—Photo by Ann Privateer
—Poetry by Ann Privateer, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Wayne Russell,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Joe Nolan, JM Cyrus
and Shiva Neupane
Stephen Kingsnorth, Wayne Russell,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Joe Nolan, JM Cyrus
and Shiva Neupane
—Original Photos by Ann Privateer
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth
TREMORS
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
Live in love’s joyful feeling
wind beneath the blooming bowers
murmurs in the breeze
flowers flutter, rapture reposes
a butterfly flits from
one treasure to another.
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
Live in love’s joyful feeling
wind beneath the blooming bowers
murmurs in the breeze
flowers flutter, rapture reposes
a butterfly flits from
one treasure to another.
—Photo by Ann Privateer
BIRDS
—Ann Privateer
kiss, taste, enjoy
a seed, or insect
so natural to behold.
—Ann Privateer
kiss, taste, enjoy
a seed, or insect
so natural to behold.
—Photo by Ann Privateer
HE
—Ann Privateer
follows me
hurls insults
I pine, focus
on lottery tickets
scratch off gray
locked in my car
his braille-reader mouth
continues, I sigh
start the engine
wave adieu into air
leave inaudible
expletives
—Ann Privateer
follows me
hurls insults
I pine, focus
on lottery tickets
scratch off gray
locked in my car
his braille-reader mouth
continues, I sigh
start the engine
wave adieu into air
leave inaudible
expletives
—Public Domain Photo
MIRACLE IN GLASS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
So often we have knocked you off
your stand, and dropped you on your head,
yet you refuse to break.
You endure such bitter brew
that melts our spoons
and curls our teeth.
You’ve stood unwashed
for days on end,
and still you don’t complain.
I hope you haunt
this hopeless house
since your design
is out of stock.
We need you, coffee pot.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
So often we have knocked you off
your stand, and dropped you on your head,
yet you refuse to break.
You endure such bitter brew
that melts our spoons
and curls our teeth.
You’ve stood unwashed
for days on end,
and still you don’t complain.
I hope you haunt
this hopeless house
since your design
is out of stock.
We need you, coffee pot.
HMS Endurance
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
The epic story of Ernest Shackleton and the attempt he led to reach the South Pole in 1915 is one of endurance and survival. Their ship, HMS Endurance, was held in pack ice for a year. Just before the trapped ship sank, the group decamped to an ice floe. They were taken north, away from their goal, eventually sailing on salvaged lifeboats to make landfall on Elephant Island. Shackleton took six of the men in one of the boats, ‘James Caird’, which they rowed on a mind-boggling 800-mile route across the South Atlantic to South Georgia. The party then trekked over mountains and glaciers to a whaling station, from where a rescue mission was eventually instituted. All 28 men survived the ordeal and a 2022 expedition discovered the ship preserved on the bed of the Weddell Sea.
HMS ENDURANCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The freeze crept further from its cap,
deep brine with lacework covering,
but hardened hourly. armoury,
clog blocking channels’ opening.
The stark masts marked a cul-de-sac
as bow, stern, ice held vessel fast.
To spring escape the only course
for patient, gritty gifted men,
ship’s dog and cat, the stowaway -
appointed steward, forced to stay.
But when the timbers, wracked with strain
shrieked groans they knew their frame was timed.
Abandoning, berg bivouac,
they watched the vice grip bite their deck,
until the day that hulk raised up,
its rudder, keel torn off as pulp,
the only steerage, flow of floes,
a northern course, far stretched from goal.
And so they drifted, penguins, seals,
the only blubber, rationed out
until the Island, Elephant,
hove into view, their forlorn hope.
They boat hauled, landfall of a sort
but knew their landing must be grave.
Select of six must make a break
against all odds, ferocious seas,
alternative to bitter starve;
eight hundred miles they rowed James Caird,
in epic struggle, elements,
sea mountains, frenzied whiplash storms.
