—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
DAWNING
A creeping light unfolds around
my muzzy mind, more sombre thought,
as if true insight wakens me.
No herald chorus from the skies,
no tweets or hedging from the box,
nor twitch or twitter, flash mob chat,
winged messengers, angelic chants;
the only arch, zygoma bone.
And yet it’s as somnambulant
has stirred to this, first day begun.
It’s eyes, the focus of that change,
source and well-being of fresh stream,
both inward, yet too pupils learn,
new orbit in this spinning world,
as dawn, another, solar space,
says earth keeps wheeling on its way.
My dawning, born in darkest hours,
beyond ellipse of planet play
was awesome trust against the grain;
a rising from the dead of night,
dashed dreams turned nightmare, rolled away,
the bedrock, love’s eternal sway.
A creeping light unfolds around
my muzzy mind, more sombre thought,
as if true insight wakens me.
No herald chorus from the skies,
no tweets or hedging from the box,
nor twitch or twitter, flash mob chat,
winged messengers, angelic chants;
the only arch, zygoma bone.
And yet it’s as somnambulant
has stirred to this, first day begun.
It’s eyes, the focus of that change,
source and well-being of fresh stream,
both inward, yet too pupils learn,
new orbit in this spinning world,
as dawn, another, solar space,
says earth keeps wheeling on its way.
My dawning, born in darkest hours,
beyond ellipse of planet play
was awesome trust against the grain;
a rising from the dead of night,
dashed dreams turned nightmare, rolled away,
the bedrock, love’s eternal sway.
TILTH
Where I am rooted, said the parched,
is not well suited to my thirst.
My bed is grit and not the tilth
that lets me search and stretch in earth,
drawing on moist and nurture’s wealth.
I sunbathe in the light above,
spread out my leaves to capture heat,
dress only best to attract bees.
I’m regular in exercise,
the regime, daily, flexing phloem,
my xylem too for appetite,
up-reaching, poised in skyward pose.
My span in bloom will be but brief—
I am reliant, wind, what flies—
but growth and death, vocation calls,
and when I die, the earth more tilth.
Where I am rooted, said the parched,
is not well suited to my thirst.
My bed is grit and not the tilth
that lets me search and stretch in earth,
drawing on moist and nurture’s wealth.
I sunbathe in the light above,
spread out my leaves to capture heat,
dress only best to attract bees.
I’m regular in exercise,
the regime, daily, flexing phloem,
my xylem too for appetite,
up-reaching, poised in skyward pose.
My span in bloom will be but brief—
I am reliant, wind, what flies—
but growth and death, vocation calls,
and when I die, the earth more tilth.
BLIND GUIDES
This elephant has many parts,
yet blind-born men, with feeling, fight;
for each from their experience
know beyond doubt that they are right.
‘Thick, like a tree branch’; explains one
stood proud, beside the trunk, alone.
At other end the man turned tail,
declared this beast more rope-like, snake.
‘Here in my palm I hold a fan’
proclaimed the man who handled ear.
‘No, pillar’, he who grasped the leg;
beside, the oldest said ‘a wall’.
Distracted from their village view—
these codgers flailing, certain, dark—
till girl suggests they each try hear
each other, insight, learn again.
For five assured—but all were wrong,
content with what was partial sight,
as in the gloom, theologise—
discover truths in larger rooms.
Magnificent, though far the drop,
almighty fallen from conceit,
imagination of their hearts,
while meek and lowly risen up.
And pachyderm remembers well—
the earth is full of knowing folk:
they built a tower, those babblers sure,
until some heard a little kid.
This cow, eyes small, yet deep brown seas,
an object lesson, visual aid,
stood mourning for poor grace displayed,
and waited, timeless, for return.
This elephant has many parts,
yet blind-born men, with feeling, fight;
for each from their experience
know beyond doubt that they are right.
‘Thick, like a tree branch’; explains one
stood proud, beside the trunk, alone.
At other end the man turned tail,
declared this beast more rope-like, snake.
‘Here in my palm I hold a fan’
proclaimed the man who handled ear.
‘No, pillar’, he who grasped the leg;
beside, the oldest said ‘a wall’.
Distracted from their village view—
these codgers flailing, certain, dark—
till girl suggests they each try hear
each other, insight, learn again.
For five assured—but all were wrong,
content with what was partial sight,
as in the gloom, theologise—
discover truths in larger rooms.
Magnificent, though far the drop,
almighty fallen from conceit,
imagination of their hearts,
while meek and lowly risen up.
And pachyderm remembers well—
the earth is full of knowing folk:
they built a tower, those babblers sure,
until some heard a little kid.
This cow, eyes small, yet deep brown seas,
an object lesson, visual aid,
stood mourning for poor grace displayed,
and waited, timeless, for return.
