Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry from
Nolcha Fox, Lauren McBride, Joe Nolan,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
and Melissa Lemay
MY TRAIL LOG
It’s laborious, listing the various species
of plant, animal, fungus I find on my walks.
I might chart them too, but my mind turns
other ways. The Comma Butterfly,
for instance—scalloped wings and autumn
colors like a leaf fallen on the trail.
Do I need to know its order and genus?
File it away in my favorite genre, nature
poem, and watch it fly away.
It’s laborious, listing the various species
of plant, animal, fungus I find on my walks.
I might chart them too, but my mind turns
other ways. The Comma Butterfly,
for instance—scalloped wings and autumn
colors like a leaf fallen on the trail.
Do I need to know its order and genus?
File it away in my favorite genre, nature
poem, and watch it fly away.
THE WEIGHT OF SHADOW
Dog tenses at a flick of sun
through canopies of oak, or fleeting
shadow in the brush. Something alive
beyond his reach of flensing—think cougar
claws and jaws deadlier than his own. He bears
the burden as scout and guide for his human
beyond fences, in the wild that birthed
and nurtured him. His feral mother stealing
him away from his first adopted human home,
then returning him to fence and kibble
after exhausting him with hunting lessons,
survival in a world where mankind—
so his mother taught—is ephemeral, fickle
as shadow in the woods. A weighty
mission, to lead this human—his personal
home-keeper—through so many
wild shadows.
Dog tenses at a flick of sun
through canopies of oak, or fleeting
shadow in the brush. Something alive
beyond his reach of flensing—think cougar
claws and jaws deadlier than his own. He bears
the burden as scout and guide for his human
beyond fences, in the wild that birthed
and nurtured him. His feral mother stealing
him away from his first adopted human home,
then returning him to fence and kibble
after exhausting him with hunting lessons,
survival in a world where mankind—
so his mother taught—is ephemeral, fickle
as shadow in the woods. A weighty
mission, to lead this human—his personal
home-keeper—through so many
wild shadows.
TRACKER
Here in the melt-frozen snow
you find a pawprint as large
as your hand: four teardrop toes,
a bare arc above the heel.
The print bears no signature
to name it Mountain Lion.
You leave it where it belongs.
Here in the melt-frozen snow
you find a pawprint as large
as your hand: four teardrop toes,
a bare arc above the heel.
The print bears no signature
to name it Mountain Lion.
You leave it where it belongs.
TOO EXPENSIVE
Walking my dog on dozer’d firebreak
below the mountain highway, I spotted some-
thing out of place, big & white, a plastic storage bin.
I could use that! Except it was USPS & declared
I could be fined $1,000 & spend 3 years
in prison for keeping it. On the drive home, I
dropped
it off at the nearest PO. With $1000 & 3 years
for packing books & other stuff, I could purchase
& use a heck of a lot of storage bins.
Walking my dog on dozer’d firebreak
below the mountain highway, I spotted some-
thing out of place, big & white, a plastic storage bin.
I could use that! Except it was USPS & declared
I could be fined $1,000 & spend 3 years
in prison for keeping it. On the drive home, I
dropped
it off at the nearest PO. With $1000 & 3 years
for packing books & other stuff, I could purchase
& use a heck of a lot of storage bins.
FACE IN THE FOREST
I take him for a hermit of the woods
in a pine-bark hoody against March weather,
his eyes hooded too, looking down
from his height on me, the supplicant
rooted by gravity. His nose like a boxer
who took the blows, teeth in need of dentistry.
What does a hermit care for dentistry?
His beard grizzled but neat, flowing to a point—
what was the point I meant to mention?
I came with a question for the woods,
its secrets withheld from a human
who could be at home in a carpentered house
with appliances, mortgages, many grave
documents made of paper products.
I understand he doesn’t speak my language,
teeth locked together as bark on tree,
silent as the end of day.
___________________
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SPIDERS?
Whose property is this?
They were settled here when we arrived.
Sierra Dome Spiders. What soured
them on the high kitchen corners? Or
did a deadly arachnid fever strike?
Their webs droop with dust; I haven’t
the heart to sweep them clean.
There’s a partnership between human
and spider in the struggle against & hunger
for flies, mosquitos, other flying pests.
I called the big one Queen Mama,
I miss her. O delicately angled legs
of a dancer on finest silk nets.
I take him for a hermit of the woods
in a pine-bark hoody against March weather,
his eyes hooded too, looking down
from his height on me, the supplicant
rooted by gravity. His nose like a boxer
who took the blows, teeth in need of dentistry.
What does a hermit care for dentistry?
His beard grizzled but neat, flowing to a point—
what was the point I meant to mention?
I came with a question for the woods,
its secrets withheld from a human
who could be at home in a carpentered house
with appliances, mortgages, many grave
documents made of paper products.
I understand he doesn’t speak my language,
teeth locked together as bark on tree,
silent as the end of day.
___________________
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SPIDERS?
Whose property is this?
They were settled here when we arrived.