Spokeshaved with fury’s foam, the crests,
rise, fall, lift, slump both swell, dreams dashed,
hands freezing oars through sheeted sleet,
rib-caged assault, bailed clinker built,
this breed of hardship-hardened crew,
brewed in the brutal freeze, but rowed.
The wrong side of their destined isle,
they scaled snow mounts, slid glaciers
by frantic crawl found Station, whales.
Barked ‘Who the hell?’ of bearded ghosts,
‘I’m Shackleton’ in wisped reply;
‘For me’, reporter, ‘I turned, wept.’
They rescued men, all twenty eight;
and fifty on, boy read the tale.
While sixty more they found the ship,
at rest, in peace, bed Weddell Sea,
its wood preserved, brass lettering.
Endurance had fulfilled its name.
HMS ENDURANCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The freeze crept further from its cap,
deep brine with lacework covering,
but hardened hourly. armoury,
clog blocking channels’ opening.
The stark masts marked a cul-de-sac
as bow, stern, ice held vessel fast.
To spring escape the only course
for patient, gritty gifted men,
ship’s dog and cat, the stowaway -
appointed steward, forced to stay.
But when the timbers, wracked with strain
shrieked groans they knew their frame was timed.
Abandoning, berg bivouac,
they watched the vice grip bite their deck,
until the day that hulk raised up,
its rudder, keel torn off as pulp,
the only steerage, flow of floes,
a northern course, far stretched from goal.
And so they drifted, penguins, seals,
the only blubber, rationed out
until the Island, Elephant,
hove into view, their forlorn hope.
They boat hauled, landfall of a sort
but knew their landing must be grave.
Select of six must make a break
against all odds, ferocious seas,
alternative to bitter starve;
eight hundred miles they rowed James Caird,
in epic struggle, elements,
sea mountains, frenzied whiplash storms.
Spokeshaved with fury’s foam, the crests,
rise, fall, lift, slump both swell, dreams dashed,
hands freezing oars through sheeted sleet,
rib-caged assault, bailed clinker built,
this breed of hardship-hardened crew,
brewed in the brutal freeze, but rowed.
The wrong side of their destined isle,
they scaled snow mounts, slid glaciers
by frantic crawl found Station, whales.
Barked ‘Who the hell?’ of bearded ghosts,
‘I’m Shackleton’ in wisped reply;
‘For me’, reporter, ‘I turned, wept.’
They rescued men, all twenty eight;
and fifty on, boy read the tale.
While sixty more they found the ship,
at rest, in peace, bed Weddell Sea,
its wood preserved, brass lettering.
Endurance had fulfilled its name.
Death by Cheese Rounds.
Mr. Chiaparini in his factory; all the cheese rounds
fell on him and killed him.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WHILE NATURE DEPARTS
THIS MORTAL COIL
—Wayne Russell, South East Ohio
The leaves of life are toppling,
stark; and with the raven's
dreams.
A photosynthesis, drifting upon
sunrayes, fathomed, nourished;
and soar.
The tears of raging sun, I can
not save this lost and dying world,
no; not alone.
There is no reason, no promise,
from our leaders, poised as snakes,
folly; and fall as clowns; and still
we follow.
The mountains simmer, loose in
their sockets, seasons faze, switch
into yellowed pages of armageddon.
Oceans bake, coral reef surrender,
and die, nature follow the corporate
into catastrophe, shaking us now,
into oblivion.
Picking Strawberries
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
REMEMBER
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Green olives and merchandise of
Forgotten safekeeping
My overall cremated beginning
A splash for a second
Like Color palette
It just oozes
A little too bold
Still forgotten
Or never opened
Clouds on nine
A heavenly choir
Choice of infinity
Brew some coffee
Earthly mundane daily chores
Living in New York alone
I shift
A little bit more open
Of synchronized symmetry
It has to be
Divinely separated
Divinely unified
A trophy golden
Splash of color on my mind
Every second a little bit
Still forgotten
Too swift
The divine light passes
Keeping scores
Always
Remember
Yours or mine
There's no division
Union collides
Another one
Like other matted furnishings
Too swift
Little birds little flowers
Heavenly bodies
Mazy amusements
Bodies flesh studios my mind
Paint hearts
Still forgotten
A chess a gambit
Queen's Birthday
A Phoenix
Always keeping score
My mind
Always remember
Your heaven.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
GOD BLESS YOU!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
“God bless you!”
