Frozen Moments

 —Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta, Princeton, UK
—Public Domain Winter Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

A WINTER QUINTET

MAGIC HOOVES      (CLARINET)

Unicorns pulled her sledge,
sliding elegantly through snow.
The Princess of the frozen North,
sat wrapped in a cloud of white.
Woven from polar bear hair,
her crown of frost shone bright
in the dark depths of the frozen night
where only twinkling stars shed light.

Her unicorns’ magical feet
left no indentations at all,
though they galloped so fleet.
Travelling towards the Pole,
to the great annual icicle ball,
they left not a sign of a hole,
over the vast snowy waste,
not even the slightest trace.

 

 

 

 

 
ST LUCY’S DAY     (CELLO)

The shortest day
of a long year.
Only St Lucy’s light
to prevail against
the liquid dark.
From the far horizon
night rolls in
like the neap tide
flooding fields and cattle,
obliterating the individual,
drowning that lone oak
in dark anonymity.
In the pastures
sheep huddle,
backs to the driving
east wind’s chill.
In the slate quarry
a whirlpool of black
covers old scars.
From the refuge
of lighted rooms,
we look blindly
into our lost world

 

 

 

 

IN THE CLOUDS     (FIRST VIOLIN)

Christmas Eve,
a scatter of snow.
Cold, very cold
as only the mountains
can be.

Darjeeling, midnight,
bells ringing,
ghosts of the Raj
dream in cold tombs
of lost Indian summers.

Kanchenjunga,
the sacred mountain
Her five peaks
the five treasures
of snow.

Salt, gold, jewels,
sacred scroll,
impenetrable armour,
guarded by
demons of old.

 

 

 

 

WINTERREISE       (SECOND VIOLIN)

Wintry sunlight touches the hollow stems,
they glitter, golden pipes of Pan,
awaiting the wind’s breath
to blow light notes across the dead garden.
Leaves whirl and dance
a mad red, yellow, brown tarantella,
a danse macabre over the frozen grass.
Drops of rain hang suspended
from black, barren branches
diamonds in the ear of a dying lover.
The cruel beauty of the rose revealed,
bare stems, jagged, broken teeth
ready to sink into softly, yielding flesh,
No summer-scented petals
to hide the maggot at the heart.

The brooding darkness of the yew
is softened by flakes of snow.
Red berries, symbol of Easter’s passion,
lie hidden in dark, spiky leaves.
Along the gutter icy daggers glint,
their brilliant iridescence
disguises the shafts stabbing downwards
into earth’s frozen heart.
Dead fronds of bracken,
skeletal fingers of autumn,
stiffen in the frosty grip
of winter
Under the stark lines of the corpse,
lies the beauty of the dying year.

 

 

 

 

A FROZEN MOMENT      (VIOLA)

Craters, seas, mountains, a recreated lunar world.
A robin hops fearlessly along a narrow icy crest—
a flash of red, a single ember, fire in ice!
In white woods I hold a ray of fading sunlight,
before it moves silently to snow-laden firs.
Hips and haws of snow hang, suspended
                                      for a frozen moment.
On the banks a secret code of footprints criss-
crosses.
Birds, rabbits, foxes, a sculptured record,
the only imprint they leave at this moment in
history.
Here is the sense of now, of a scene suspended
for alway
                                      yet soon gone!
Tonight, the world itself spins round this spot:
the dark trees sweeping along a fading horizon
mark the confines of this frozen universe.
Spears of starlight pierce the freezing snow.
Across this land, the melancholy hooting
                                     of an owl
circles and washes in the ear.
Hanging from bare hawthorn twigs, crystal tears
                                     sparkle in the setting sun.
Fences bend, buckle under the weight of snow.
In the barn the cattle, silent, still, sense the world
                                     hovering.
While from the roof, snow slides slowly in miniature
                                     avalanches.
The landscape’s scars are softly bandaged: the
abandoned
quarry, the fallen oak, muddy ruts.
All are magically made new!
The stream below the hill is spellbound,
whirlpools and ripples held tonight in an icy hand.
Haystacks loom large like white-washed cottages.
Even the farmyard’s muddy chaos
in this stillness resolves into silent order.
As moonlight floods this frozen world,
I stand transfixed, caught in this moment,
Now.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.

