Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by Caschwa,
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael H. Brownstein, and Charles Mariano
MEDITATION ON FREEDOM AND CONTROL
These woods had gone wild, a fire hazard.
Tangles of brush and bramble among
oaks and pines fighting for their share of sun.
Then someone cut some trees and cleared
the brush. The trail that always made me feel
constricted was liberated with an open view.
Last week’s out-of-control wind storm
toppled more trees and littered the ground
with broken limbs. The trail was cordoned off
for public safety. Today, the way is clear.
New stacks of firewood. New cracks
across the paved trail—our restless earth.
No one’s walking in the rain but me
and my dog whose receptor ears are tuned
to every patch of woods, eyes scanning for flits
and scurries of life. I’m alert too,
to keep him from bolting after squirrel, deer,
jackrabbit. Everything’s under control
except for the awesome willfulness of nature.
These woods had gone wild, a fire hazard.
Tangles of brush and bramble among
oaks and pines fighting for their share of sun.
Then someone cut some trees and cleared
the brush. The trail that always made me feel
constricted was liberated with an open view.
Last week’s out-of-control wind storm
toppled more trees and littered the ground
with broken limbs. The trail was cordoned off
for public safety. Today, the way is clear.
New stacks of firewood. New cracks
across the paved trail—our restless earth.
No one’s walking in the rain but me
and my dog whose receptor ears are tuned
to every patch of woods, eyes scanning for flits
and scurries of life. I’m alert too,
to keep him from bolting after squirrel, deer,
jackrabbit. Everything’s under control
except for the awesome willfulness of nature.
JOY: A DEFINITION
A
sudden
sun-strike hits
green candle
of a single pine
on the winter ridgetop,
golden crown luminous
at dawn—a moment
gone, but the spark
in my brain
lighting
me,
how
I can’t
explain it
taking me out
of myself my breath
giving up to the sky.
A
sudden
sun-strike hits
green candle
of a single pine
on the winter ridgetop,
golden crown luminous
at dawn—a moment
gone, but the spark
in my brain
lighting
me,
how
I can’t
explain it
taking me out
of myself my breath
giving up to the sky.
WHITE CHRISTMAS WITH CHAR
I drove up the mountain to where snow
was sticking from the last big storm. You would’ve
gone farther, always the adventurer. Otis—
half Husky, and what would you think about that!—
rampaged in what hadn’t melted, and followed
snowed-over scent trails of who knows what critters.
We were in the fire scar just starting its slow way
back to forest. Miles of burn to the horizon,
snow on char for a white Christmas.
It’s where I went to see the solar eclipse
after you were gone—I knew I’d have a good
view, no trees to block the sky. Clouds
did that, but just at the moment of totality,
they broke and made a peep-hole.
Moon and sun and the blue of your eye.
I drove up the mountain to where snow
was sticking from the last big storm. You would’ve
gone farther, always the adventurer. Otis—
half Husky, and what would you think about that!—
rampaged in what hadn’t melted, and followed
snowed-over scent trails of who knows what critters.
We were in the fire scar just starting its slow way
back to forest. Miles of burn to the horizon,
snow on char for a white Christmas.
It’s where I went to see the solar eclipse
after you were gone—I knew I’d have a good
view, no trees to block the sky. Clouds
did that, but just at the moment of totality,
they broke and made a peep-hole.
Moon and sun and the blue of your eye.
CANYON TRAIL, DECEMBER
Fungus is alive
in canyon dark—this mushroom
wears a tiara.
The woods’ bread-and-tea, a stash,
decillions of wormhole deeps.
And here’s a dark-clad
human, a walking zombie—
eyes dead in his head.
The planet’s climate makes mud,
thoughts swarm thick as calendars.
As we swing our arms
in tune with our steps shall we
hear the morning’s music?
Let’s connect with a taproot
disinhibiting the way.
BETWEEN TIMES
Early rainy Sunday morning
between Xmas and New Year’s Eve,
between Gold Rush and speed limits
Main Street’s practically deserted
but for holiday lights and rain.
BETWIXTMAS
Christmas 2024-New Year 2025
Feasts are for remembrance
in the midst of change
and here I am between them.
In dream you’re on the high road,
I’m here twixt earth and sky,
dog and cat asleep beside me.
Already the dog’s destroyed
his unshreddable Xmas tug-toy;
the cat declares he’s starving.
The dog is wild adventure
and warmth of a loving home,
the cat is brave and clever.
Holidays are time recurring
as time seems forever evolving
the joy of everyone we love.
Now in midst of all the changes,
feasts are for remembering
you, with dog and cat beside me.
Christmas 2024-New Year 2025
Feasts are for remembrance
in the midst of change
and here I am between them.
In dream you’re on the high road,
I’m here twixt earth and sky,
dog and cat asleep beside me.
Already the dog’s destroyed
his unshreddable Xmas tug-toy;
the cat declares he’s starving.
The dog is wild adventure
and warmth of a loving home,
the cat is brave and clever.
Holidays are time recurring
as time seems forever evolving
the joy of everyone we love.
Now in midst of all the changes,
feasts are for remembering
you, with dog and cat beside me.
Today’s LittleNip:
PALE PINK XMAS
—Taylor Graham
The holiday passed,
decorated trees remain
along the highway—
pale pink ghost of a pine waves
at home-bound traffic speeding.
