—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
D.E. BEFORE SUNRISE
I’m up early to watch night dim to daylight
before Sun and landscape compose itself
to familiar shapes yet every morning new
beyond the back deck. The deck—
printed now with white pawprints leading
from shallow bowl of diatomaceous earth
which looks like somebody wallowed there
overnight. White tracks as far as the sliding
door to bedroom—I slept through it all;
tracks leading away and gone from dark
to daylight. Every morning is new.
I’m up early to watch night dim to daylight
before Sun and landscape compose itself
to familiar shapes yet every morning new
beyond the back deck. The deck—
printed now with white pawprints leading
from shallow bowl of diatomaceous earth
which looks like somebody wallowed there
overnight. White tracks as far as the sliding
door to bedroom—I slept through it all;
tracks leading away and gone from dark
to daylight. Every morning is new.
CLIMATE CHANGE 2022
August 1st—cool dry
overcast in our extreme
drought year & firestorm.
Surely flooded Kentucky
could spare us a bit of rain.
August 1st—cool dry
overcast in our extreme
drought year & firestorm.
Surely flooded Kentucky
could spare us a bit of rain.
SECRET AGENTS
We gathered under oaks to read our poems,
my birdsong app recording what we humans
might not hear: Crow and Mockingbird whispering,
or spying or memorizing—how am I
to know? The crow, will he report our doings
to his cronies? And that mocker, is he adding
to his repertoire, plagiarizing our songs,
keeping the sleepy world awake all night long?
We gathered under oaks to read our poems,
my birdsong app recording what we humans
might not hear: Crow and Mockingbird whispering,
or spying or memorizing—how am I
to know? The crow, will he report our doings
to his cronies? And that mocker, is he adding
to his repertoire, plagiarizing our songs,
keeping the sleepy world awake all night long?
DEAR EDMUND,
I try to greet you in that formal style
but every line contrives to bind my tongue
with ruffled collars and a taste of bile
and inspiration to the four winds flung.
I walk outside where common birds have sung
sweet music with no thought of scheme or need
to reason; only song through beak and lung
unfurling from the boughs; sweet art indeed.
I take a walk—who knows where that might lead—
and wonder, could I set a poem free
to fly beyond whatever you might read;
to breathe its ins-and-outs and simply be?
So here I am, on logic short; and I’m
for ending this because it’s walking time.
I try to greet you in that formal style
but every line contrives to bind my tongue
with ruffled collars and a taste of bile
and inspiration to the four winds flung.
I walk outside where common birds have sung
sweet music with no thought of scheme or need
to reason; only song through beak and lung
unfurling from the boughs; sweet art indeed.
I take a walk—who knows where that might lead—
and wonder, could I set a poem free
to fly beyond whatever you might read;
to breathe its ins-and-outs and simply be?
So here I am, on logic short; and I’m
for ending this because it’s walking time.
DEEP DARK
Past sundown, bats—a sonic wake of wings
against my cheek. How unfamiliar
our home woods, seen without daylight.
The oak’s gnarled branches might be
an old man looking for his childhood home.
If I stumbled on a log, would I find
the boy who fell behind on a treasure hunt?
I’ve followed my dogs through dark forest,
guiding on a ghostly green light-stick
bobbing ahead of me at dog-pace. But that
was years ago. Are my search days
over? What pulls me from my house at night
listening for the call of owl—I find myself
alive in the dark, awake and wandering.
Past sundown, bats—a sonic wake of wings
against my cheek. How unfamiliar
our home woods, seen without daylight.
The oak’s gnarled branches might be
an old man looking for his childhood home.
If I stumbled on a log, would I find
the boy who fell behind on a treasure hunt?
I’ve followed my dogs through dark forest,
guiding on a ghostly green light-stick
bobbing ahead of me at dog-pace. But that
was years ago. Are my search days
over? What pulls me from my house at night
listening for the call of owl—I find myself
alive in the dark, awake and wandering.
THROUGH THE NIGHT SCREEN
After midnight I heard the call—
more like a summons—Great Horned Owl.
It pulls me lightless down the hall,
repetitious questive vowel
long-drawn and then the quickened fall.
After midnight I heard the call—
more like a summons—Great Horned Owl.
It pulls me lightless down the hall,
repetitious questive vowel
long-drawn and then the quickened fall.
Today’s LittleNip:
ARS POETICA 0.1
—Taylor Graham
“What is the metaverse?” she asks.
He: “I guess it must be the verse
as a single universal
immersible sensory world,
the whole business webbed by the words.”
