Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Sarang Bhand, and Christina Chin
DREAM GARDEN
It was a garden I dreamed, a work
in progress—some metal supports needing
to be assembled with no instructions.
Atop the partially installed supports was
a sheet of fabric (temporary) holding
a plethora of plants arranged to be planted
on the empty metal supports.
Wildflowers beyond imagination, and forest
greens. Sanicle blacksnakeroot,
soapweed of wondrous properties I hadn’t
guessed. All this was mine to nurture
and enjoy. If only I could make it happen—
which never occurs in my dreams.
It was a garden I dreamed, a work
in progress—some metal supports needing
to be assembled with no instructions.
Atop the partially installed supports was
a sheet of fabric (temporary) holding
a plethora of plants arranged to be planted
on the empty metal supports.
Wildflowers beyond imagination, and forest
greens. Sanicle blacksnakeroot,
soapweed of wondrous properties I hadn’t
guessed. All this was mine to nurture
and enjoy. If only I could make it happen—
which never occurs in my dreams.
INTERESTING, BUT WHAT IS IT?
Is it a prince’s dark turban
lost in the woods, for wood fairies
to festoon with oak leaves?
Or is it the crown
of an empty stump lording
it over a forest of peaceful trees?
Or perhaps a wood sprite’s
version of a faraway
viewing stone?
A something you saw
while walking a familiar trail
that loops around the pond
remains
a beautiful
mystery.
OLD GOLD MINE IN THE CANYON
The mouth is a black emptiness.
Adit is its name, gullet of a hunger for quartz,
its hopes of gold abandoned long ago.
Its tongue—a wooden walkway—beckons you
to walk inside, with neither lantern
nor canary. No one dares you. You stop just
at the entry. I snap a photo as proof
you went that far to witness emptiness.
EMPTY
The rocks are rising into emptiness
of air. Not empty. Just look at the grass
pushing out of soil greening so it grows
heavy with rain and dew that wishes to
cling like birdsong unseen among branches—
Indian lettuce raising its tiny
white flowers on impossibly thin wires
of green turning yellow and blush-fleshy.
And what shall I do with all this rising
reaching for air—I with power mower
buzzing like an insect that never will
pollinate the spring but disturbs the rocks.
LEAF-HOPPING
I was walking the west hillside
ID’ing a wavy-leaf soapweed among
fields of montia going to flower
and new live-oak seedlings—and HOP
an old brown oak leaf leaped
out of my way more suddenly than
a dead oak leaf should. It was—
at a glimpse I knew—a small frog.
What species I couldn’t tell you.
Was it a prince in disguise?
More to the point, I must be very
cautious in weed-eating this high hill.
I was walking the west hillside
ID’ing a wavy-leaf soapweed among
fields of montia going to flower
and new live-oak seedlings—and HOP
an old brown oak leaf leaped
out of my way more suddenly than
a dead oak leaf should. It was—
at a glimpse I knew—a small frog.
What species I couldn’t tell you.
Was it a prince in disguise?
More to the point, I must be very
cautious in weed-eating this high hill.
DON’T PICK THE FLOWERS
Underfoot these tiny pink star flowers—
everywhere walking I crush a native,
this endemic undiscovered spring world.
Puddles on the trails, and a spinning world
bursts with claytonia gone to flowers
where salad greens flourished free and native.
I’d name the petals if I were native
to this fertile wildland, cyclical world
that glories in springtime greens and flowers
as flowers seed again their native world.
_______________________
Underfoot these tiny pink star flowers—
everywhere walking I crush a native,
this endemic undiscovered spring world.
Puddles on the trails, and a spinning world
bursts with claytonia gone to flowers
where salad greens flourished free and native.
I’d name the petals if I were native
to this fertile wildland, cyclical world
that glories in springtime greens and flowers
as flowers seed again their native world.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
CHANTICLEER
—Taylor Graham
It’s spring, with blossoms on the ceanothus
beyond the fence. But what does a barnyard cock
know of the wild? His own wild heart, his comb
corpuscular red, and oh those spurs! He’s well
fed, and not on turkey mullein, weed of poor soil.
In his wildest dreams does he imagine chicken
barbeque with cheesecake for dessert?
________________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s poetry and pix from the Sierra foothills! Forms she has used include a Tritina (“Don't Pick the Flowers”); some Blank Verse (“Empty”); and a Response Poem to our Triple-F Word-Can and Ekphrastic Challenges from last week (“Chanticleer”). (Chanticleer! Of course! How can we see a rooster and not think of his famous predecessor!) TG’s poem, “Empty”, is also a response to our Seed of the Week of that name.
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 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!
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 about these ladies and their cock o’ the walk: Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:
GONE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
We ladies feast on sun and seeds
to keep our girlish figures,
until a cocky male comes out
and struts his manly stuff.
We flock to him and cluck
to call attention to our yearnings.