—John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta, another of our British SnakePals, for today’s fine suite of poems celebrating the frozen moments of winter, as we say good-bye to November and slide into December~ 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Int’l Human Rights Day
will be celebrated in
Placerville today, 1-4pm.
For info about this and other
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

Bundled up with a little Darjeeling~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Driving in a Cloud

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday,
with Poetry by Joe Nolan, Lynn White,
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Melissa Lemay, and Claire J. Baker

 

 

STATUS REPORT, NOVEMBER

I drove in a cloud to get here but it lifted,
lying in layers of lighter and deeper gray.
In this open field destined for development,
new rain-born grasses push thru the old dead weeds—
golden wild oat, clover pompons gone silvery.
Pond willow yellowing, and a scarlet leafed tree
along the creek. Not so far from city—silence,
yet my birdsong app records ruby-crowned kinglet
white-crowned sparrow our winter visitor from high
Sierra summers. Savannah sparrow too. And
under those layers of variegated gray cloud
blows chilly breeze across this field like a summons.

 

 

 

ICE ON THE BUCKET

from Sylvia Plath’s “Nick and the Candlestick”

You weren’t prepared for this day, its
dawning freeze, its dying yellows
of leaf, though heartwoods hearten
from root of a malingering year, O
seasons! Must everything we love
keep changing? Parka, mittens, how
we cope with November. Well, did
you get new wipers for that car you
bought for summer mountains? get
tires to bear you there from here?  
This is a new day for discovery, O
chances that commence in embryo,
not ending even in remembering.
The odds are yours, and odder even
than you ever dreamed in sleep.

 

 

 

 

WALKING IN THE RAIN

There’ll be no bel canto singer beside the trail,
no flitter of songbirds in the dripping trees.
Even the feral cats would be curled up
snug in their wizened brambles. So where
should I walk? Under solar panels
in the high school parking lot?
What sort of walk is that? Shall I leave
my raincoat hanging in the closet, sit looking
through window glass at this blessed rain?
not feel it on my face, see it dropping
all around me like earth’s manna? And how
about my dog—sitting at the door,
watching my every cloud-opening thought?

 

 

 

SCATTERED WATERS EGRET

In honor of Indigenous
water art at the gallery,
Egret has blessed our city creek
belittered though it be

 

 

 

 

RAINY DAY QUESTION

How can this wild
maple survive
rooted in creek-
rock against rock-
wall in the seasonal flooding
ravage of a city’s grubby
flow down the creek?

 

 

 

 

MEMORIAL FOR A SEARCHER

A convocation
of ravens in pines—and we
gather, too many
for the church, we’re the awkward
survivors sitting
cramped as searchers in a jeep—
departed friend of
so many missions ago—
the dark bowl’s circling
tone gathers—thru plain glass panes
I watch rain on head-
stones, names, dates weathered away—
a great walker, he
for years wheelchair-bound, his mind
yet ranging free—now
it’s Amazing Grace, lost but
found—and we here still searching.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WILD INSPIRATIONS
—Taylor Graham

from the time you woke, everything
you read or saw seeming to converge toward
a central truth, an embryo, nexus,
thought or image yet to manifest, germ
of a poem in spite of you.

___________________

Rain! Taylor Graham’s rain dances have paid off in some blessed steady sky-water this week, and she has celebrated it with some fine poetry and photos. Forms she has used include some Normative Syllabics (“Status Report, November”); a Golden Shovel (“Ice on the Bucket”); a Ryūka (“Scattered Waters Egret”); an Ars Poetica (“Wild Inspirations”); a Termelay (“Rainy Day Question”); and a Choka (“Memorial for a Searcher”). About these, TG writes: “‘Scattered Waters Egret’” refers to the current ‘Scattered Water Droplets’ exhibition of Indigenous art at Arts and Culture's Switchboard Gallery in Placerville (poster for the exhibit features an egret). ‘Memorial for a Searcher’ is maybe kind of an Elegy.” Also, her “Wild Inspirations” refers to an embryo, a recent Seed of the Week being “Embryo”.

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html. For more news about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!
 
And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ 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.)


Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. 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 Photo

Several poets sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo, including Joe Nolan, Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Melissa Lemay:


OLD-FASHIONED FRUIT-STAND
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Just an old-fashioned fruit-stand,
Set against rolling green hills,

So lovely
All the colors
Of the fruit,
So lively
All the green
And such a lovely
Sunshine day
It takes your breath away.