Is all you can say
On behalf of the dead
Who have gone away.
They hear you
When you say it.
They’re grateful,
But can’t respond—
The rabbit-trails
From here to there
Traverse obverse dimensions,
But love will still get through.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THOSE WHO RISE
—Joe Nolan
Those who rise
May, too, descend,
From light to dark.
The gravest thing
Is to have
No end.
To be Infinity—
To know the weight
Of Ecstasy—
Of joy
Without end.
Those who rise,
May also fall,
Like Icarus
And lose it all,
But few
Who had so flown
Would complain at all.
… or Medusa in disguise?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
DISAPPOINTMENT WITH OVERDOING
—Joe Nolan
I had a dream
And you were in it,
About how
So many
Horny men
Had disappointed you,
Leaving you
Feeling abused.
Such is the
Way of lust:
To burnish flesh
Into dust—
Constantly overbearing
The willingness
That inhabits flesh.
Overdoing
Is its own
Undoing.
—Joe Nolan
I had a dream
And you were in it,
About how
So many
Horny men
Had disappointed you,
Leaving you
Feeling abused.
Such is the
Way of lust:
To burnish flesh
Into dust—
Constantly overbearing
The willingness
That inhabits flesh.
Overdoing
Is its own
Undoing.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
YOU’LL NEED A CAR IN CALIFORNIA
—Joe Nolan
There is no bus
From here to there.
No one ever seemed to care.
It’s like you’re
On an island.
Not that anyone
Would car—
No one ever wanted,
In sufficient numbers,
To justify a bus
That goes from there to here
Or vice-versa.
That’s how it is
In California—
You’d better have a car.
Otherwise,
You might be stranded,
Here or there,
Since hitchhiking
Has long been out of style,
And no one ever thought of putting buses
On routes too infrequent to service,
At the public expense,
Since it’s just expected
That everyone will
Be driving
His or her own car.
—Joe Nolan
There is no bus
From here to there.
No one ever seemed to care.
It’s like you’re
On an island.
Not that anyone
Would car—
No one ever wanted,
In sufficient numbers,
To justify a bus
That goes from there to here
Or vice-versa.
That’s how it is
In California—
You’d better have a car.
Otherwise,
You might be stranded,
Here or there,
Since hitchhiking
Has long been out of style,
And no one ever thought of putting buses
On routes too infrequent to service,
At the public expense,
Since it’s just expected
That everyone will
Be driving
His or her own car.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
LET’S GO TO THE SEASIDE
—JM Cyrus, London, England
"Let's go to the seaside"
You said.
I see
A limitless sequinned, undulating sea
An orange sunset kissing its reflection
I taste
Sweet, rainbow, iced drinks with little
umbrellas
Gelato
Helado
Sorvete
I feel
Solarised breezes
Warmed, pillowed sand
Smoothed sea glass
I could be Mary Anning
(And you, my ammonite)
I could be Venus
Reborn on my clamshell
But
That isn't
The seaside
You meant
Battered dunes and craggy rocks and scrubby
seagrass
Saline rain
Shrieking sea birds, harpies reborn
Knife sound, knife cold
A house smelling like cold salt
Briney wind creates frost patterns
the window frames do not quite meet
whistle wind
But the sea the sea
Grey churning sea and opaque roiling sky
curvaceous voluptuous plenty
meeting in union
Waves and rain
an orchestra of water
beyond the echo the siren song
The rain is unremitting, unrepentant, unceasing
The waves are constant, everlasting, everchanging
Froth reminiscent of bolting horses
Hidden shadows in the underbelly
sea serpents
kelpies
hippokampoi
Pareidolia of faces, limbs, bodies
The frothing, rolling mass pummels itself
caresses itself
makes, unmakes, remakes itself
to crescendo
Inside
The bed is warm
Your body is warmer
Perhaps the seaside is not so bad after all
—JM Cyrus, London, England
"Let's go to the seaside"
You said.
