
appointment in my diary,
an application, permit sought.
The audience should come my way
unless a tweet or text holds sway,
and face to face ends in a book.
CREMATION
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Tapered glasses lie bemused
From the underneath
Burns a lining chasm
The same jugglery of metaphors
The nuanced pitches
We dig up a metaworld
Within our fragmented reach
A single flower
Unending to our reach
Scheduled to be proper
It dusts down
Paths away naturally
Years and time cannot bind up.
We are searching for
Our source
A creative destruction everywhere
Pointed arches and burnished palace
Now sags over
Past colour past merit.
The same window stands still
Objects for infinity
An image making memory
Over the window glass
Knocking still
Within the same corridor
Cremation and source
A lining havoc
Tapered and a fire-glow burn.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Tapered glasses lie bemused
From the underneath
Burns a lining chasm
The same jugglery of metaphors
The nuanced pitches
We dig up a metaworld
Within our fragmented reach
A single flower
Unending to our reach
Scheduled to be proper
It dusts down
Paths away naturally
Years and time cannot bind up.
We are searching for
Our source
A creative destruction everywhere
Pointed arches and burnished palace
Now sags over
Past colour past merit.
The same window stands still
Objects for infinity
An image making memory
Over the window glass
Knocking still
Within the same corridor
Cremation and source
A lining havoc
Tapered and a fire-glow burn.
CONTRACT WITH LIFE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Response poem to “Letter of agreement
between John Grief and Life”
by David Belcher
Life and I signed
a contract.
It’s one I can’t break:
Life doesn’t promise
another life.
Be grateful for this one.
Life promises flowers.
Don’t pick them.
Life promises puppy dogs.
Don’t take them all home.
If life cancels my existence,
don’t complain.
No one will listen
when I’m dead.
Life goes on without me.
Suck it up.
Life doesn’t promise
I’ll be remembered.
Not even for my poems.
See "Life goes on without me."
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Response poem to “Letter of agreement
between John Grief and Life”
by David Belcher
Life and I signed
a contract.
It’s one I can’t break:
Life doesn’t promise
another life.
Be grateful for this one.
Life promises flowers.
Don’t pick them.
Life promises puppy dogs.
Don’t take them all home.
If life cancels my existence,
don’t complain.
No one will listen
when I’m dead.
Life goes on without me.
Suck it up.
Life doesn’t promise
I’ll be remembered.
Not even for my poems.
See "Life goes on without me."
What’s so smart
—Nolcha Fox
about a smartphone?
Mine was too dumb
to tell me
I was walking
in front
of a bus.
—Nolcha Fox
about a smartphone?
Mine was too dumb
to tell me
I was walking
in front
of a bus.
FOAM
—Nolcha Fox
Time foams
to the song
of crickets,
as I skinny-dip
in the ebb and flow
of chaos.
Time foams
and stands still
in the car wash.
Somehow
I move while
I stay in one place.
Time foams
unnoticed
between my fingers.
Nothing is left
but the years
that got away.
Time foams.
—Nolcha Fox
Time foams
to the song
of crickets,
as I skinny-dip
in the ebb and flow
of chaos.
Time foams
and stands still
in the car wash.
Somehow
I move while
I stay in one place.
Time foams
unnoticed
between my fingers.
Nothing is left
but the years
that got away.
Time foams.
CELL-PHONE PHOTO
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Spreading
her fingers
over a smart-
phone screen,
Sharon shows us a
close-up photo of a dragonfly—
wings and a Cyclops eye
we cannot deny: dry.
But to us elders
that old dust
--can fly!
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Spreading
her fingers
over a smart-
phone screen,
Sharon shows us a
close-up photo of a dragonfly—
wings and a Cyclops eye
we cannot deny: dry.
But to us elders
that old dust
--can fly!