The hills might be
California in May,
But wherefrom
All the fruit?

By the time the fruit
In gorgeous, here,
Our hills have all turned brown—
Waiting for a wet kiss
From Winter.

* * *

APPLES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


Apples are not the only fruit
but they come in a wider colour range
than oranges
and without the dark side that came
with Winterson.
All’s well in the world of apples
conspiring daily to keep the doctor away.

* * *

LITTLE BOXES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

We’re sorted into boxes
in the autumn of our lives.
We look good from a distance
but our age shows, if you’re close.

We’re sorted into boxes,
pickle-balling, or in a rest home,
raising grandkids when our own
kids lost their way.

We’re sorted into boxes
waiting for our winter season,
when we’ll be plucked
by Death to be
forgiven and forgotten.

* * *

IMPORT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The journey’s stalled but just for one,
as she would drink in fruit stall hues
and hinterland of backdrop screen,
but his aim solely A to B—
perspective on two rules in rôles.

Arrival first, or enjoy ride,
like apple, orange, in compare;
what is the driving force engaged—
tasting trip or getting on—
the venture, or the end in site?

Though yellow, orange, green and red,
appeal of colour offered there—
though peel discarded, its job done—
attracting custom to the point…
a wayside stop or travel on?

For him, distraction from set plan,
the ticking clock while pedal power;
for her, distraction, travel wars,
so stiff, so stilted, maybe more;
that wee thought, easier for men.

I did stop once on taxi ride,
Gwahati to Shillong, Assam,
but that when vehicle had stalled,
bump starting tried down hairpin hill—
thought plantain, pineapple, my last.

Rucksacks galore, the trunk was filled—
unlike near jumbo, timber haul—
Ambassador car, backseat six
as far from Cambridge as could be—
but we the only import here.

So take your pick of route and fare,
her jaunt, or his gaunt square-jawed goal,
tapped tourist root or getting there.
Your palate may suit palette fruit,
but tempting apples lead astray.

* * *

SCENIC VIEWS
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA


sprawling hills…
my mind is fixed on
throwing whole crates
of apples over the edge.

* * *

And here is Melissa’s response to our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Blustery Day”. She has called this a Haiku Sonnet, with the caveat that she has adjusted the form to fit her poem: 

 

 

 

OF LITTLE CONCERN
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA


Trash cans blow over
on the curb, across the street
last leaves drift down

from sagacious trees.
Trees have no concern where
they grow, driving their


roots into the earth
anywhere they’re planted.
We should be so lucky.

A bird feeder swings,
striking a beam on the porch.


* * *

Claire Baker sent a response to our recent Seed of the Week, “Embryo”:

 

 

EMBRYO IN PROGRESS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

While at rest
on pale pink recliners
do embryos reach for ancient
squelched kin, still not
completely expelled
by thrusted tools?

Are embryos
determined to cling
in residuals of a porcelain
thimble of tears, a trembling from fears
for their prime-time in life
not yet realized?

What does an embryo
in progress
want to ask of
and inform
a would-be
mother?

* * *

Here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth about “work scribbled furiously late at night”, with shades of the Embryo, our recent Seed of the Week. His reference to Advent is also appropriate for the Christian season of Advent, which begins Dec. 1:

 

 

 

 ADVENT STRIKE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Each poem has its advent stay,
waiting for the birthing day,
pregnant pause, another night,
twenty-four more chimes to bite,
biding till a sending hour,
dreading breech in hushing speech,
tempting forceps kept in tray,
bend over cord with ready blade.

Some work scribbled furiously,
late at night spirit inspired—
better if small-crafted beer—
gem or germ, mixed litter strewn.
awaiting light, hangover drawn.

Not warmth because the yeast must work,
for pastry resting, left for cold,
too late for that, the rising pact,
but that the gluten might relax,
a word to change, a comma add,
an eroteme or phrase reverse.

If result too stiff to scroll,
never try to warm it up,
whack it, shock it, into prone.

The cookbook tells me what to do;
submission through the rolling pin.
If that declined, then knock it out,
count merciless, with finger point.

But this, maybe Caesar, come—
so button hover, hold back, strike,
not because the iron hot,
for malleable long before.