____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham for this week’s wonderful poetry. Her LittleNip refers to Placerville’s tradition of locals putting up Christmas trees (with lights) on the fence along Hwy. 50 each year. And “White Christmas With Char’ was posted on TG’s Facebook site this week; today it’s a welcome addition to TG’s post here in the Kitchen.
Forms Taylor has used this week include a Stepping Stones Chain that is also a Definition Poem (“Joy: A Definition”); a Tan-Renga with lines from the Internet as partner (“Canyon Trail, December”); a Triversen (“Betwixtmas”); some Normative Syllabics (“Between Times”); and a Tanka (“Pale Pink Xmas”). Our Seed of the Week was “Out of Control”; see TG’s “Meditation on Freedom and Control” for her response. And our Triple-F Challenges this week were “Elegy for the Old Year” and “Poem for the New Year”; Taylor Graham has written both, along with something in-between (“Betwixtmas”).
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!
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
Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo included Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth. (For lots more Ekphrasticism, see yesterday’s post from Stephen Kingsnorth.)
RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
(let down your hair, so that I may
climb thy golden stair. You could
go running, and racing, and dancing,
and chasing, and bounding, hair
flying, heart pounding and splashing,
and reeling, and finally feeling now’s
when your life begins)
When you are dangerously tall
but not yet near the moon
your footsteps will fall
to the beat of a tune
that a modest one-horse carriage
imprints in the snow
proposals for marriage
from guys you don’t know
so hard to tell which is witch
imprisoned by spells
a fate you can’t switch
for joyous wedding bells
* * *
SOMEWHERE MY PRINCE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Some women spend a lifetime
looking for a prince and castle.
I just want a man who’ll happily
clear the ice and shovel.
* * *
CARRIAGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
So few the clues on which to muse
but carriage was the word to choose—
their bearing more than wheels they rode.
Though castle was not news to us,
romantic turrets duly told—
all rookies name the obvious.
So castle, carriage, moon, unfold—
and moonbeams tell how site was seen,
though cloudy, bright light on the scene.
But carriage of the witness leans—
reliable, imaginings?
How’s body language translating?
A witness statement, after crime—
‘What did you see?’ asked we, police.
But what impression, focus, stance?
How does observer carry self?
A poacher out in full moonlight?
His shoes are given due regard.
Now which the filtered facts required?
That chess board, crime scene, all to check—
where moved the bishop through the night?
We plot positions, their intent,
as trace their tracks through thawing snow,
arriving, or departing, cart.
A motive, means to craft this art,
the standing so to stage their part?
Were playing pawns, grand master’s game?
I am no horseman, but the beast
seems to be harnessed on the right,
as if a ghostly knight rides by.
So is our steed spooked in some way,
a wraith, wight filly in the fray,
some shade beyond that lunar white?
Begone! Detection so betrayed
by evil forces thus deployed,
defence and gambit, other world?
Fresh flakes fell over footfall prints,
the dappled grey in stable block,
like gothic granite on display.
Four horsemen of apocalypse,
I never solved the crime involved—
that castle keeps its secrets yet.
Imprisonment, if their desert,
is sentence passed, as Rapunzel;
and I’m resigned, unhappy lot.
* * *
Michael H. Brownstein has sent us three Dua, a form presented to us by Ai Li, who also brought us the Cherita. Rules are simple—two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles. See the tenth Dua anthology, wildflowers were here (1-2-3- Press), on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B0080X6ROC?ccs_id=74793f8f-c2c1-44a8-8e12-b8f33733638f/. Wildflowers is the tenth Dua anthology, with “90 virgin Dua poems from UK, USA, Singapore, Germany, Canada, India and Spain”. Amazon says the Dua “shares the same storytelling ethos with its siblings, Cherita and Gerbun. It continues the age-old need for us to tell and pass on our life stories to a waiting generation in the wings, who are eager to keep the flames of a campfire eternal”. Here are three Dua (with our thanks!) from Michael:
we walk into the thunderstorm
an army of clouds fireworks the sky
* * *
the sun rose over the lake front
herring gulls cackled as they flew the wind
* * *
outside of town a stranger crawled out of a wall
in the distance a thunder of falling brick
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
* * *
And here is a poem from Charles Mariano that is based on our recent Ekphrastic challenge, the mailman at Christmastime:
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THE U.S. MAIL
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
“Who’s that, grandpa?”
“That, Mija, is a mailman.”
“Why is he stealing
from those blue boxes?”
“He’s not stealing, Mija,
he’s picking up mail
to deliver it.”
“In my day,
mailmen ruled the land.
They’d slog through
rain, sleet and snow
to get your mail to you.”
“What’s mail?”
“That was letters and greeting cards
that you’d write words on paper,
stick them in an envelope
with a stamp.
You could say hello or send love letters,
anywhere in the world
through the postal system.”
“What’s a stamp?”
“That’s the little square thing
you’d stick on the envelope
upper righthand corner,
to get it to wherever you sent it.”
“Cool huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why go through all that trouble,
when they can just text me?”
____________________
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!
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!
•••Rinnard: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rinnard-poetic-forms
•••AND/OR tackle the Dua—see Michael Brownstein’s examples above.
•••Dua: a two-line poem with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••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 “Before I Knew Better”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Definition Poem: https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1105-a-definition-poem
•••Dua: a two-line poem with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Rinnard: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rinnard-poetic-forms
•••Stepping Stones (devised by Claire Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (7, etc.)
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tan-renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form
__________________
—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
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!
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!