I see
A limitless sequinned, undulating sea
An orange sunset kissing its reflection
I taste
Sweet, rainbow, iced drinks with little
umbrellas
Gelato
Helado
Sorvete
I feel
Solarised breezes
Warmed, pillowed sand
Smoothed sea glass
I could be Mary Anning
(And you, my ammonite)
I could be Venus
Reborn on my clamshell
But
That isn't
The seaside
You meant
Battered dunes and craggy rocks and scrubby
seagrass
Saline rain
Shrieking sea birds, harpies reborn
Knife sound, knife cold
A house smelling like cold salt
Briney wind creates frost patterns
the window frames do not quite meet
whistle wind
But the sea the sea
Grey churning sea and opaque roiling sky
curvaceous voluptuous plenty
meeting in union
Waves and rain
an orchestra of water
beyond the echo the siren song
The rain is unremitting, unrepentant, unceasing
The waves are constant, everlasting, everchanging
Froth reminiscent of bolting horses
Hidden shadows in the underbelly
sea serpents
kelpies
hippokampoi
Pareidolia of faces, limbs, bodies
The frothing, rolling mass pummels itself
caresses itself
makes, unmakes, remakes itself
to crescendo
Inside
The bed is warm
Your body is warmer
Perhaps the seaside is not so bad after all
—Public Domain Photo
LEND ME A BOOK
—JM Cyrus
I would do many things
Many glorious things
To be the canvas beneath your palm
Or the embossed letter fretted by your
fingerprint
To be the curve of the vowel
Or the angles of the consonant
Beneath your mouth, your tongue, your sigh
But until then I will settle
To hold the book you just held
And feel the warmth of where your hands just were
And see the inner worlds you did
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
IGNIS FATUUS
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
I say this is the truth
But that may be the false-truth;
The truth may not evolve sanguinely.
It is the product of imagination,
Which gives wings to our beliefs.
To find out the ultimate truth,
We may end up with a mug's game.
The illusion has taken our mind hostage.
We don't have authority over ultimate truth.
What is true for us may not be true for others.
Our perception is attired with deception.
The truth is like a will-o'-the-wisp,
Which is notoriously difficult to get hold of.
______________________
Welcome to an action-packed Monday morning here in the Kitchen, and our thanks to today’s colorful contributors from far and wide. Our Seed of the Week was “Endurance”, so we have some nods to that, a subject that is most appropriate to our lives now—and always, of course—including Stephen Kingsnorth's riff on the HMS Endurance and her intrepid crew. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Londoner JM Cyrus, a first-time visitor to the Kitchen, says she writes whenever there is the chance, and reads even when there isn't one. Usually the writer of speculative fiction, poetry has well and truly also got its teeth in. Her work is published or upcoming in anthologies from Improbable Press and Patchwork Raven, the literary magazine, Flint, and online at AntipodeanSF, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Orion's Beau. Say hello at jmcyrus.writer@gmail.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, JM, and don’t be a stranger! (I agree with her—let’s go to the seaside!)
—JM Cyrus
I would do many things
Many glorious things
To be the canvas beneath your palm
Or the embossed letter fretted by your
fingerprint
To be the curve of the vowel
Or the angles of the consonant
Beneath your mouth, your tongue, your sigh
But until then I will settle
To hold the book you just held
And feel the warmth of where your hands just were
And see the inner worlds you did
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
IGNIS FATUUS
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
I say this is the truth
But that may be the false-truth;
The truth may not evolve sanguinely.