So taken shape, some rhythmic flow;
now, once sent, then Coventry,
wait patiently, hope second birth.

____________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? 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 these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) A Vignette is a brief descriptive poem; a Vignette Form has a structure as follows:

•••Vignette Form: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/vignette-form

 
•••AND/OR a Trochadiddle; don’t let all the fancy terminology kerfuddle you:

•••Trochadiddle (Trō-ka-did-dle): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/trochadiddle

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Blustery Day”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Vignette Form: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/vignette-form
•••Termelay: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/termelay
•••Trochadiddle (Trō-ka-did-dle): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/trochadiddle

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

Shared Memories

 —Poetry by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain 

SHARED MEMORIES  

mutual friends introduced me to my future wife,
Jo Lynn, and we just really connected from 

then on…

both of our mothers were left-handed and abused 

for it, hers was the youngest of 10, mine the 

youngest of 5, each had a bossy older sister

both of our fathers were born on the same day 

and month, different years

when we decided to get contact lenses, the
prescription was
exactly the same for each of us, which we were
told was
extremely rare

Jo Lynn’s cat Joshua bonded with me like family
right away,
and likewise with our newborn son.

I told Jo Lynn that a blue reflector tab in the middle
of the street signified there was a fire hydrant curb-

side, and she was forever grateful that I just told 

her straight, no
tomfoolery added

we were at the butcher counter at a local market
and witnessed a trainee repeatedly put more and 

less ground round on the scale to try to measure 

a perfect pound; then
we ordered 2 pounds of ground round and a more
experienced worker just put both hands around a
lump of ground round,
placed it on the scale, and it measured 2 pounds
exactly

there was a nice lady “Flora” living in the house
next to our upstairs apartment who we would 

often see out in her front yard tending to some 

of the flowers, strongly
insinuating that
she had done intensive work on the yard herself;
one morning
I was arriving home after an early AM job collating
newspaper parts, and observed a whole crew of
guys tending Flora’s yard, including the flowers;
when I shared this with Jo Lynn, it was
as if a ton of pressure was suddenly released from
her shoulders

One cloudy day we had just finished a visit to our
medical offices and it looked like there was a fair 

chance the clouds could break and allow 

some sunlight to prevail,
but as soon as we got seated in our car, we were 

faced with the strongest hail storm we had ever felt 

all along the 6-mile route home; wipers on,
defrost on, heat on, we went with the slow flow
of traffic, marveling at the view of expansive 

parking lots blanketed with hail, till we could finally 

arrive home and park inside the garage

I had never bought rib eye steak before, but on one
grocery shopping trip I saw some that looked very
appealing and brought it home; aiming for

a medium-rare outcome,
I grilled it on the backyard BBQ, setting the 

burners on low,
and allowing an ample cooking time; it was a big hit
with me and Jo Lynn, and
even our somewhat toothless Chihuahua Chica just
couldn’t get enough of this tender, tasty treat.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I believe the world is one big family, and we need to help each other.

—Jet Li

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for today’s poem giving thanks for memories shared with his late wife, Jo Lynn, and their little Chica, also passed. Shared memories are real treasures, yes?  

 

Amd wishing all of you a peaceful thanksgiving!

 

 

 

 Chica

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

Chica barks at LittleSnake,
who is trying to crash the BBQ~

Send in the. . . O Never Mind. . .

 

—Poetry by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

BRINGING ON THE CLOWNS

I always found them creepy
the circus clowns
I watched as a child.
They never made me laugh
or even smile.
My uncle ‘clowned around,’ they said
and he was funny.
A boy in my class was often described
as ‘a bit of a clown’
and he was funny.
But the circus clowns
with the fake smiles and tears
painted on their made-up faces
strutting their stuff around the ring,
falling off ladders,
failing to juggle
or walk a tight rope,
throwing water
over each other
posing and posturing
in between antics,
they weren’t funny,
just scarily strange.
And now the clowns are free,
they’ve moved outside the Big Top
the whole world is their circus now.
‘Send in the clowns’ cried the audience
and they came on to the stage
but no one is laughing.
It’s no laughing matter.