__________________
Good morning, and thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems today, as she walks us through her home woods and catches the birdsong of crows, mockingbirds, owls. The forms she has sent us this week include Normative Syllabics (“Secret Agents”); an Ars Poetica (“Ars Poetica 0.1”); a Tanka (“Climate Change 2022”); a Spenserian Sonnet, our Triple-F Challenge (“Dear Edmund,”); and a Quintilla, our other Triple-F Challenge (“Through the Night Screen”).
And now it’s time for …
Form Fiddler’s Friday!
ARS POETICA 0.1
—Taylor Graham
“What is the metaverse?” she asks.
He: “I guess it must be the verse
as a single universal
immersible sensory world,
the whole business webbed by the words.”
__________________
Good morning, and thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems today, as she walks us through her home woods and catches the birdsong of crows, mockingbirds, owls. The forms she has sent us this week include Normative Syllabics (“Secret Agents”); an Ars Poetica (“Ars Poetica 0.1”); a Tanka (“Climate Change 2022”); a Spenserian Sonnet, our Triple-F Challenge (“Dear Edmund,”); and a Quintilla, our other Triple-F Challenge (“Through the Night Screen”).
And now it’s time for …
Form Fiddler’s Friday!
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham. Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to 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 challenges. Whaddaya got to lose… If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)
There’s also a newly dusted-off page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo
Last week’s Ekphrastic Photo was sugar and fire in the form of marshmallow-roasting, and we got several responses to it:
MARSHMALLOW MOUTH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Words wobble off your tongue,
gooshy, mooshy sweet white,
pregnant with potential
left unsaid, best guessed,
S’mores in desire’s fire.
* * *
TOASTING MARSHMALLOWS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Dance, we now,
Before a fire,
Warming in the glow.
Soon, we’ll turn
A darker shade.
Watch we, as
We turn to golden-brown,
Where we’d like to stay,
But some of us
Will catch on fire,
Burn to black
And down a gullet,
Go.
* * *
MALLOW SAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The mallow spreads from purple blooms,
cotton, hibiscus, okra too,
one genus label for them all—
what strange companions—is this true?
Then marigolds—the marshy kind,
those golden kingcups in my pond,
though bright, not ghostly gassy light—
will-o’-the-wisp, that giddy flame,
the wight of Tam O’Shanter’s fright,
a swooping stoop, marsh harrier.
And as for campfire, embers best;
just like the barby, lit too late,
this candy floss in ash gunk dropped,
sap sticky string or globule shame,
toast bubble brown or brief aflame.
Now cotton bolls, I see the shape,
if burning, greenstick fractures blame,
or reshaped hangers, metalwork,
though that might heat conductor’s hand.
* * *
HOW MANY LINES, FULL LIFE UNFOLD?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Campfire sticks, marshmallow drips,
pink-grey blobs mottled by the ash,
a polka dot, best gunk design,
as waning moon hides syrup grit.
With amber tip, burnt umber strip,
a greenstick fracture to the plan,
eyes sparkle, who cares bedtime past?
Boy scout before this recipe,
we curled our dampers round a twig,
backwoodsman cooking, sticky dough—
and that no pun intended, so—
we had to bivouac and leave
without a trace for dawn patrol:
but that needs planning as arrive,
and not when striking flat grass camp.
It was those fears of mid-teen years,
sail basin quay, canal canoe,
rock climbing tors because I must,
patrol, then troop, a leader rôle,
team wide games on the moors at night,
pit digging lats in pouring rain—
when mates back home watched TV shows—
from which I learned, became what am,
though health and safety now, no no.
I learnt to swim, peat moorland stream,
I led patrol, lost Dartmoor fog,
and orienteered, compass fixed,
not on a rock, but distant foal.
I still have spoon, cheap tourist gift—
’twas bought for mother, Lynmouth town—
where floods had ripped when I was one—
used only clotted cream, then, now.
I see it drawer, more fifty on,
quaint symbol, adolescent growth.
Another line, a further verse,
but that waits till a prompt invites,
a seed to germinate, excite.
Here laptop, early morning, two,
I’m better for my fears excised
by due revisit, recognised,
and given honour in their space,
building blocks, setts, yellow brick road,
onward, toward some vanish point,
when winding, snaking, wind-blown path
may be reviewed, vistas enjoyed.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Words wobble off your tongue,
gooshy, mooshy sweet white,
pregnant with potential
left unsaid, best guessed,
S’mores in desire’s fire.
* * *
TOASTING MARSHMALLOWS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Dance, we now,
Before a fire,
Warming in the glow.
Soon, we’ll turn
A darker shade.
Watch we, as
We turn to golden-brown,
Where we’d like to stay,
But some of us
Will catch on fire,
Burn to black
And down a gullet,
Go.
* * *
MALLOW SAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The mallow spreads from purple blooms,
cotton, hibiscus, okra too,
one genus label for them all—
what strange companions—is this true?