It is the product of imagination,
Which gives wings to our beliefs.
To find out the ultimate truth,
We may end up with a mug's game.
The illusion has taken our mind hostage.
We don't have authority over ultimate truth.
What is true for us may not be true for others.
Our perception is attired with deception.
The truth is like a will-o'-the-wisp,
Which is notoriously difficult to get hold of.
______________________
Welcome to an action-packed Monday morning here in the Kitchen, and our thanks to today’s colorful contributors from far and wide. Our Seed of the Week was “Endurance”, so we have some nods to that, a subject that is most appropriate to our lives now—and always, of course—including Stephen Kingsnorth's riff on the HMS Endurance and her intrepid crew. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Londoner JM Cyrus, a first-time visitor to the Kitchen, says she writes whenever there is the chance, and reads even when there isn't one. Usually the writer of speculative fiction, poetry has well and truly also got its teeth in. Her work is published or upcoming in anthologies from Improbable Press and Patchwork Raven, the literary magazine, Flint, and online at AntipodeanSF, Sci-Fi Shorts, and Orion's Beau. Say hello at jmcyrus.writer@gmail.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, JM, and don’t be a stranger! (I agree with her—let’s go to the seaside!)
JM Cyrus
Wayne Russell is back with us today after a bit of a hiatus. His first full-length poetry book, Where Angels Fear, can be purchased on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Where-Angels-Fear-Wayne-Russell/dp/B087HFGT26/.
Another one of our SnakePals, Charles Mariano, has been hard at work with others to curate an exhibit down in Merced called Caminos. From July 5 to December 23, Merced County Arts Council/Multicultural Arts Center (The MAC; https://www.artsmerced.org/, 645 W. Main St., Merced, CA) features Caminos: Latino History of the Central San Joaquin Valley. The exhibit highlights some key figures in each of the eras and will be augmented through a series of monthly pláticas (discussions) led by Dr. Alex Saragoza and invited leaders and authors who have lived and documented this history. Dr. Saragoza will initiate the series on Sunday, August 27 from 1-3pm. with the first plática to introduce the beginning of the camino, coming to Alta California in the Spanish and Mexican periods. Subsequent pláticas are scheduled for September 24 and October 29. Info: https://www.artsmerced.org/all-exhibits/caminos-exhibition/.
Lots going on in NorCal poetry this week, culminating with the 70th Anniversary of San Francisco’s City Lights Bookstore, which is holding a poetry reading in Kerouac Alley on Sunday starting at 1pm. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
Voices 2023: Dahlias, Gods & Mermaids, Cold River Press’s anthology of poets from NorCal and beyond, is now available for pre-sale. This coffee table book of poetry, filled with poets from around the world (186pp, 11" x 8 1/2", soft cover perfect-bound edited by Dave Boles), will retail for $34.95, but until Sept. 1, 2023, you can order a copy for only $28.95 at https://www.coldriverpress.com/HTML/VOICES/voices.htm/.
Voices 2023: Dahlias, Gods & Mermaids, Cold River Press’s anthology of poets from NorCal and beyond, is now available for pre-sale. This coffee table book of poetry, filled with poets from around the world (186pp, 11" x 8 1/2", soft cover perfect-bound edited by Dave Boles), will retail for $34.95, but until Sept. 1, 2023, you can order a copy for only $28.95 at https://www.coldriverpress.com/HTML/VOICES/voices.htm/.
And NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that SnakePal Sue Daly’s husband, Stephen, has passed away. Our condolences to Sue and her family. Here is a link to a Medusa’s Kitchen post that Sue and Stephen did together several years ago: https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=sue+daly/.
______________________
—Medusa
______________________
—Medusa
—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.
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!
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!
majestic banyan tree
stands strong by the sea~
roots don’t burn,
don-cha know…
she’ll be back!