(First pub. in Red Weather, 2020)

 

 

 

 

PUPPETS


The puppets are drowning now
their useful time has passed.
They were always made
to become shadows
to be discarded
by the string pullers
when the audience was sated.
The glove puppets and sock puppets
are floating away
already
tumbling like clowns
in the waves
and soon
even the shadow puppets will vanish
maybe then
the puppeteers will reveal themselves
put their power on display
temporarily.
For soon it will be time
for them to change
their shape
and re-emerge
to find new clowns,

new clowns to seduce the audience.



(First pub. in Flora Fiction Literary Magazine,
Spring 2020)

 

 

 

RED ALERT

It’s not enough to take to the streets
one million
two million
it still needs more.

It’s not enough to sign your name
three million
four million
it still needs more.

It’s not enough to cast your vote
nine million
ten million
think of a number million
it still needs more.

It’s never enough
the clowns still will have more.


(First pub. in New Verse News, 12/14/19)

 

 

 

UNIFORMS

What shall I be,
soldier, sailor,
clown, maybe.
Grey suit, or blue,
tailored jacket, short skirt.
Hippie, maybe.
Now there’s a uniform!
Everyone different,
not conforming.

But, wearing the same
signs,
the signifiers,
of nonconformity.
The badges
that identify those
waving the flag,
or burning it.


Beads and bangles,
shell suits, jeans,
leggings, jeggings, posh frocks,
taking us to our comfort zone,
Finding for us the warmth we crave.

A part or apart. 


Perhaps we are all figments
as made up and tailored as the
uniform we choose.
Even when we change,
it’s hard
not to
choose a uniform.


(First pub. in Literary Yard, October 2017)

 

 

 

 

ROUND AND ROUND


Round and round,
go the gaudy horses
trotting
cantering
round and round
the small sawdust ring
with the Ring Master in control
holding his whip close
making sure
the show goes on.

Round and round they go,
with a bareback rider
glamorous
smiling
swaying
on a rump,
but the smiles are fading now
and the once-bright horses
drab and disheveled now
hoping for the clowns
to give them a break
they’re staggering
lurching
round and round
their treadmill.

Round and round.
Round and round.
Just one more revolution
and they'll be ready.
Ready
to bite the hands
that refused to feed them.

Round and round.
Round and round.
Only one more revolution,
to sharpen up the teeth.
Round and round,
just one more revolution.

What a circus.


(First pub. in California Quarterly, 2022)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

All people are sad clowns. That’s the key to comedy—and it’s a buffer against reality.

—Bob Odenkirk

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for using her fine poetry to clown around with us today!

 

 

 

 

For 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

What a circus!
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wolf Shadows of the Morning

  Synonym For a Beginning—Sleep to Wake
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

FIRST DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam

They’re at the door again,
the wolf shadows at the tick of
every morning

Like memories or dreams from the
future, silver-throated bird shadows—
damn, I forgot the best of it . . .
                        

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020) 

 

 

 

 This Meaning

AT THE EDGE OF MY THOUGHT
—Joyce Odam

Choose me,
said the word—pristine and new,

as a possibility for remorse, or even
love—such a word,

translucent and shimmering,
one I could see through,

clear to the other side of meaning:
Oh, word, I cried,

(for this was a word one could cry to)
Oh, just-right word,

how I want you in my poem—
the way you shimmer there

at the edge of my thought, willing . . .
but something streamed between us

and the word was gone—
gone in a pulse of light, like a flicker

of one tremble to the next—something
not quick enough to capture.
                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/11) 

 

 

 

     Scarves of Gray

      THE FAR END OF TIME
     —Joyce Odam

     Here in this haunted time and
     place a woman whispering by
       woman made of memories
       your name on her cold lips
        following the shadow of
        your life—woman made
        of shadow out of the far
       end of time, she whispers
       and you answer, she turns
      and looks back—you grieve
     for her—floating in scarves of
        gray and you wish she would stay.
       How often have you imagined this?
                                 

       (prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

Flight

TWO BIRDS DROWNING IN THE SEA
—Joyce Odam

So when you decided together
to try that glittering sea,
borne on momentum
of beauty-shared flight,
the guessed-at arrival,
we, of the heavier wings
and held by the shore-winds of fright,
looked after you, our beaks screaming open.

Your feathers were silvery white
in your love, like the ghosts
that you wanted to be.
Your wing tips would touch,
fall apart, and deepen again
for improbable climb
as you courted
the rhyme of dark waters
and sweet agony
out of sight.

