WINDFALL
Wind is the story
this morning—spooky north-wind
of red flag warning.
In Summer’s garden
Ladybug red, Ladybug green
and purple okra.
One bee finds center
of one sunflower—sweetness
and shelter from storm.
We horde images
for poems while Wind recounts
its blow-away tale.
UNDER A RED WIND
What do the gusts say? Blue oak roots in land’s
history. What of our verse?
Words flapping in the wind.
Wind whispers as we count our syllables
to hang on a wishing-tree—
wind gives our haiku wings.
Vowels of breath, consonants beating pulse—
In graveside shadow our toes
dig in earth for balance.
WIND OVER WAKAMATSU
Listen to the wind passing through oak boughs,
this great blue oak on its high ridge with views
of far-off mountain, wind that carries news
from east or west, from pastureland where browse
free-ranging cattle and thickets that house
the secret deer in shadow. Listen, and muse;
listen to the wind passing.
The ancestor oak stands private where cows
rest and a soul comes to meditate; mews
of birdsong gone to wing; a kindling fuse
in the leaf-prayers departed spirits rouse.
Listen to the wind passing.
SIERRA SAHARA?
words whispered in my dream of the burn scar,
a desert of blackened trees
to the far horizon.
Familiar landscape scalped of landmarks—
miles of bare canyon and ridge,
sideroads leading nowhere.
In aspen grove, flame tickled the fringes,
added its script to white bark,
ignited juniper.
How much inferno can forest survive
in its seeds, its ancient soil?
But the dream didn’t say.
ALIEN
Listening to Eurasian Collared-Dove, Who?
hoo-hoo, not a daylight owl nor Mourning
Dove, according to my app; nor chiming
church bell. This bird sound is so old, yet new—
an “introduced species” out of the blue
among native nuthatch and crow calling
too softly for me to hear, recording
themselves on my phone. And still Hoo-hoo-hoo
repeated till I can’t say what I heard,
Six-two-two Six two-two? as if a sound
by tech can morph to nonsense on the ear
and in the leafed-out trees there is no bird
but only our devising to be found,
this Sunday under sky that’s cloudy-clear.
EXPLAINING THE WIND
On a wind’s whim it blows away
dead thistle from that dry-wash which
the weed-eater man couldn’t reach
with his motor-trimmer.
Who could have done that? he wonders.
Do-good neighbor or thistle thief?
or the defensible-space squad
with high-power machine?
It’s a mystery to him. What does
Wind care for gas motors? It fans
the flame, uses roofs for frisbee.
Whimsical is the wind.
WILLY-NILLY
—Taylor Graham
West wind whistles way-
ward warnings while woebegone
we’re wandering, where?
________________________
Friday morning in the Kitchen brings Taylor Graham and poems about our recent Seed of the Week (Windsong). TG continues to post photos and poems from the recent Capturing Wakamatsu workshop on her Facebook Western Slope El Dorado poetry site at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Check it out! The next Wakamatsu workshop (with TG and Katy Brown) will take place on Oct. 2.
Forms TG has sent to us today include two Kimo Chains (“Under a Red Flag” & “Sierra Sahara?”); a Rondine (“Wind Over Wakamatsu”); a Haiku Chain (“Windfall”); an Alphabet Haiku, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges (“Willy-nilly”); a Ryūka Chain (“Explaining the Wind”); and a Petrarchan Sonnet, our other Tripe-F Challenge (“Alien”).
If you’re willing to hoof it up to Placerville for a workshop this month, Lara Gularte will be leading another Firehouse Session about ekphrastic writing on Aug. 8. She wrote to us about it on Monday, saying there were only a couple of openings left, so I don’t know if she still has room; write to her and ask at laralg@aol.com/. See also artsandcultureeldorado.org/the-firehouse-sessions, or email jordan@artsandcultureeldorado.org/. (If you have already signed up, you don’t need to respond to this announcement.)
And now it’s time for…
Form Fiddler’s Friday!
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!
Joyce Odam, who will be celebrating her 98th birthday this Sunday, sent us a Quintilla (rhyme option used: a,a,b,b,a). Thanks, Joyce—this went swimmingly… !
DO MERMAIDS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Do mermaids, in their element,
share a question time has sent
of human love with its duress?
Does any love have tenderness
enough to lose its discontent?
LUNCH BREAK
—Obed Ladiny, Brooklyn, NY
That poor large gray garbage bin
standing a few feet away from me
had it coming, minding its business.
I kicked against it. The force
sent its top flying to land on white ceramic,
finally resting from the rattle like a coin.
I give it my back and turn to the kitchen counter,
both hands lay flat on the gray shine.
My head faces down to stare into nothing,
discussions run through my aorta,
with a long pause I stand.
I want to go home.
Who am I kidding, when two days ago
I made plans and set a budget to last
me more than five years as a kickstart to freedom?