CHAIN
The beak, it knows the shining path,
that creak of caravan above
as scents the uncurl of the bud,
making its path with slime, joint oil.
Crown’s cocky ear hears, on the move,
a shell to stab, fruit juice within,
withdrawal not a hiding place.
Home is with me, thinks safe the snail,
but trailers all temporary,
its silver sliver, glitter clue,
a trail for followers of meat.
Small part of chain, fed xylem, phloem,
that smash and grab the next link on—
wheel preying birds are saying grace,
wing hover over smaller kings,
till talons swoop on meal consumed,
elegy for the gastropod
as what consumes is taken too.
The beak, it knows the shining path,
that creak of caravan above
as scents the uncurl of the bud,
making its path with slime, joint oil.
Crown’s cocky ear hears, on the move,
a shell to stab, fruit juice within,
withdrawal not a hiding place.
Home is with me, thinks safe the snail,
but trailers all temporary,
its silver sliver, glitter clue,
a trail for followers of meat.
Small part of chain, fed xylem, phloem,
that smash and grab the next link on—
wheel preying birds are saying grace,
wing hover over smaller kings,
till talons swoop on meal consumed,
elegy for the gastropod
as what consumes is taken too.
Pied Goshawk
àll tràdes
After ‘Pied Beauty’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Divining springs’ course underground,
channelled, sprung-rhythm, in his lines,
acute marks to pace the frame,
grave in resurrection lift.
Divine, poet, creating word,
compelling canon of the wrought
so painting seen by inward eye,
dappled, pied, in river, field.
Sounding voice as known or not,
shock by startle, come to terms,
turning phrase encoded new,
view of world from heaven’s scene.
Jesuit in discipline.
Disciple always learning trade.
Ceramic Bowl by Kintsugi
DUST
It’s known that images outlast
a word, or fact, number recall,
so pupils learn best, as they see,
the eyes best route to memory,
when roots were strong, supporting growth.
Where scenes encompass those we loved,
geography, some key from map,
or tea cup held when mother frail,
cracked photograph or crockery;
in sepia or welling tears,
they speak as might Kintsugi art,
with craft to bare love borne in hearts.
As I live in my seventh age
and bear foremost, memory loss,
the prompts surrounding on my shelves
bring within reach that love I’ve known.
Though dust to dust not far removed,
my helpers whisk things framed with cloth,
and battered bits and pieces stored
shine brighter, their site clearer, I.
They help me, are a complement,
and I’m complete, surrounded care.
It’s known that images outlast
a word, or fact, number recall,
so pupils learn best, as they see,
the eyes best route to memory,
when roots were strong, supporting growth.
Where scenes encompass those we loved,
geography, some key from map,
or tea cup held when mother frail,
cracked photograph or crockery;
in sepia or welling tears,
they speak as might Kintsugi art,
with craft to bare love borne in hearts.
As I live in my seventh age
and bear foremost, memory loss,
the prompts surrounding on my shelves
bring within reach that love I’ve known.
Though dust to dust not far removed,
my helpers whisk things framed with cloth,
and battered bits and pieces stored
shine brighter, their site clearer, I.
They help me, are a complement,
and I’m complete, surrounded care.
Today’s LittleNip:
SWIMMING TRUNKS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
A flutter flags and bubble wave,
the slight drag drawing through the toes,
of children paddle brushing strand.
Unlike the rarer spouts at sea—
whirlwinds, whales more often seen—
the tourists stare, these trunking sprays,
amazed, their big tent tickets free,
for ear-led circus pachyderms
thump through the deckchairs, seaside trunks.
____________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Poet-Across-The-Sea Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poems, and for finding public domain pix to go with them!
SWIMMING TRUNKS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
A flutter flags and bubble wave,
the slight drag drawing through the toes,
of children paddle brushing strand.
Unlike the rarer spouts at sea—
whirlwinds, whales more often seen—
the tourists stare, these trunking sprays,
amazed, their big tent tickets free,
for ear-led circus pachyderms
thump through the deckchairs, seaside trunks.
____________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Poet-Across-The-Sea Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poems, and for finding public domain pix to go with them!
A reminder that there will be an
Ekphrastic reading in Placerville
tonight at 6pm, POHOP at the Guild Theater
Ekphrastic reading in Placerville
tonight at 6pm, POHOP at the Guild Theater
in Sacramento, and the Only Poets
open mic at 8pm will be the last reading
in the long-running (over 20 years!)
Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café
in Sacramento, 8pm, begun
so long ago by José Montoya.
For info about these and future
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.
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!
open mic at 8pm will be the last reading
in the long-running (over 20 years!)
Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café
in Sacramento, 8pm, begun
so long ago by José Montoya.
For info about these and future
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.
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!
Wales to New York to
sunny California
and back again~
Poetry Ping-Pong!
