—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
WHAT’S TO FIND ON RIVER CLEANUP DAY?
You’re curious…. want to come along?
Here’s your bucket. Work gloves in your kit?
Sturdy boots? We’ll have to wade the creek—
no, we won’t melt. But watch for drop-offs,
slippery rocks. We’ll find things beyond
belief—stuff people toss, not caring;
stuff that got washed away, carried down
the current, or snagged against a big-
leaf maple. This creek can weave a pair
of trousers into root-crown so you’ll
never pull it free. In your bucket
goes this sock, that muddy blue rosette
somebody won and lost; a quite good
screwdriver. Today the old creek sings
a minor tune under sky of gray.
Look here, is this a porcelain shard,
once a lovely something? Styrofoam
and cellophane. The creek doesn’t care.
You’re curious…. want to come along?
Here’s your bucket. Work gloves in your kit?
Sturdy boots? We’ll have to wade the creek—
no, we won’t melt. But watch for drop-offs,
slippery rocks. We’ll find things beyond
belief—stuff people toss, not caring;
stuff that got washed away, carried down
the current, or snagged against a big-
leaf maple. This creek can weave a pair
of trousers into root-crown so you’ll
never pull it free. In your bucket
goes this sock, that muddy blue rosette
somebody won and lost; a quite good
screwdriver. Today the old creek sings
a minor tune under sky of gray.
Look here, is this a porcelain shard,
once a lovely something? Styrofoam
and cellophane. The creek doesn’t care.
HANDS IN THE CAVE
ancient Borneo rock cave art
Painted hands reaching, for what?
It looks like water—foam or snow-slush,
droplets, spatters and eddies on a cave wall.
Water etching this cave ages ago,
as human hands drew themselves touching water.
Hands open to the quest, the thirst.
Remember rain?
Fingers weaving streamlets of flowing water,
reaching from depths of dark into light,
palms-up to cup water.
Water as fluid as light, as life.
ancient Borneo rock cave art
Painted hands reaching, for what?
It looks like water—foam or snow-slush,
droplets, spatters and eddies on a cave wall.
Water etching this cave ages ago,
as human hands drew themselves touching water.
Hands open to the quest, the thirst.
Remember rain?
Fingers weaving streamlets of flowing water,
reaching from depths of dark into light,
palms-up to cup water.
Water as fluid as light, as life.
VILLAIN MIRRORS
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors
getting smaller, more distant with each
repetition as a selfie cutting you in half.
I just see the photo-half, hangdog face
from late night hours with Coyote, Owl.
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors,
as in a vanity triptych, a riddle: who am
I? And Owl answers HOO hoo hoo.
Repetition like a selfie cutting you in half
replicating you into infinity’s endless
loop. As for the cover of your life’s work
you’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors.
The night hours are magnified. Have
you become your own worst bedfellow
repeated as selfies might cut us in half?
Unremitting is the spiderweb of poses
catching moments. A lens is in the way.
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors,
repetition of a selfie cutting you in half.
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors
getting smaller, more distant with each
repetition as a selfie cutting you in half.
I just see the photo-half, hangdog face
from late night hours with Coyote, Owl.
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors,
as in a vanity triptych, a riddle: who am
I? And Owl answers HOO hoo hoo.
Repetition like a selfie cutting you in half
replicating you into infinity’s endless
loop. As for the cover of your life’s work
you’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors.
The night hours are magnified. Have
you become your own worst bedfellow
repeated as selfies might cut us in half?
Unremitting is the spiderweb of poses
catching moments. A lens is in the way.
You’ve reflected yourself in two mirrors,
repetition of a selfie cutting you in half.
CURIOSITY ROVING
Thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL,
your name traveled on microchip to Mars.
The rover’s scientific probing’s swell,
thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL.
I’ll just hike Sierra where marvels dwell
still undiscovered under daytime stars.
Thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL.
Your name traveled on microchip to Mars.
Thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL,
your name traveled on microchip to Mars.
The rover’s scientific probing’s swell,
thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL.
I’ll just hike Sierra where marvels dwell
still undiscovered under daytime stars.
Thanks to your cousin Jim at JPL.
Your name traveled on microchip to Mars.
CURIOSITY ROADS
A road unknown if you’ve a date to keep—
It winds this way and that among the oaks,
it’s squeezed by wild, and rutted, rocky, steep
and, maybe, washout, fallen log that chokes
the way. This road appears on no one’s maps,
so hope it ends before a twilight cloaks
the edges. Pause a bit while noontime naps
and shadows hide like nesting birds away.