* * *
Another Britishism from Stephen Kingsnorth: "My words, like dough, must find its rest”. On this side of the mighty seas, we would say, "My words, like dough, must find THEIR rest”, figuring that the primary noun is "words", thus "its" should be pluralized (their). Someone once said that the two versions of English make for, in the end, two different languages. I wouldn't go that far, but I definitely see what they meant, and I think it’s fun to watch these differences go by as we read Stephen’s poetry! Here is his response to the Ekphrastic Challenge:
SCREWS UP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Old image, pictured, of a type,
the written reject, poem? love?—
when dreaming, being on my lap,
or new device, hand holding start.
I’ll not stray, Apple, snake fruit core—
though I’ve been tempted, as you see;
but no one screws up, time again,
such wasted paper, withered skill.
I care for reams, rhymes if unforced—
whether of love or poetry;
this message, slick, director’s cut—
tautology in film or verse.
My words, like dough, must find its rest,
laid out, reworked, kneaded again,
and till it’s finished none will know,
a rarer steak or hash brown stew.
But guard resources, reading rites—
remember trees, whose bark may bite—
think carbon paper, if my age—
expect to rewrite; find the space.
But as for litter, corner borne,
though many offspring come to birth—
and some for tray, as our cat does—
wastepaper baskets can be large.
Recall that earth is falsely named,
the planet, rightly, ocean called.
in there, with beaches over seas,
you’ll find our rubbish, turtle-necked.
Recycle calming western guilt,
clogging lifeblood farther shores,
should we return to quill and ink,
and write with flow, poetic dip?
We can but ask, guard own response,
from minute readers of our pose,
in time and number, fractional,
but why should snake claim all the prize?
If all that’s crumpled, laid out flat,
the second side space used as well,
and poets, lovers, second chance,
without that typo, permanent.
* * *
Nolcha Fox has also responded to the waste can—she has sent us not one but three poems:
A broken promise
can’t be fixed.
No glue can put it
back together.
Its shards are scattered
in dark alleys,
buried under good intentions
thrown into the trash.
* * *
ONLY THREE DEGREES
—Nolcha Fox
It’s been proven:
The kitchen trash is full only when
it’s three degrees and night outside,
and I’m in pajamas, a perfect time to
slip on ice and meet a stranger
in the alley who knows me,
because someone knows someone who
knows someone who knows me.
I am separated by only three degrees.
Separate in space and time
and ice and trashcan,
separate from this stranger,
until he helps me to my feet, and
we’re no longer separate,
we’re friends.
But it’s still cold.
***
IF YOU DIE FIRST
—Nolcha Fox
I check your pockets for
wadded snotty tissues
before I load the washer.
I wipe down counters
and microwave,
wash utensils
from your second
dinner before bed.
I empty your
office trashcan.
Life will be more tidy
if you die first,
but it will be more sterile.
If I die first,
you won’t know
how to do laundry,
you’ll wonder why
mice scamper across
the stove at night,
and you’ll buy
another office trashcan.
is fate a puzzle we cannot decode?
our high ambitions may instead backfire
a legacy’s light too dim to inspire
use utmost care lest good feelings erode
I never told you this would be an ode
to praise the person whom I most admire
sit down, you’re not the leader of the choir
you know some things are better left untold
the evidence is mounting all the time
yon daylight’s glare will overcome the dark,
no shadows will conceal the truth we bear
abundant sense has not the need to rhyme
all kinds of beasts were tame inside the ark
we don’t fear judgment when our cause is fair
* * *
PRATTLE
—Caschwa
pity poor poet
praying, pausing, pondering
palatial pursuits
parimutuel
pathetic participles,
pompous paper piles
Here is a List Poem from Carl:
THE BIG FIX
—Caschwa
I can help fix our broken economy
my expertise arises from my status
as a senior on fixed income
fixed, not broken
here is what to do:
1) Go to Easter Island
2) Study all the moai
3) create another, even larger, in the image of Ronald Reagan
4) Tax billionaires at the same rate as hourly workers
5) Gather all the income tax revenue from billionairs
6) Stuff it in the head of the Ronald Reagan moai
7) Watch it trickle down
8) If that doesn’t help, then repeat steps 1-7 ad infinitum
And finally, some closing words from Stephen Kingsnorth about the need to make poetry accessible:
PEDESTRIAN
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My verse must walk on pavement slabs,
pause at kerb, then cross the road;
may not impress as vintage car
or custom racer, flash on road,
but meet more people, strolling by,
hold conversations, passing time.
More reaching than sermons with Greek,
parable teaching from a boat;
clever allusions take back row,
if words too far from diction go.
Marmite for some, but Heineken
for more who populate the land.
____________________
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 the Spenserian:
•••Sonnet, Spenserian: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/spenserian-sonnet
AND/OR try one or more versions of the Quintilla (see Joyce Odam’s example above):
•••Quintilla: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/quintilla-poetic-forms
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo.
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
For more about meter, see:
____________________
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
—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.