                             
(prev. pub. in The Ninth Circle; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/22/24)

 

 

 

 Want

 

FAÇADE
—Joyce Odam

After Origin of the Greek Vase
by Auguste Rodin; and
“You—Who Never Arrived”  
by Rainer Maria Rilke


She enters through your mind,
caught unaware
unready for the pain

that thinking lets return—
yearn
after yearn—
 
more perfect now
by all that absence,
all that loss.

She enters through your mind
in flawless reproduction,
sensing your recall

and happy to return
to love that is ever restless for
perfection such as this.

 

 

 

 Anything is With Itself

 

GOD AS CONCEPT / CONCEPT AS GOD:  
A Poem
—Joyce Odam

Audacity in doubt, doubt in abeyance of belief.
Here, the void—the grasp, the reach across the void

—hollow—as echo at its beginning.
Only sound knows where sound comes from

—from silence—echo knows this and waits.
Waiting is patience. Concept, Is.  God, Is.

‘Is’—as metaphor—
'As'—as “belief”—as simile.

Belief is hollow, resounding like echo.
Void is full, overflowing into listening.

Here is everywhere, and now.  
All is abstract.

Abstract is perfect with reality,
which is abstract, as is disparity.

Words are puzzles, and puzzling—both
authentic as source, and origin of source.

What Word
Says

As, as ‘as’, is abstract.  As, as ‘is’,
is mindful of mind, which is cumulative—

fragment of whole, which is entire in itself—
each self of itself—whole, like shadow

which, in ‘the real’, is abstract—
leaping from bound to bound,

which is escape—
another ISM.

 

 

 

 Home

HAPPENCHANCE
—Joyce Odam

We met in a mutual memory—

stranger to each, but familiar,
one of us told the other why :

as if ordained . . . there was
a sort of sadness we shared,
tears came to our faces—

we
held
each other
in mutual sympathy.
                      

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/5/22; 9/20/22) 

 

 

 

Color of a Word

PLAGIARISTIC
—Joyce Odam

After “Disillusionment Of Ten O’clock”
by Wallace Stevens


The word is disillusionment. Let’s study this.  
Has it not to do with expectation, say, or
one’s ability to sort out truth from truth.

How variable is this? How does assumption
involve one’s relevance to random outcome?

Let’s say a color is involved. Say green to
replace white. Other colors come edging in :
purple rings, and blue umbrellas, as many as

you need for argument. Say time is involved—
a moment—to never. Some specific, some example

to garner arguments of reference. Night will do.
Ah, distraction. You’re good at this. Only envy
now remains, and not the ‘not’ of poems—

as if you could have written this—the old
sailor—the white nightgowns—the baboons,

the periwinkles—all the old originals.
Where goes the point of this? Put something
there and let us get to the tigers in red weather.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/2/21; 1/23/24)

 

 

 

Fahrenheit

THE POET, STEALING TRUTH

—Joyce Odam

We saw how you stole
line after line from
yourself and called it
original, how
you threaded strands of

sunlight into your
hair when you stood at
the burning window;
how light entered you—
the transparent light

with you shining there
—an apparition,
alive and screaming
until a din of
silence received you.

How will we find you
among the golden
ashes that still hold
your original
presence. Your words were

written on the glass
where rain erased them—
your tears, as you turned
back to us—unchanged
and we believed you.
                                      

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/3/17; 7/23/24) 

 

 

 

Songbird

THE SCRATCH OF A DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam

Outside in the garden, only the
morning—the sheet of plain paper, the
birds in blue feathers.

The hum of the laundry, the comfort of
dishes piled up in the kitchen—the short list
of something to do before nighttime.

The plain sheet of paper. Eight birds
in blue feathers.

                              
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/23)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam

Breathless, the poet scribbled
with sharpened pencils—breathless
in the turning of the hour, in the hour of
gleaning, in the placing of the flourish.

Fragile curls of pencil lead and broken
points lay scattered over pages of
endings.

                           
(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2018;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2018; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/18/23)

___________________

Thank you and thanksgiving (giving/thanks) for Joyce and Robin Odam today for thoughts about writing. Our Seed of the Week was “Embryo”, and they’re talking about the embryos of poetry here, those wolf shadows of words that haunt us until we do something with them.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Blustery Day”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 —Illustration by E.H. Shepard

 

 

 

 

 

For 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!