Sierra Dome Spiders. What soured
them on the high kitchen corners? Or
did a deadly arachnid fever strike?
Their webs droop with dust; I haven’t
the heart to sweep them clean.
There’s a partnership between human
and spider in the struggle against & hunger
for flies, mosquitos, other flying pests.
I called the big one Queen Mama,
I miss her. O delicately angled legs
of a dancer on finest silk nets.
Today’s LittleNip:
OAK WITH WIND GUITAR
—Taylor Graham
Still rooted
in her flamenco—
was it drought
or wildfire
that stilled her in dance,
in the swirl of flight?
______________________
Shadows of mountain lion pawprints keep Otis alert in his walks through the foothills forests, and our thanks to Taylor Graham for her poetry and photos of all their adventures this week. Forms she has used include two Word-Can Poems (“My Trail Log” & “What Happened to the Spiders?”); a Response Poem (“The Weight of Shadow”); an Ekphrastic Poem based on the tree photo (“Face in the Forest”); a Shadorma (“Oak with Wind Guitar”); and a Triple-7 (“Tracker”) in response to one of our Triple-F Challenges last week. "Too Expensive" is also a response to a recent MK Seed of the Week, as is "What Happened to the Spiders"?
TG writes, “Besides the Response Poem, there are hints of Katy Brown’s latest (words, phrases) in mine. Let's keep the conversation going!” She is referring to some poetry written back and forth between her and Katy over the last few weeks. She and Katy, by the way, will be facilitating a Wakamatsu Workshop in Placerville this Sunday. See Medusa’s UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html).
El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). Poetic License meets in Placerville this Monday morning, for example. For more news about such events and 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!
OAK WITH WIND GUITAR
—Taylor Graham
Still rooted
in her flamenco—
was it drought
or wildfire
that stilled her in dance,
in the swirl of flight?
______________________
Shadows of mountain lion pawprints keep Otis alert in his walks through the foothills forests, and our thanks to Taylor Graham for her poetry and photos of all their adventures this week. Forms she has used include two Word-Can Poems (“My Trail Log” & “What Happened to the Spiders?”); a Response Poem (“The Weight of Shadow”); an Ekphrastic Poem based on the tree photo (“Face in the Forest”); a Shadorma (“Oak with Wind Guitar”); and a Triple-7 (“Tracker”) in response to one of our Triple-F Challenges last week. "Too Expensive" is also a response to a recent MK Seed of the Week, as is "What Happened to the Spiders"?
TG writes, “Besides the Response Poem, there are hints of Katy Brown’s latest (words, phrases) in mine. Let's keep the conversation going!” She is referring to some poetry written back and forth between her and Katy over the last few weeks. She and Katy, by the way, will be facilitating a Wakamatsu Workshop in Placerville this Sunday. See Medusa’s UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html).
El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). Poetic License meets in Placerville this Monday morning, for example. For more news about such events and 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!
* * *
Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo included Nolcha Fox, Lauren McBride, Joe Nolan, and Stephen Kingsnorth:
I try to forget the 70/s
then a Bee Gee’s song plays in my head.
I fast-forward past high school
graduation, and on to my first job.
A rotary phone with a tangled cord,
a notebook to scribble my boss’s thoughts,
the typewriter to set them in stone.
Little did he know that’s when I worked
on poem after poem after poem.
Each night, I destroyed the ribbon of evidence
after I got home.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
OLD FASHIONED
—Lauren McBride, Texas, USA
Storied keys feel left for dead.
Typewriter waits for fingertip tread—
mutely gathering dust instead.
(prev. pub. in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, 5/5/18;
and Medusa's Kitchen, 7/23/23)
* * *
THE RETURN OF TINY TIM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Avocado retro-telephone,
Shocking orange typewriter,
Surely this must be the 60's?
How about a little “Laugh-In?”
Where’s Goldie,
Rowan and Martin?
And don’t forget Tiny Tim.
Who could forget Tiny Tim?
"Tip-toe, through the tulips........
With me--ee--ee."
* * *
COMMUNICATE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What would Gran think, these gaudy tones;
green plastic for black Bakelite,
compact for Grand as type, machines,
while ink, like Quink, and fountain gone?
Left handed user cradled last,
as laid the modern model pen;
for fifty past a study desk
perhaps unloaded with this set.
This retro may be dream time once;
now no exchange to contemplate.
What yesterday seemed avant-garde
today seems sad and lonely here.
Equipment, unconnected now,
save stock of plastic metaphors,
for circle ring, tap dancing keys,
a musing blank intoned I think.
For Grandkids but museum set,
alone pad, biro recognised
(though pad, off course, for something else)
for that equipment Grandad has,
a generational side shift.
* * *
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a Nonce: four quatrains, first two lines of each one rhymes. The poem is also a response to a previous Medusa’s Kitchen Seed of the Week, Lighting Up The Darkness:
and Medusa's Kitchen, 7/23/23)
* * *
THE RETURN OF TINY TIM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Avocado retro-telephone,
Shocking orange typewriter,
Surely this must be the 60's?