NO METAPHOR HERE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
in my first days attending
public school they sat us
down at old, wooden desks
each with a hole in the top
that was meant to be an
inkwell, from a former time
when one didn’t just pick
up a writing utensil and start
writing, but first had to pick
out a point, get some ink and
pour it in the inkwell, and then
use the utmost care to dip the
pen in the well and execute
each and every stroke without
dripping or smudging ink all over
the place; handiwork, like in the
time of treadle sewing machines,
guiding the needle across fabric
nowadays one can buy a fancy
new machine with computer-saved
patterns and basically just push
a button or two and the machine
executes the job, hands free, but
of course you could still claim credit
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
in my first days attending
public school they sat us
down at old, wooden desks
each with a hole in the top
that was meant to be an
inkwell, from a former time
when one didn’t just pick
up a writing utensil and start
writing, but first had to pick
out a point, get some ink and
pour it in the inkwell, and then
use the utmost care to dip the
pen in the well and execute
each and every stroke without
dripping or smudging ink all over
the place; handiwork, like in the
time of treadle sewing machines,
guiding the needle across fabric
nowadays one can buy a fancy
new machine with computer-saved
patterns and basically just push
a button or two and the machine
executes the job, hands free, but
of course you could still claim credit
IT KNOWS WHEN YOU’RE BUSY
—Caschwa
it was a basic black, rotary
dial phone with a long,
tangled, coiled cord, that
knew which moments were
the absolute worst for you
when Mom had a cooking
project underway, or kids
to put to bed, it would ring
loudly and most assuredly
always connect to either
that nice lady down the
street who just loved to
talk and talk and talk your
head off, or that bossy
older sister, who herself
had never embraced the
challenges of having or
raising kids, but nonetheless
was big on advice like she
was the consummate expert
each time, my Mom hoped
it was just a wrong number,
because those she could
dismiss promptly and be on
her way doing her things
but a phone was like a horse
that had to be fed, watered,
groomed, and exercised on its
own schedule, regardless of what
else the human was busy doing
—Caschwa
it was a basic black, rotary
dial phone with a long,
tangled, coiled cord, that
knew which moments were
the absolute worst for you
when Mom had a cooking
project underway, or kids
to put to bed, it would ring
loudly and most assuredly
always connect to either
that nice lady down the
street who just loved to
talk and talk and talk your
head off, or that bossy
older sister, who herself
had never embraced the
challenges of having or
raising kids, but nonetheless
was big on advice like she
was the consummate expert
each time, my Mom hoped
it was just a wrong number,
because those she could
dismiss promptly and be on
her way doing her things
but a phone was like a horse
that had to be fed, watered,
groomed, and exercised on its
own schedule, regardless of what
else the human was busy doing
CRITICAL GENDER THEORY
—Caschwa
Upon reading Tom Goff’s references
to Shakespeare, Medusa’s Kitchen,
7/16/22
yeah, why not? as long as we’re
opening the book on what really
went on in the treatment of people
whose race was different than the
invariably white standard bearer,
let’s open that other book that tells
the story of how, until fairly recently,
women were the property of men,
and the world so orbited around the
male sex that men performed the
stage drama roles of women, and
little choir boys had their balls removed
so they could forever sing the high notes
funny how no one yet has dared to
mention how Adam, after surrendering
one rib to create Eve, spent the rest
of his life wearing lidocaine patches
to dull the pain, and had to hide out in
gardens instead of going to the beach,
but that was okay because he was the
one and only guy around, so he was
spared all that Muscle Beach theater
present day guys go through to prove
their manliness to other men
just imagine poor, little Adam trying to
compete with clones of himself in any
of the Olympic Games, or coming across
a Scottish caber toss and thinking that
big log must be his missing rib…
—Caschwa
Upon reading Tom Goff’s references
to Shakespeare, Medusa’s Kitchen,
7/16/22
yeah, why not? as long as we’re
opening the book on what really
went on in the treatment of people
whose race was different than the
invariably white standard bearer,
let’s open that other book that tells
the story of how, until fairly recently,
women were the property of men,
and the world so orbited around the
male sex that men performed the
stage drama roles of women, and
little choir boys had their balls removed
so they could forever sing the high notes
funny how no one yet has dared to
mention how Adam, after surrendering
one rib to create Eve, spent the rest
of his life wearing lidocaine patches
to dull the pain, and had to hide out in
gardens instead of going to the beach,
but that was okay because he was the
one and only guy around, so he was
spared all that Muscle Beach theater
present day guys go through to prove
their manliness to other men
just imagine poor, little Adam trying to
compete with clones of himself in any
of the Olympic Games, or coming across
a Scottish caber toss and thinking that
big log must be his missing rib…
SEVEN LITTLE WORDS
I NEVER USE IN CONVERSATION
—Caschwa
(derived from the poetry of
Jason Ryberg, Medusa’s
Kitchen, July 14, 2022)
starting from street level, eyes
gaze up the façade until resting
on the balustrades, wondering
if another workman with a metallic
pole will touch the wrong place at
the wrong time and fry to death.
experienced rooftop workers bring
the wooden poles and avoid all this
conundrum, relying instead on the
Euclidian geometry of ordinary
experience, not wanting their own
ashes to be part of the tangible
existence of the firmament.
directing our attention to the mass
media, we see rough and tumble
fellows part lips of stiff leather and
offer a portmanteau of equal parts
primeval lies and falsities, scriven
with all the percussion of a rivet gun,
pounding unfounded messages home.