Look at me! Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.
We‘ve all gone to the chickens.
* * *
THREE HENS AND A ROOSTER
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Three hens and a rooster—
A happy cock, for sure.
He’s only there
To make them lay,
All his eggs
Taken away
For someone else’s food.
* * *
THE GREAT DICTATOR
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
He thinks he’s so fine
resplendent
well groomed
perfectly dressed
strutting and tupping
to trump all their tricks.
He’s an early riser and cocky as cluck
his voice always loudest above all the rest
his promises always fatter and juicier
soon they’ll be kings of their castles, he says.
Then he calls them to roost
in the little shack that is their home.
His roost is grander.
He rules it now
and with his bone sharp spurs,
he’ll defend it to their death.
They’re all listening now,
the powerful, the powerless
obediently following his orders
but one day all those fluffy chickens
will come home to push him off his perch.
Then they’ll take him home.
* * *
CHICKEN RUN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
In pecking order of the day,
some clucking ’bout the way ahead—
free ranging questions have their say,
as battered farming rears its head,
does Chicken Licken have appeal?
Like fluffy chick, this Easter lamb,
mistreated, game for slaughterhouse;
yet eat from tup, the breeding ram,
refuse farm standards to espouse
as fettered, leg, swung upside down.
Enraged yet caged for breakfast yolk,
for Benedict with sauce and ham,
choked and poked as if a joke—
abused, like us, green labelled scam—
in dreaded sheds where bled till dead.
So scratch the surface, find the grain,
intended pattern for our seed,
beyond pollution, needing drain—
but act quickly, of essence, speed,
respecting fellow creatures, earth.
Where daily diet might too spring,
so easy, kick into long grass,
as hen’s young sheltered beneath wing,
our fodder of a better class?
World citizens need sacrifice.
* * *
Here is Joe Nolan’s Response Poem to our Ekphrastic photo from a past week. There are no deadlines on any of our challenges:
AT THE A-HOLE MECHANIC’S SHOP
—Joe Nolan
Down at the A-Hole Mechanic’s Shop
There’s a sign outdoors that says,
“Pieces of junk turn us on!
Drag it in, push it in, tow it in,
We’ll give it the Lazarus treatment
And get it back on the road.”
It goes on to say,
“Our motto is our commitment.
We can, we will, we may.
We’ve had good luck in the past.
There’s no telling about the future.
We’ll go through it
From top to bottom
Until all the parts are replaced,
If need be,
To get your old beast running.”
* * *
Here are some collaborative verses from Christina Chin and Sarang Bhand:
—Joe Nolan
Down at the A-Hole Mechanic’s Shop
There’s a sign outdoors that says,
“Pieces of junk turn us on!
Drag it in, push it in, tow it in,
We’ll give it the Lazarus treatment
And get it back on the road.”
It goes on to say,
“Our motto is our commitment.
We can, we will, we may.
We’ve had good luck in the past.
There’s no telling about the future.
We’ll go through it
From top to bottom
Until all the parts are replaced,
If need be,
To get your old beast running.”
* * *
Here are some collaborative verses from Christina Chin and Sarang Bhand:
ORDINARY DAY
—Sarang Bhand (plain text), India
—Christina Chin (italic text), Malaysia
drying clothes
soaked in rains
failed judgement
stuck in the traffic
rising flood
morning breeze
skirting through
swarm of legs
women
at the boiling pots
stirring curry
salesman at door
or lover in guise
night till dawn
yowling cat fights
competing for love
* * *
—Sarang Bhand (plain text), India
—Christina Chin (italic text), Malaysia
drying clothes
soaked in rains
failed judgement
stuck in the traffic
rising flood
morning breeze
skirting through
swarm of legs
women
at the boiling pots
stirring curry
salesman at door
or lover in guise
night till dawn
yowling cat fights
competing for love
* * *
Here's a Sestina from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), a response to one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges:
OOPSY OUTCOMES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
my age was tender, lower than adult
when parents took me to a hall of oils
the nudes were shocking, parents’ jaws would drop
parental discipline had been stricken,
communication just gone with the wind
as ancient art intruded on their views
not yet mature, I stumbled with those views
took an eternity to reach adult
as tedious as clocks you have to wind
they wouldn’t let me touch their cooking oils
or matches that were so ready to strike
or biscuits patiently eager to drop
OpEds caught their eye, each and every drop
of news now covered with their own, odd views
folks drove family car till it got struck
Dick and Jane books were replacing adult
wore painter’s smocks to check the auto’s oil
percussion taboo, it had to be winds
was no easy place for me to unwind
no maids-in-waiting to easily drop
by to sit still while a painter picked oils;
cameras too fancy, need human views
babes wear diapers or less, why not adults,
fear that our hormones fair game for a strike?
