—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
CLAVICLE
Genteel branch of the family,
too soft-spoken for the organ loft
with strings and rods, the clavichord;
not far removed, harder cousins’ line,
protection racket, those body parts,
skeletal shield for inner work.
This little key, sternum strut,
horizontal long, swank only one,
contention, give the doggy some,
gnawing, can’t ignore the thing,
axis turn, abducting from
the inner core, normality.
Marrow, far from veggie patch,
process, joint and scapulae,
sounds mobster or Bond’s enemy,
connections in the underworld—
that’s where they lie, those ligaments,
take orders from the brain HQ.
Out on a limb, a funny bone,
now what a nerve to pretend joke,
far humerus, no laughter—pain,
as if the cut from blade run through,
which leaves me singing Boney M,
from Babylon to Mary’s child.
The last doubtless, unfashionable—
what magic trick with flesh and bones?
But that’s not what the fuss about;
prefer, contracted to a span,
the stuff of life, humanity,
and freedom, choices in the wind.
Genteel branch of the family,
too soft-spoken for the organ loft
with strings and rods, the clavichord;
not far removed, harder cousins’ line,
protection racket, those body parts,
skeletal shield for inner work.
This little key, sternum strut,
horizontal long, swank only one,
contention, give the doggy some,
gnawing, can’t ignore the thing,
axis turn, abducting from
the inner core, normality.
Marrow, far from veggie patch,
process, joint and scapulae,
sounds mobster or Bond’s enemy,
connections in the underworld—
that’s where they lie, those ligaments,
take orders from the brain HQ.
Out on a limb, a funny bone,
now what a nerve to pretend joke,
far humerus, no laughter—pain,
as if the cut from blade run through,
which leaves me singing Boney M,
from Babylon to Mary’s child.
The last doubtless, unfashionable—
what magic trick with flesh and bones?
But that’s not what the fuss about;
prefer, contracted to a span,
the stuff of life, humanity,
and freedom, choices in the wind.
STILL LIFE?
What is this stillness that you style?
If stylus, quill is quickened by?
Or if a living moment framed
may not its moment motion on?
And even should the flesh be dead,
its heart beat ceased as scene on screen,
the same is said of frozen still,
not corpse though yet a living thread—
for can there be still life before,
when moving seen in writing hand?
Thus even stillborn, cells move on,
within the watcher and the watched.
And if we’re moved to try and write,
or should our tears tear us apart,
as cry or scribe, we play a part,
participate in art portrayed.
Ekphrastic speaks all Greek to me,
as common lingua franca man
as koiné boy with little clue,
but even staring at the wall,
I brush against a living will.
The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai c.1830
OUT WEST
How do you read that great wave piece,
off Kanagawa, framed, most know?
But do you first meet Fuji, mount,
or even notice it is there?
If you read it, from right to left,
as woodcut artist, Japanese,
would you perceive another view,
or re-frame what you saw before?
The artist, right to left in view,
sees nation state, as Fuji’s flag,
under the threat of western waves—
the West out to the left of course.
ALIENS
Amongst the colour-coded sheep
on lozenges, chartreuse,
green shield sheet-stamped above the combe
we saw the painted board.
Dinosaur Park was laughable,
until above our heads
the road-side placard fell in shade,
the invasion underway.
They circled there, vast curving spans,
a frenzy from the sky,
like vultures plotting ground-bound prey,
alien force from space.
We lay like carcass carrion
on gold beach landing zone,
winged fingers, pterodactyls slump;
then hang-gliders gathered gear.
Amongst the colour-coded sheep
on lozenges, chartreuse,
green shield sheet-stamped above the combe
we saw the painted board.
Dinosaur Park was laughable,
until above our heads
the road-side placard fell in shade,
the invasion underway.
They circled there, vast curving spans,
a frenzy from the sky,
like vultures plotting ground-bound prey,
alien force from space.
We lay like carcass carrion
on gold beach landing zone,
winged fingers, pterodactyls slump;
then hang-gliders gathered gear.
BRINGING UP OFFSPRING
In meetings, conversations, talks,
we raise our issue, bringing up,
just as our children, issue too,
a focussed group, the family,
as raising plants, our produce sown.
But bringing up, too, tasted twice,
both swallowing and spewing forth;
loquacious poet, without block,
so many words in narrative,
expressing recall overload.
Outstanding rare, best fruit is borne;
run-of-the-mill more standard type.
Is this caused prompting, image, seed?
But is not all verse prompted work?
The world our oyster, gifted grit.
Is impact, compact, précis terms,
in distillation, alchemy?
So justified, pushed to the edge,
a question posed through potent phrase?
The given prompt transformed to ours?
But is distraction worthy cause,
some wordplay over body parts?
It is a field day for the mind
when Parkinson’s would limit space.
reduce our pace to single place.
WHITEBEAM
Why is the whitebeam popular?
Freefall leaf’s shyer underside,
beam glow of light from wispy wind,
a dappled stir to ensign white,
without alba poplar’s pretence.
Is this surrender to the breeze,
or subtle flexing as needs would,
trembling, shudder shiver twist,
the woods alive with faerie dust,
truncated Ariel’s escape?
Does shimmer shimmy by design,
alert to brighten cambium;
is auxin tempted, think again,
a little longer before fall?
Does death know resurrection comes?
But who could know or should they tell
of secret mycorrhiza texts,
that worldwide web of underground?
We hear screech screams of chainsaw blades,
but what is felled when ‘timber’ called?
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OWL ENTRÉE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
From quill to kill in sweepstake thrill,
claw talon spike in skin-pierce strike,
flight banking over strata flanks
of wheaten grain blades, beige laid sky,
oatmeal for rodents, stubble, chaff.
Are dormouse fleas an entrée meal?
____________________
Today we continue this week's visits from Welsh SnakePals, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for some thoughts about connections and art and all that good stuff. (What IS felled when ‘timber’ called…?)
____________________
—Medusa
"...claw talon spike in skin-pierce strike..."
A reminder that
Cal. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm;
and Chris Olander (and others) will be
reading in Nevada City tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming 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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
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!
Cal. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm;
and Chris Olander (and others) will be
reading in Nevada City tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming 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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
out-gilded by
autumn leaves,
sunflower droops
its heavy head—
spreads the seeds of
a new day to come…