Then marigolds—the marshy kind,
those golden kingcups in my pond,
though bright, not ghostly gassy light—
will-o’-the-wisp, that giddy flame,
the wight of Tam O’Shanter’s fright,
a swooping stoop, marsh harrier.
And as for campfire, embers best;
just like the barby, lit too late,
this candy floss in ash gunk dropped,
sap sticky string or globule shame,
toast bubble brown or brief aflame.
Now cotton bolls, I see the shape,
if burning, greenstick fractures blame,
or reshaped hangers, metalwork,
though that might heat conductor’s hand.
* * *
HOW MANY LINES, FULL LIFE UNFOLD?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Campfire sticks, marshmallow drips,
pink-grey blobs mottled by the ash,
a polka dot, best gunk design,
as waning moon hides syrup grit.
With amber tip, burnt umber strip,
a greenstick fracture to the plan,
eyes sparkle, who cares bedtime past?
Boy scout before this recipe,
we curled our dampers round a twig,
backwoodsman cooking, sticky dough—
and that no pun intended, so—
we had to bivouac and leave
without a trace for dawn patrol:
but that needs planning as arrive,
and not when striking flat grass camp.
It was those fears of mid-teen years,
sail basin quay, canal canoe,
rock climbing tors because I must,
patrol, then troop, a leader rôle,
team wide games on the moors at night,
pit digging lats in pouring rain—
when mates back home watched TV shows—
from which I learned, became what am,
though health and safety now, no no.
I learnt to swim, peat moorland stream,
I led patrol, lost Dartmoor fog,
and orienteered, compass fixed,
not on a rock, but distant foal.
I still have spoon, cheap tourist gift—
’twas bought for mother, Lynmouth town—
where floods had ripped when I was one—
used only clotted cream, then, now.
I see it drawer, more fifty on,
quaint symbol, adolescent growth.
Another line, a further verse,
but that waits till a prompt invites,
a seed to germinate, excite.
Here laptop, early morning, two,
I’m better for my fears excised
by due revisit, recognised,
and given honour in their space,
building blocks, setts, yellow brick road,
onward, toward some vanish point,
when winding, snaking, wind-blown path
may be reviewed, vistas enjoyed.
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent a response to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week (“Before Sunrise”) that is also a List Poem:
BEEN MEANING TO
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
write a book
remember more
learn the knots for a hook
spend less at the store
visit some grave yards
polish my shoes
do tricks with the cards
politely excuse
read for retention
instead of surfing on words
watch how dogs pay attention
while birds just do birds
look up old friends lost
change my phone number again
balance value to cost
meaning to, I’ve been
Here is a 5-stanza Quintilla from Carl, using all the possible rhyme pattern variations for a Quintilla—a tiny form with diverse possibilities:
ON FURTHER SCRUTINY
—Caschwa
before the Twin Towers were built
Radio Row was there full hilt
information sent “through the air”
karma’s keen ignorance of guilt
would level all proud icons there
the EMT lay quietly
some good sleeping to set her free
in her abode, in her own bed
wham, bam! the police shot her dead
bullets through door announced entry
packed and ready for the big jump
materials are top notch, best
hot mesh for a pole dancer’s rump,
parachute ready for the test
what’s that in throat? it’s just a lump
a real gun that fires real rounds lay
ready on the film set to use
not seen as a bomb to defuse
on second thought, unfit for play
it made front page, big breaking news
Mexico will pay for the wall
is that code, cipher, metaphor?
millions of dummies answer call
having no clue what will befall,
something here’s rotten to the core
* * *
Our current Tuesday Seed of the Week is “Seashells”, and Claire Baker sent us a another one of her delicate Double Cinquains:
POPPIES
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
I am
a shell broken
on shore, blinded by fog
quick-sipping bitter foam from a
spent wave—
also
a rising sun
reflected as poppies
on the ever-changing oceans
of sky.
* * *
Michael H. Brownstein sent us a Waltmarie (at least ten lines long and every even line has only two syllables; odd lines are longer):
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
I am
a shell broken
on shore, blinded by fog
quick-sipping bitter foam from a
spent wave—
also
a rising sun
reflected as poppies
on the ever-changing oceans
of sky.
* * *
Michael H. Brownstein sent us a Waltmarie (at least ten lines long and every even line has only two syllables; odd lines are longer):
EARLY SPRING STORM
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
within the context of hush, a vocabulary of whispers
snow fell
time was not essential—Friday evening into Saturday morning
quiet
the valley filled itself with white evergreens
no wind
an infinity of snowflakes erased sight lines, landscapes
silver
we went into the fields tobogganing snow angels
ice warm.