lots of pressure on batter to not strike
out because nobody hung any wind
chimes at the plate; if you’re seeking adult
entertainment, look for a painter’s drop
cloth and listen to curses and mad views,
impatience found less with canvas and oils
retire the oils, painters going on strike
their views not appreciated, bad wind
caused a drop in sales, poor fate for adults
* * *
Closing with an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
my age was tender, lower than adult
when parents took me to a hall of oils
the nudes were shocking, parents’ jaws would drop
parental discipline had been stricken,
communication just gone with the wind
as ancient art intruded on their views
not yet mature, I stumbled with those views
took an eternity to reach adult
as tedious as clocks you have to wind
they wouldn’t let me touch their cooking oils
or matches that were so ready to strike
or biscuits patiently eager to drop
OpEds caught their eye, each and every drop
of news now covered with their own, odd views
folks drove family car till it got struck
Dick and Jane books were replacing adult
wore painter’s smocks to check the auto’s oil
percussion taboo, it had to be winds
was no easy place for me to unwind
no maids-in-waiting to easily drop
by to sit still while a painter picked oils;
cameras too fancy, need human views
babes wear diapers or less, why not adults,
fear that our hormones fair game for a strike?
lots of pressure on batter to not strike
out because nobody hung any wind
chimes at the plate; if you’re seeking adult
entertainment, look for a painter’s drop
cloth and listen to curses and mad views,
impatience found less with canvas and oils
retire the oils, painters going on strike
their views not appreciated, bad wind
caused a drop in sales, poor fate for adults
* * *
Closing with an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:
MIND THE GAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I see it daily underground,
that subway train with gap between
the carriage, platform, landing stage,
a warning sign o’er sliding door.
To strike the balance, stark, polite,
avoid courts, sued, law suit pursued,
each word to count, colloquial,
red letters highlighting what’s said.
Its style so vital, it is clear,
make no mistake, writ large enough;
but should it be reversed in verse,
the ditty in another case?
Define the poem; assigned, resigned,
though wasted words the mark of fail?
So counted terms for rhythm plus,
as pulse essential, pressured lives,
But there I go, as trap is sprung,
for can’t escape the stanza taught,
that discipline of formal lines,
though rhyme for reason, populist.
It’s easy in the public space,
a reading at the open mic,
light-hearted observations, note,
the common sights of every day.
My standard, flag in every work,
though others, conversations float;
I do admire their easy talk,
no less considered as rehearse.
My words concise, and neatly packed,
no room for slacking, so devised,
as levers, with some prise intent,
without frivolity (the waste?).
So, no, cannot convert my ways,
start talking in more common phrase,
try reaching wider audience
by loosening structures of my trade.
Let others practice in said says,
accept the skills and gifts deployed,
while I committed, classical,
traditions that have proved their worth.
Old order changeth, yielding new,
and Muse entrusted to fulfil
whatever custom corrupts world.
What is counted, a musing style,
of syllables in rhythm check
in case some fibrillation there.
This ars intended, ‘use new tools’,
but muse insisted ‘keep your rules’.
____________________
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!
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I see it daily underground,
that subway train with gap between
the carriage, platform, landing stage,
a warning sign o’er sliding door.
To strike the balance, stark, polite,
avoid courts, sued, law suit pursued,
each word to count, colloquial,
red letters highlighting what’s said.
Its style so vital, it is clear,
make no mistake, writ large enough;
but should it be reversed in verse,
the ditty in another case?
Define the poem; assigned, resigned,
though wasted words the mark of fail?
So counted terms for rhythm plus,
as pulse essential, pressured lives,
But there I go, as trap is sprung,
for can’t escape the stanza taught,
that discipline of formal lines,
though rhyme for reason, populist.
It’s easy in the public space,
a reading at the open mic,
light-hearted observations, note,
the common sights of every day.
My standard, flag in every work,
though others, conversations float;
I do admire their easy talk,
no less considered as rehearse.
My words concise, and neatly packed,
no room for slacking, so devised,
as levers, with some prise intent,
without frivolity (the waste?).
So, no, cannot convert my ways,
start talking in more common phrase,
try reaching wider audience
by loosening structures of my trade.
Let others practice in said says,
accept the skills and gifts deployed,
while I committed, classical,
traditions that have proved their worth.
Old order changeth, yielding new,
and Muse entrusted to fulfil
whatever custom corrupts world.
What is counted, a musing style,
of syllables in rhythm check
in case some fibrillation there.
This ars intended, ‘use new tools’,
but muse insisted ‘keep your rules’.
____________________
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!
•••Tritina: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/tritina.htm
•••AND/OR nothing says Spring like a Sonnet! Write us a Sonnet (any kind) based on the old ditty, “sumer is icumen in…”, one of the oldest songs in the English language:
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••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 “Sheer Poetry”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••Tritina: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/tritina.htm
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••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
National Poetry Month events
begin at Sacramento Poetry Center
tomorrow; for info abou
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!
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!