Just let the moments go, let worry lapse.
A road goes where it goes, discovery’s way.
Beyond the bend is who-knows-what—a bird
alighting flashes amber. It won’t stay
but first it pipes the strangest song you’ve heard,
a song beyond the reach of roads: of sky.
You tell your friends, but they just say “absurd.”
No need to puzzle out the where and why;
no time to wonder at those hurried folks
who wouldn’t bucket-list it lest they die—
this curiosity of road will haunt
your recollection like all ways that daunt:
a road unknown if you’ve a date to keep—
so squeezed by wild, and rutted, rocky, steep….
A road unknown if you’ve a date to keep—
It winds this way and that among the oaks,
it’s squeezed by wild, and rutted, rocky, steep
and, maybe, washout, fallen log that chokes
the way. This road appears on no one’s maps,
so hope it ends before a twilight cloaks
the edges. Pause a bit while noontime naps
and shadows hide like nesting birds away.
Just let the moments go, let worry lapse.
A road goes where it goes, discovery’s way.
Beyond the bend is who-knows-what—a bird
alighting flashes amber. It won’t stay
but first it pipes the strangest song you’ve heard,
a song beyond the reach of roads: of sky.
You tell your friends, but they just say “absurd.”
No need to puzzle out the where and why;
no time to wonder at those hurried folks
who wouldn’t bucket-list it lest they die—
this curiosity of road will haunt
your recollection like all ways that daunt:
a road unknown if you’ve a date to keep—
so squeezed by wild, and rutted, rocky, steep….
POEM I DIDN’T GET
The same old landscape—sudden flight!—
glimpse of unknown beast; fading light.
I shift position, focus. There!
Fawn or jackrabbit? hispid hare?
Long ear-receptors aimed at me.
But now, quite gone. What could it be?
In failing daylight never tame,
unwritten wild I wished to name.
The same old landscape—sudden flight!—
glimpse of unknown beast; fading light.
I shift position, focus. There!
Fawn or jackrabbit? hispid hare?
Long ear-receptors aimed at me.
But now, quite gone. What could it be?
In failing daylight never tame,
unwritten wild I wished to name.
Today’s LittleNip:
NO TRESPASS
—Taylor Graham
New fence, land posted.
But listen: white-crown sparrow,
black phoebe, raven—
no one forbid the wild birds
to fly their ancestral woods.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos this morning! Forms she has used include an Unrhymed Villanelle (“Villain Mirrors”); a Welsh Cyhydedd Fer, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges—it's also an Ars Poetica (“Poem I Didn't Get”); Normative Syllabics/Word-Can Poem (“What's to Find on River Cleanup Day?”); an Ekphrastic Poem (“Hands in a Cave”); a Triolet (“Curiosity Rover”); a Laurenelle, the other Triple-F Challenge (“Curiosity Road”) and a Tanka (“No Trespass”).
Tomorrow (10/2), Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will co-host another in the American River Nature Conservancy’s Capturing Wakamatsu: A Poetry Walk/Workshop series at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area, including Poetry in Locke, the big Voices: 2022 release party tomorrow which will include lots of poetry, music, games, general revelry and food (bring your favorite dish!).
Also this Saturday: another “The Way of Poetry” workshop with Louis Osofsky on Asian poetry will take place from 10:30am-12pm at Pivot Coffee,1430 28th St. in Sacramento (I mistakenly left this off the calendar). Mosaic of Voices in Lodi will feature Janet Rodriguez and Gary Thomas; and Poetry at the African Market at Florin Square presents Poetic Butterfly “Floetician” plus open mic at Florin Square in Sacramento. See UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link for info.
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 Challenge
Here are responses from Stephen Kingsnorth and Nolcha Fox to last week's photo challenge:
DAMP SQUIB
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
Light, when haloed, adds to doom,
as if the day has given up—
shroud hoods, too early and too soon
prevent escape of candlepower
but tarmac, slabs wet mirror tone,
long amber smudges sinking tall.
Both damping grey and greying damp,
those kerbside trees lean from the road,
shy of the stunting carbon fumes.
Bruised knuckle fingers, canopy,
stand dwarves as passed, pillars to posts—
hubris, cypress, Italian.
Does mood boost glass front restaurants
through warmer offer, those outside—
but who would venture, tomb lead, gloom?
An empty street except for fug,
deserted, like the village rhyme,
no goldsmith turning rain to sun.
The pooled reflections replace shade,
but maybe that’s what I become,
or wight as if scheme’s trick, no treat.