I NEVER USE IN CONVERSATION
—Caschwa
(derived from the poetry of
Jason Ryberg, Medusa’s
Kitchen, July 14, 2022)
starting from street level, eyes
gaze up the façade until resting
on the balustrades, wondering
if another workman with a metallic
pole will touch the wrong place at
the wrong time and fry to death.
experienced rooftop workers bring
the wooden poles and avoid all this
conundrum, relying instead on the
Euclidian geometry of ordinary
experience, not wanting their own
ashes to be part of the tangible
existence of the firmament.
directing our attention to the mass
media, we see rough and tumble
fellows part lips of stiff leather and
offer a portmanteau of equal parts
primeval lies and falsities, scriven
with all the percussion of a rivet gun,
pounding unfounded messages home.
WHY DO THEY RUN?
—Caschwa
When the police are in pursuit
they act like a swarm of locusts,
making it impossible to have a
reasonable conversation with them.
If they are chasing you, and you
let them reach you, you are doomed.
This is not lore, they don’t let you
have any lore, because you are mere
personal property, auction-block
fodder, with no human attributes.
You see family members hanging
from trees, no trial, no evidence, no
equal justice, no way out, no brainer,
see the cops, run like Hell!
THE WAY OF THE BANISHED
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
When one is banished,
He grows wings
And flies to foreign land
To settle there.
He grows roots
To feed from soil,
Finds a place to toil,
To nurture from his labors.
He bears the scars
Of his excision.
He makes it his life’s mission
To blossom in the place of
His seed’s landing.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
When one is banished,
He grows wings
And flies to foreign land
To settle there.
He grows roots
To feed from soil,
Finds a place to toil,
To nurture from his labors.
He bears the scars
Of his excision.
He makes it his life’s mission
To blossom in the place of
His seed’s landing.
EVERYTHING THAT FALLS APART
—Joe Nolan
Everything
That falls apart
Is just a measure
Of madness
Sewn into its seams.
Rickety-rock,
Over tickety-tock,
Until the
Cuckoo sings!
It’s four o’clock
In the avenue.
The cafés will
Soon be closed.
Soon,
The evening-ladies
Will put on
Their evening clothes,
To put a hook
Into salary-men,
Otherwise, on their ways,
To familiar, alley-way bars,
Where everyone
Knows the others,
Who are regular
In their attendance,
To drink
Before they go home,
Because they work forever
And, thus, feel so alone.
—Joe Nolan
Everything
That falls apart
Is just a measure
Of madness
Sewn into its seams.
Rickety-rock,
Over tickety-tock,
Until the
Cuckoo sings!
It’s four o’clock
In the avenue.
The cafés will
Soon be closed.
Soon,
The evening-ladies
Will put on
Their evening clothes,
To put a hook
Into salary-men,
Otherwise, on their ways,
To familiar, alley-way bars,
Where everyone
Knows the others,
Who are regular
In their attendance,
To drink
Before they go home,
Because they work forever
And, thus, feel so alone.
PARTNERS NOT LISTENING
—Joe Nolan
Have you ever,
Been done, forever,
With a daydream
Lost-at-sea?
Lost communications—
Nothing sent and
None received.
Should we be relieved
Or should we be alarmed?
Is there any harm
In abnegation?
When will we ever
Be set free
From attachments
Between you and me?
A drawing on a blackboard,
Made in chalk, revealed
Secret, underlying desires
Of a teacher
Destined only for—
Never for silk,
And all his ilk,
Who treat their students
As though they were ill.
While you and I
Swap recipes
Of what each other
Thinks it takes
To be set free,
Oblivious,
That neither, other partner
Is listening.
—Joe Nolan
Have you ever,
Been done, forever,
With a daydream
Lost-at-sea?
Lost communications—
Nothing sent and
None received.
Should we be relieved
Or should we be alarmed?
Is there any harm
In abnegation?
When will we ever
Be set free
From attachments
Between you and me?