(prev. pub. in Last Stanza)
* * *
Joyce Odam sent a response to last week’s “Before Sunrise” Tuesday SOW; hers is in the Welsh form, the Englyn Milwr, with syllables 7 7 7 (a a a) 7 7 7 (b b b) etc. Here is Joyce’s “Sunset”:
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
within the context of hush, a vocabulary of whispers
snow fell
time was not essential—Friday evening into Saturday morning
quiet
the valley filled itself with white evergreens
no wind
an infinity of snowflakes erased sight lines, landscapes
silver
we went into the fields tobogganing snow angels
ice warm.
(prev. pub. in Last Stanza)
* * *
Joyce Odam sent a response to last week’s “Before Sunrise” Tuesday SOW; hers is in the Welsh form, the Englyn Milwr, with syllables 7 7 7 (a a a) 7 7 7 (b b b) etc. Here is Joyce’s “Sunset”:
SUNSET
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Light lingers past the evening,
reluctant as I to bring
day down like a final wing—
a sky-bird made of such light—
turning to fragments so bright—
to watch it, eyes could turn white.
Just for a moment it’s there,
sweeping the sky like a flare,
though I continue to stare.
The bird of dusk is undone—
last silhouette in the sun,
flown over the horizon.
* * *
Here is a Sonnette (5-ft iambics: abba cbc) from Joyce with an intriguing title:
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Light lingers past the evening,
reluctant as I to bring
day down like a final wing—
a sky-bird made of such light—
turning to fragments so bright—
to watch it, eyes could turn white.
Just for a moment it’s there,
sweeping the sky like a flare,
though I continue to stare.
The bird of dusk is undone—
last silhouette in the sun,
flown over the horizon.
* * *
Here is a Sonnette (5-ft iambics: abba cbc) from Joyce with an intriguing title:
THE ANCIENT BROTHELS
—Joyce Odam
They stroll and pose in costumed wedding gowns,
hands at their throats, wearing hats with veils—
upon their faces, enigmatic smiles
that mock the boredom of their escorts’ frowns.
They stroll into the shadows of the doors,
and there become enveloped by the walls—
Death's faithful customers—Death's pretty whores.
* * *
And here is Joyce’s Stefanile Triadic Sonnet (aba bccdbbde fef), along with her description of this form (see also poetscollective.org/everysonnet/tag/octave): In three movements: each of the three sections is end-stopped: 1st stanza (a Tercet) states the theme; 2nd (an Octave) develops the subject; 3rd (a Tercet) concludes the theme. There should be a shift in tone, mood, action, or tense from the Octave to the closing Tercet. The first Tercet serves as a text; the Octave, as elaboration; the final Tercet as proof.
This is another poem with an intriguing theme—believe it or not, Halloween is only 3 months (more or less) away!
THE HAUNTED CHILDREN
—Joyce Odam
The paths meander in and out of sight—
the old house, watching, can’t see to the end.
The children love to play out there all night.
The windows watch the children wend and wend.
Something entices. The children want to know,
for moonlight flickers—all the pathways glow.
The old house worries. Windows try to warn
as nightly winds come up. Trees moan and bend.
The maze-paths deepen where the shadows blend.
Leaves fall like tears . . . the children are unborn.
Their mother weeps but can’t remember why.
The mother dreads another haunted dawn.
The house still thinks it hears the children cry.
The children safely dream the old house gone.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/1/11)
____________________
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 this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Let’s sink our teeth into another Sonnet form, this time an American one; see Joyce’s “The Haunted Children” above. [Note: this link won’t get you directly to the form on Google; instead, it takes you to a therapy site. This is not a hint on my part. But if you go to the site below the therapy one, or to any site that has poetscollective in it, that should get you there.]
•••Stefanile Triadic Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/tag/octave
AND/OR try the 7/5 Trochee:
•••Seven/Five Trochee: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/75trochee.html
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo.
And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Seashells”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain./ See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Englyn Milwr: Welsh form: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-milwr-poetic-forms
•••Imabics: www.thefreedictionary.com/iambics
•••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
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Quintilla: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/quintilla-poetic-forms
•••Seven/Five Trochee: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/75trochee.html
•••Seven/Five Trochee: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/75trochee.html
•••Sonnette (abbacbc, half-sonnet): poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sonnette
•••Spenserian Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/spenserian-sonnet
•••Stefanile Triadic Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/tag/octave
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tercet: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/tercet
•••Spenserian Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/spenserian-sonnet
•••Stefanile Triadic Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/tag/octave
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tercet: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/tercet
For more about meter, see:
•••www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-iambic-pentameter-definition-literature
•••www.pandorapost.com/2021/05/examples-of-iambic-pentameter-tetrameter-and-trimeter-in-poetry.html
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter
____________________
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter
____________________
—Medusa
Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
***
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
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.