But have I missed the forecast here—
perhaps not mist, but fog come smog?
So will set scene be seen anon?
* * *
ZIPPED
—Stephen Kingsnorth
This street, it looks so similar.
Was it two days in Singapore,
the stopover to Myanmar
a taxi, hotel—rarity—
and tourist bus to cover sites?
From travelator, airport scape,
to cab—less common than motel,
and do we tip, or insult here?
The President, controversy,
alumnus of my college too,
should we make mention of his name?
We saw those sights, the orchid park,
ate local cakes, caught dark street rain,
held up with visa, baggage packed,
then zipped our lips for Burma’s soil.
* * *
Glow worms glisten
incandescent,
dangling orbs,
rippling reflections
in the rain,
a path to follow
home.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
About this week’s Triple-F Challenge, the LaurenelIe, Carl writes: "I expect other SnakePals caught this too: the instructions state that lines 1 and 2 must repeat as lines 21 and 22, but it is really lines 1 and 3, which are the first 2 rhyming lines." Thanks for catching this, Carl. Here is Carl’s Laurenelle, which is also Ekphrastic (based on the rainy street photo above):
WROTE REPETITION
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
for each, another standing in its place
one tree is copied right across the street
the building’s different stories with same face
an image like two drummers keeping beat
street lamps aplenty made from the same mold
a window wall shares light but not the heat
apparent dampness hints it might be cold
for all we know a raging storm is near
along with other fables to be told
no vehicles are parked at all right here
as if abiding rules on a sign post
which, as you see, does not itself appear
one explanation might point to a ghost
who clears the street to have it for himself
because, in fact, he is a lazy host
but that idea we might keep on the shelf
right next to having green cheese on the moon
forgive me, getting call now from an elf
please don’t repeat each word I have to say
as that will keep us both here all the day
for each, another standing in its place
the building’s different stories with same face
* * *
Carl also composed a Cyhydedd Fer, this week’s other Triple-F Challenge:
SO MANY RINGS
—Caschwa
(inspired by the website https://www.stlyrics.com/songs/d/derailers16862/pawnshopweddingrings462848.html)
so many rings to buy, on sale
promises etched to no avail
lovers dreams had wandered astray
divorce attorneys seeking pay
leave one spouse to marry anew?
ditched vows in the dirt, mired with goo
no matter what, this is the one
trying them all, that is the fun
* * *
Here is another poem from Carl, this one am Ekphrastic response to week-before-last’s photo, the brick wall:
—Caschwa
(inspired by the website https://www.stlyrics.com/songs/d/derailers16862/pawnshopweddingrings462848.html)
so many rings to buy, on sale
promises etched to no avail
lovers dreams had wandered astray
divorce attorneys seeking pay
leave one spouse to marry anew?
ditched vows in the dirt, mired with goo
no matter what, this is the one
trying them all, that is the fun
* * *
Here is another poem from Carl, this one am Ekphrastic response to week-before-last’s photo, the brick wall:
DOMINO BILLIARDS
—Caschwa
out of nowhere
someone on TV
started talking about
Generalized
Anxiety
Disorder
(GAD)
then they presented
a brick wall of non-
solutions because
only the priciest of
medical care plans
include top notch
mental health
treatment
which puts most
anyone afflicted
with GAD in the
same boat as
asylum seekers,
who know they
need to get to a
better place, and
might even reach
that place physically,
but find themselves
shit out of luck getting
the help they need
the dominos fall, the
ball caroms, and we
are abruptly swept
over to another
acronym (that I
just created):
Generalized
Oppression
Disorder
(GOD)
another brick wall
of non-solutions
in that dictator
autocrats who
assume the role
of GOD are only
here to remind
us that Big Business
is now the crown
and like it or not
we are all subject
to it, as if we had
never won that
Revolution, or
the right to make
our own decisions
just try telling them
otherwise, if you
like bumping your
head on brick walls
* * *
Joyce Odam has sent us a wise old Haibun today, just in time for Autumn:
—Caschwa
out of nowhere
someone on TV
started talking about
Generalized
Anxiety
Disorder
(GAD)
then they presented
a brick wall of non-
solutions because
only the priciest of
medical care plans
include top notch
mental health
treatment
which puts most
anyone afflicted
with GAD in the
same boat as
asylum seekers,
who know they
need to get to a
better place, and
might even reach
that place physically,
but find themselves
shit out of luck getting
the help they need
the dominos fall, the
ball caroms, and we
are abruptly swept
over to another
acronym (that I
just created):
Generalized
Oppression
Disorder
(GOD)
another brick wall
of non-solutions
in that dictator
autocrats who
assume the role
of GOD are only
here to remind
us that Big Business
is now the crown
and like it or not
we are all subject
to it, as if we had
never won that
Revolution, or
the right to make
our own decisions
just try telling them
otherwise, if you
like bumping your
head on brick walls
* * *
Joyce Odam has sent us a wise old Haibun today, just in time for Autumn:
OWL AS ORATOR
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
It is so believable to ask the Wise Old Owl a
question—always checking himself in his
mental mirror of words—faking wisdom for
our belief. We, on the other hand, hold to the
myth we think he represents. This is a vignette
of appreciation. Mister Wise Old Owl is so
pleasingly effective—perched on the old tree
limb he occupies for all his directives and
expoundings. Nearby, little Pretty Bird also
finds him curious to watch—so busy preening
and clearing his throat for the solemn answers
he’ll give to all the questions.