A drawing on a blackboard,
Made in chalk, revealed
Secret, underlying desires
Of a teacher
Destined only for—
Never for silk,
And all his ilk,
Who treat their students
As though they were ill.
While you and I
Swap recipes
Of what each other
Thinks it takes
To be set free,
Oblivious,
That neither, other partner
Is listening.
DREAM CAR!
—Joe Nolan
This fucker flies!
It’s made of
Windswept stars
And lullabies.
It lingers in the languid
Heat of steam.
It’s more than
It would seem.
It has the power
To magnify
Everything that
Passes
In front of
Your eye.
Though it runs on rubber
And is made of steel,
It holds sweet dreams of rainbows,
When you’re behind the wheel
And like a unicorn,
It knows how to fly,
Across the astral-spectrum,
Into bye-and bye!
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
THE SHORTEST LADDER
—Joe Nolan
The shortest ladder
Is the escalator that
Draws you to above.
* * *
IF WE DID NOT DREAM
—Joe Nolan
If we did not eat,
We would not need the land.
If we did not drink,
We would not need the rain.
If we did not dream,
We would not need the sky.
If we did not love,
We would not need each other.
_____________________
Good morning, poets and dreamers! “If we did not dream, / We would not need the sky.” Today’s contributors are dreaming of all sorts of subjects on our way through July, and we are indeed most grateful for their ink-stained fingers. Our recent Seeds of the Week were “Forever” and “Smartphones”, so we have some musings about those. (Also: a reminder that “trainers” in the UK are what we call tennis shoes, right, Stephen?) Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Sometimes a prompt can lead you to dig out the old inkwell, with shining results.
The U.S. has a new Poet Laureate: Ada Limón, who is taking over from Joy Harjo. For more info, go to www.npr.org/2022/07/12/1110804783/ada-limon-named-new-u-s-poet-laureate?fbclid=IwAR1FK4Hgg2BwuE68xMCqClz3QaAzrkl8gYdnJjfOnejzITWWCRf6BgLiU64/.
A flurry of poetry events will take place in the NorCal region this week, starting with Sac. Poetry Center online tonight, Modesto Poetry Book Club as well as the tribute to Gary Snyder on Wednesday, then Paco Marquez on Thursday, as well as Matt Mitchell and Mo Stoykoff in Davis, plus the deadline for the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest. On Sunday, Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will present another Capturing Wakamatsu workshop in Placerville. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa
—Joe Nolan
This fucker flies!
It’s made of
Windswept stars
And lullabies.
It lingers in the languid
Heat of steam.
It’s more than
It would seem.
It has the power
To magnify
Everything that
Passes
In front of
Your eye.
Though it runs on rubber
And is made of steel,
It holds sweet dreams of rainbows,
When you’re behind the wheel
And like a unicorn,
It knows how to fly,
Across the astral-spectrum,
Into bye-and bye!
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
THE SHORTEST LADDER
—Joe Nolan
The shortest ladder
Is the escalator that
Draws you to above.
* * *
IF WE DID NOT DREAM
—Joe Nolan
If we did not eat,
We would not need the land.
If we did not drink,
We would not need the rain.
If we did not dream,
We would not need the sky.
If we did not love,
We would not need each other.
_____________________
Good morning, poets and dreamers! “If we did not dream, / We would not need the sky.” Today’s contributors are dreaming of all sorts of subjects on our way through July, and we are indeed most grateful for their ink-stained fingers. Our recent Seeds of the Week were “Forever” and “Smartphones”, so we have some musings about those. (Also: a reminder that “trainers” in the UK are what we call tennis shoes, right, Stephen?) Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Sometimes a prompt can lead you to dig out the old inkwell, with shining results.
The U.S. has a new Poet Laureate: Ada Limón, who is taking over from Joy Harjo. For more info, go to www.npr.org/2022/07/12/1110804783/ada-limon-named-new-u-s-poet-laureate?fbclid=IwAR1FK4Hgg2BwuE68xMCqClz3QaAzrkl8gYdnJjfOnejzITWWCRf6BgLiU64/.
A flurry of poetry events will take place in the NorCal region this week, starting with Sac. Poetry Center online tonight, Modesto Poetry Book Club as well as the tribute to Gary Snyder on Wednesday, then Paco Marquez on Thursday, as well as Matt Mitchell and Mo Stoykoff in Davis, plus the deadline for the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest. On Sunday, Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will present another Capturing Wakamatsu workshop in Placerville. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa
Can you find the snake amidst all these turtles?
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. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