How about a little “Laugh-In?”
Where’s Goldie,
Rowan and Martin?
And don’t forget Tiny Tim.
Who could forget Tiny Tim?
"Tip-toe, through the tulips........
With me--ee--ee."
* * *
COMMUNICATE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What would Gran think, these gaudy tones;
green plastic for black Bakelite,
compact for Grand as type, machines,
while ink, like Quink, and fountain gone?
Left handed user cradled last,
as laid the modern model pen;
for fifty past a study desk
perhaps unloaded with this set.
This retro may be dream time once;
now no exchange to contemplate.
What yesterday seemed avant-garde
today seems sad and lonely here.
Equipment, unconnected now,
save stock of plastic metaphors,
for circle ring, tap dancing keys,
a musing blank intoned I think.
For Grandkids but museum set,
alone pad, biro recognised
(though pad, off course, for something else)
for that equipment Grandad has,
a generational side shift.
* * *
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a Nonce: four quatrains, first two lines of each one rhymes. The poem is also a response to a previous Medusa’s Kitchen Seed of the Week, Lighting Up The Darkness:
HIKERS’ HELPERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
bearing backpack
on switchback
trails, not knowing
exactly which way to go
canteen empty, thirst
insists it is first
finally we find a
negotiable tern
announcing by its very
presence a vocabulary
list of various
bodies of water
hope springs eternal
a meal from a kernel
pointed beak and tail
tell us the way
* * *
Here’s an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth. (I hope you caught his fine post in the Kitchen yesterday.)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
bearing backpack
on switchback
trails, not knowing
exactly which way to go
canteen empty, thirst
insists it is first
finally we find a
negotiable tern
announcing by its very
presence a vocabulary
list of various
bodies of water
hope springs eternal
a meal from a kernel
pointed beak and tail
tell us the way
* * *
Here’s an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth. (I hope you caught his fine post in the Kitchen yesterday.)
—Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain
PASSING BY
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I read of blanks, as passing stones,
from birth to death, what intervenes,
despite that dash, small line engraved,
which speaks for week or hundred years?
It is a small compacted space
both underneath and high-rise slab
and wonder, should the body rise
if it could read memorial
and know what passing text reveals?
Did it recall what filled the blank,
forget the substance of its life,
know ‘it’, translated, he, she, they
to heaven, hell, some neverland?
What filled that span, in dash or slow,
though name and date is all to show,
unless by will or testament
that life lives on, by others shown,
and they, still, known, as benefit?
The cemetery, its bonemeal, ash
means planting fed from under mounds,
from love-lies-bleeding, lamb’s tail, phlox,
forget-me-not, love in a mist.
Fresh life arising from the grave,
banked briars dashing round those blanks,
for me, translated into verse
(a small compacted space again),
few simple words hold more than worlds,
as I may muse midst evening walk.
* * *
And we close with Melissa Lemay’s Picture Poem, a take on last week's Ekphrastic Challenge—like Stephen, she, too, is commenting on the blank page:
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I read of blanks, as passing stones,
from birth to death, what intervenes,
despite that dash, small line engraved,
which speaks for week or hundred years?
It is a small compacted space
both underneath and high-rise slab
and wonder, should the body rise
if it could read memorial
and know what passing text reveals?
Did it recall what filled the blank,
forget the substance of its life,
know ‘it’, translated, he, she, they
to heaven, hell, some neverland?
What filled that span, in dash or slow,
though name and date is all to show,
unless by will or testament
that life lives on, by others shown,
and they, still, known, as benefit?
The cemetery, its bonemeal, ash
means planting fed from under mounds,
from love-lies-bleeding, lamb’s tail, phlox,
forget-me-not, love in a mist.
Fresh life arising from the grave,
banked briars dashing round those blanks,
for me, translated into verse
(a small compacted space again),
few simple words hold more than worlds,
as I may muse midst evening walk.
* * *
And we close with Melissa Lemay’s Picture Poem, a take on last week's Ekphrastic Challenge—like Stephen, she, too, is commenting on the blank page:
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA
____________________
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!
•••Cro cumaisc etir casbairdne ocus lethrannaigecht: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/cro-cumaisc-etir-casbairdni-ocus-lethrannaigecht-poetic-forms
•••AND/OR put together a Picture Poem. The genesis of the form is interesting; see—
•••Picture Poem: https://hi-storylessons.eu/article/poetism-and-picture-poems (scroll down to fourth paragraph) and notice that the Picture Poem is different from the Concrete Poem; PP's may or may not assume the shape of the poem. Like Melissa's, there may be other visuals involved...
•••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 “Highway Robbery”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Picture Poem: https://hi-storylessons.eu/article/poetism-and-picture-poems (scroll down to fourth paragraph)
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Shadorma: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/shadorma-a-highly-addictive-poetic-form-from-spain
•••Triple-7 (devised by Carl Schwartz): 7-letter title, seven lines, seven syllables per line
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
__________________
—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 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!