lofty old wise owl
thinking up answers for small
chit-chattering question-bird
* * *
And here is a beautiful Cinquain from Claire Baker—another image reminding us that Halloween is coming. Claire had a birthday this week! Happy Birthday, Claire!
A HARVEST OF WINGS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Waiting
for crows to fly
in front of the full moon’s
orb, gliding shadows to quicken
our path.
Praising
the harvest moon
for framing the crows’ flight,
silhouetting southward wings through
the light.
* * *
Taylor Graham wrote about the “Poem I Didn’t Get” (see above)—images that slipped away before she could pin them down. These next two poems by Stephen Kingsnorth are also Ars Poetica about the danger of losing an idea before you get it down on paper/computer. In his case, the danger of climbing stairs that make you forget… Remember Billy Collins’ work about the poem that came to him while walking in the woods, but was lost by the time he tried to write it down? Do you remember the name of that one? I don’t, but to see his poem about forgetfulness, go to poets.org/poem/forgetfulness/. And here are Stephen’s two artful poetica:
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Waiting
for crows to fly
in front of the full moon’s
orb, gliding shadows to quicken
our path.
Praising
the harvest moon
for framing the crows’ flight,
silhouetting southward wings through
the light.
* * *
Taylor Graham wrote about the “Poem I Didn’t Get” (see above)—images that slipped away before she could pin them down. These next two poems by Stephen Kingsnorth are also Ars Poetica about the danger of losing an idea before you get it down on paper/computer. In his case, the danger of climbing stairs that make you forget… Remember Billy Collins’ work about the poem that came to him while walking in the woods, but was lost by the time he tried to write it down? Do you remember the name of that one? I don’t, but to see his poem about forgetfulness, go to poets.org/poem/forgetfulness/. And here are Stephen’s two artful poetica:
MISLAID UNCUT ROUGH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
As I know, climbing stairs is
the certain way, to lose
uncertain thoughts
ascending to collect.
Each rising step, staged farewell,
translucent veil clogged by lifted sole,
landing, all clues littered, frown.
Sadder for me when phrase appeals,
a spoken word,
‘good subject for a poem, that’—
but unrecorded, verse lost, unless
returns as departed,
unannounced.
The uncut rough, if recalled
might be still-born,
unmined, unmind,
ripped, or waiting Dunsinane,
even trembling bunker lip.
For now my ears, impatient,
scan for fresh
prosaic conversation
and converting try.
On Mohs scale it should be high,
glittering prize causing all to sigh;
but, as ever, descending case,
poor costume jewellery is base.
* * *
FRAMED IDEAS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How many wandering thoughts excite
then before record keyboard, pass,
nor pen, quill, stylus cuneiform—
neither tablet, charged or clay tray—
at hand, I need idea to wedge.
But how forget why climbing stairs?
Just now in kitchen carrying tray
laden with breakfast things, Kim's Game,
too softly whispered, an idea
has gone when settled, fingers poised.
Perhaps conceit would benefit
if imaged in thought, then drawn down.
Theology is picture words
from parable to Son of God;
investing tale in memory bank;
so now when gliding word slides by,
a rebus not of what I speak,
but fix its scenery, mind's eye.
* * *
Stephen’s next poem is also Ekphrastic, based as it is on Prigioniero’s The Poet—an image which startled Stephen when he came across it seeming to capture him sitting in a café as it does. Writing about ourselves writing about ourselves writing…
—Stephen Kingsnorth
As I know, climbing stairs is
the certain way, to lose
uncertain thoughts
ascending to collect.
