Thursday, January 02, 2025

Order, Chaos, Yet Conjoined

 Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels
—Painting by Jean Fouquet (France) 1452-1458
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
 
 
STEPHEN, MARTYR

Should I treat it as a postcard, artist unknown,
to me,
half-diptych stands as striking, herald tones,
heraldic shades,
a veil between the vivid and washed holy marble
plane,
so fine the portrait, early date, I want to see its twin.

But then I’m left to grapple, pre-reformation church,
if even centre-justified, supposed, this manger birth.
Madonna’s not appealing, the Queen of Heaven
song,
incongruent portrayal, a juxta to my faith.
Perhaps I should be distant, or taken off the case,
restrict myself to painting, ignore the personal.
But then what of engagement, a subject. spirit
stirred—
you may be academic, but this affair’s of heart;
I try to social distance, but that would mean a mask.

And then I delve still further, a guidebook from
the rack,
and wracks the word, the struggle, king’s lover
feeds my lord.
I learn that she has neighbour, through patronage,
reward,
and Stephen, the first martyr, is stoned cold,
pointed, bold.
I know the zeitgeist different—though wonder,
watching news—
I know said fallen women, the Nazarene’s response.
It’s not the breast portrayal—the baby’s fat on
milk—
though Agnès known for low-gowns, a provocation
stance.
I guess who pays the piper, can chose the model
worked,
but state that names the mistress, a title to the
crown?

You’ll think that I am foolish, too close to feel
the art;
it’s set me all a-lather, these corrupt gospel soaps.
But that’s because the artist, holistic slice of life;
dictators use the poets, while novels burnt in piles.
We all admire the brushstrokes, the colour palette
range;
I have to face the subject, then subjugate my rage.
I think of temple tables, all overturned on stage,
inclusion sold for pigeons, then justify the trade.
 
 
 
The Dream
—Painting by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1940


AT EASE

Were your mares ever cumulus,
but mistified as logic gone,
fogged unities of place and time,
no rhyme or reason to the plan—
or ancient fears just played again?
Why clouds aswirl
behind bed floating curlicues
the turned four posts above that drowse,
except that suitable, assumed;
for dreamy theme acceptable?
Can this be independent mood,
mexicanidad without old pains,
invading past, mestiza mum,
mixed blood at heart of surreal,
chicano iconography?

The dead alert, an awkward bone,
’sif propped up on olecranon,
explosive marrow-stiffened legs.
Forgotten Jacob, pillow stone,
no ladder for the upper bunk,
no rungs ascending up above,
but comfy, death in tree of life,
dem bones companions of the free.

A cloth of gold in house of blue,
her frame, first scene through louvre door;
but pride of space, a nation state,
the local girl made good with art,
our story colours justified.
To her small bier with overwood
veneer to carry skeleton,
as if hers is a truckle bed,
no tiers at stake, for all is one,
won accolade, afraid of none.
 
 
 
 Cloud Shadows
—Painting by Katje Lang
 

CONJOINED

A misty, sometimes wispy fog,
those passing clouds, ethereal,
of shadows, shades—a ghostly term,
as sometimes wights amongst wraith graves,
grey area, daunt spectral taunt,
a phantom though clear sight eclipsed.

The corvidae will float above—
between the clouds and landed earth—
pandemic birds announcing death,
the ravens, rooks or crows about
with jackdaws, choughs and magpie thieves,
a blotting litter of the skies

Here’s melancholia, line-hatched
incised matrix by stroke, browed burr,
by diamond or carbide tips
to steel, bare copper needled plate.
Like manuscript now duly glossed,
intaglio in family,
from Housebook Master through the years,
a drypoint exercise in gear.

Above the dado, hill-top trees,
horizon line, point vanish block,
but nearer, lower, road through fields,
lone figure, dark with shading laid,
suggesting sun despite the bleak,
as if those clouds deserted rôle.

Apart from height above clear light,
the grainy bank describes the ground
except from patchwork layout there;
bold starker markings stripped above
like ridge or furrow of the tools,
in counter, cut glyphs, vertical.
Some order, chaos, yet conjoined?
 
 
 
 Image
—Jim Pickerell/Documerica


RIGHT BAGS LADY

“So can I help, though busy me?”
you seeing she, wee clashing spree
of orange, pink, grip scarlet too,
but brolly, mac, “this weather brew”,
brief craic through space, like wind-up clown,
“but I can bend”, the window down,
and through that space I face, agape,
accoutrements of ribs, creased drape.
“I bought a smock, though looking now
for something suits; your route, now how?
So when you see the orange screen—
it’s on the corner, by the green—
an advert fore—though might have gone—
my grandson sorts it—he’s called John—
he’s a real culchie, we’re jackeen—
city, Dublin, where we’ve all been.
Jack’s like his Da, though not at all—
you get my meaning, different soul.
Nixers the lot—I’m coddling ya—
though not so sure if she talks blah.
But your light’s changed, you must be off—
follow signs—as says Father Gough.
And I must crack on; lots to do.
You’re suckin’ diesel—time you flew.”

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
BLOKES
—Stephen Kingsnorth
After “Sonnet 129” by William Shakespeare

Uneasy page for any age,  
as ethics swirl in gender’s plea,  
the more, permissive uncaged stage,  
our terms transformed, LGBT,  
with Q, plus questions followed, delved.
As powers hold, castle keep, Kafka  
and Dewey triggers volumes shelved,  
near bonfire, Alexandria,               
abuse of folk and fears awoke.  
When self-confessed loss of control,  
how stands the mastery of bloke—  
from hinterland, man-kind blamed rôle?  
Today Will’s witness words assured,
that social media storm procured.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnort, who has dropped by the Kitchen this second day of the New Year with a pocketful of fine Ekphrastic poetry.

For more thoughts about Ekphrastic writing, see “Ekphrastic Poetry: When Art Kindles Literature” (https://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry/) or “Explore Ekphrastic Poems: A Reading List” (https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2023/explore-ekphrastic-poems-reading-list/).
 
 
 
for even more about Ekphrastic Poetry.)
 
 
 
 
 

















A reminder that
Nicolette Daskalakis & Dorine Jennette
will read in Davis tonight, 7pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!
 


 



















 
Posted by at