Each rising step, staged farewell,
translucent veil clogged by lifted sole,
landing, all clues littered, frown.
Sadder for me when phrase appeals,
a spoken word,
‘good subject for a poem, that’—
but unrecorded, verse lost, unless
returns as departed,
unannounced.
The uncut rough, if recalled
might be still-born,
unmined, unmind,
ripped, or waiting Dunsinane,
even trembling bunker lip.
For now my ears, impatient,
scan for fresh
prosaic conversation
and converting try.
On Mohs scale it should be high,
glittering prize causing all to sigh;
but, as ever, descending case,
poor costume jewellery is base.
* * *
FRAMED IDEAS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How many wandering thoughts excite
then before record keyboard, pass,
nor pen, quill, stylus cuneiform—
neither tablet, charged or clay tray—
at hand, I need idea to wedge.
But how forget why climbing stairs?
Just now in kitchen carrying tray
laden with breakfast things, Kim's Game,
too softly whispered, an idea
has gone when settled, fingers poised.
Perhaps conceit would benefit
if imaged in thought, then drawn down.
Theology is picture words
from parable to Son of God;
investing tale in memory bank;
so now when gliding word slides by,
a rebus not of what I speak,
but fix its scenery, mind's eye.
* * *
Stephen’s next poem is also Ekphrastic, based as it is on Prigioniero’s The Poet—an image which startled Stephen when he came across it seeming to capture him sitting in a café as it does. Writing about ourselves writing about ourselves writing…
The Poet
—Lily Prigioniero
FOUND OUT, INSIDE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How odd that I should see myself
set in a place I’d never be,
a lonesome man quite out of place.
Like mirrorwork in attitude,
the stance wherein identify,
a plate from portrait studio;
the chequered story underneath,
with tangled legs of Parkinson’s,
left hoarded pieces on the shelf.
But mine was never café call,
atelier, as vantage point;
yet what is this, as customised,
packed sofa, tiles and table cloths,
manoeuvres handing orders out?
Perhaps I’ve chosen solitude,
a mindful moment for release
of ideas from a fevered mind,
some synonym or irony.
I’ve turned my back on advert boards—
at least that hoarding’s not outside—
curmudgeon at the table top.
My pose is full of question marks—
on what can I be musing here,
which senses do I feel employed?
A hint of latte, crumbs of scone,
the shape and sound of how that’s said,
thus why I like, first read, then hear.
Though most find magic, author’s tone,
how can I see the wordplay used,
if spell is broken, ear not eye?
I should be scribbling, menu card—
what I see or might have heard,
the touch and taste beyond the pale.
My hands are clasped, calamus gone,
the quill long dropped through quiver hand,
more arrows, shortfall target range.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How odd that I should see myself
set in a place I’d never be,
a lonesome man quite out of place.
Like mirrorwork in attitude,
the stance wherein identify,
a plate from portrait studio;
the chequered story underneath,
with tangled legs of Parkinson’s,
left hoarded pieces on the shelf.
But mine was never café call,
atelier, as vantage point;
yet what is this, as customised,
packed sofa, tiles and table cloths,
manoeuvres handing orders out?
Perhaps I’ve chosen solitude,
a mindful moment for release
of ideas from a fevered mind,
some synonym or irony.
I’ve turned my back on advert boards—
at least that hoarding’s not outside—
curmudgeon at the table top.
My pose is full of question marks—
on what can I be musing here,
which senses do I feel employed?
A hint of latte, crumbs of scone,
the shape and sound of how that’s said,
thus why I like, first read, then hear.
Though most find magic, author’s tone,
how can I see the wordplay used,
if spell is broken, ear not eye?
I should be scribbling, menu card—
what I see or might have heard,
the touch and taste beyond the pale.
My hands are clasped, calamus gone,
the quill long dropped through quiver hand,
more arrows, shortfall target range.
Here, for reference, is Stephen.
____________________
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 CHALLENGES!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) How about this twist on the “nelles” we’ve been doing:
•••Veltanelle (Velta Myrtle Allen Sanford); www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
And/or you could try another one of the Welsh forms:
•••Cyhydedd Naw Ban: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-naw-ban-poetic-forms
•••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 “Here Be Dragons”.
____________________
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.
•••Cyhydedd Fer: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-fer-poetic-forms
•••Cyhydedd Naw Ban: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-naw-ban-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Laurenelle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lauranelle.html
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
•••Veltanelle (Velta Myrtle Allen Sanford): www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be done unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••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.
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
____________________
—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.)
***
—Public Domain Photo
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
***
—Public Domain Photo
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
