Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos
NINETEEN FIFTY SOMETHING
It was the time when teenagers were born
to parents who had given up their shape
to fit into old people’s clothes
so they could hold the line,
to try to stem the flow
of the coming revolution.
It was the time when music became dangerous
and could no longer speak across generations,
a time when new alliances were formed
and old ones forgotten or misremembered.
New friends, new foes,
new fears alongside the old.
Such was that time
back in the beginning,
back in the beginning of our time
the time when we began
to make ourselves up
and run free
for a time.
It was the time when teenagers were born
to parents who had given up their shape
to fit into old people’s clothes
so they could hold the line,
to try to stem the flow
of the coming revolution.
It was the time when music became dangerous
and could no longer speak across generations,
a time when new alliances were formed
and old ones forgotten or misremembered.
New friends, new foes,
new fears alongside the old.
Such was that time
back in the beginning,
back in the beginning of our time
the time when we began
to make ourselves up
and run free
for a time.
(First published in Mocking Owl Roost, 2024)
A TIMELY REVOLUTION
“I’m late,
I’m late again”,
said the White Rabbit
staring at his pocket watch
with exasperation.
He turned the minute hand back a little
and perused the new time
with satisfaction.
He knew the effect would be limited,
that there would be no revolution
in time
unless he could turn back the hands
on all the clocks everywhere,
but it made him feel better
briefly.
He had pondered this issue many times.
He knew that the revolutions of clocks
and watches were irrelevant
to its passing,
which made him feel better
about his manipulation.
Philosophically speaking,
he knew that he could change the time.
He could break the watch and freeze it.
Break all the wheels that revolved inside.
Smash them to smithereens.
But even then,
even when
broken,
he knew
the wheels of time would keep turning,
that even, given time,
there would be no timely revolution.
The wheels would still turn
time after time.
(First published in Lothlorian Review, January 2021)
CAROUSEL
Round and round,
go the galloping horses
round and round and up and down
with smiling faces on the merry-go-round.
But as time passes
and smiles fade,
gaudy colours
become drab,
faces pale
and worn.
look,
they’re
all
disheveled
now
lurching
and
staggering
round and round
on the
treadmill
of the merry-go-round.
Round and round.
Round and round.
One more revolution
and they may 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 another revolution
on the not-so merry-go-round.
(First published in Alternate Route, October 2022)
Round and round,
go the galloping horses
round and round and up and down
with smiling faces on the merry-go-round.
But as time passes
and smiles fade,
gaudy colours
become drab,
faces pale
and worn.
look,
they’re
all
disheveled
now
lurching
and
staggering
round and round
on the
treadmill
of the merry-go-round.
Round and round.
Round and round.
One more revolution
and they may 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 another revolution
on the not-so merry-go-round.
(First published in Alternate Route, October 2022)
I AM A CHILD
I am a child of the revolution
created by the wake of
fascism and imperialism,
that sought to construct
a more just society.
I am a child numbed by poverty,
stultified by working class conformity,
of a mother who wanted better for me,
but also wanted to keep me the same.
I am a child of these contradictions
who became a rebel
in the cultural revolution
of the rock-and-roll generation.
Who was liberated by student life,
by control of fertility,
by other places,
by the music and art
all parents hated.
I am still that child.
This is what made me.
This is what shaped me and
became part of my present,
became part of my future.
Sometimes I have tried to escape it.
Sometimes I still do.
I am a child of the revolution
created by the wake of
fascism and imperialism,
that sought to construct
a more just society.
I am a child numbed by poverty,
stultified by working class conformity,
of a mother who wanted better for me,
but also wanted to keep me the same.
I am a child of these contradictions
who became a rebel
in the cultural revolution
of the rock-and-roll generation.
Who was liberated by student life,
by control of fertility,
by other places,
by the music and art
all parents hated.
I am still that child.
This is what made me.
This is what shaped me and
became part of my present,
became part of my future.
Sometimes I have tried to escape it.
Sometimes I still do.
(First published by Ealain, My Heritage, May 2015)
JUST HAIR
First came the flowers,
then the song.
Then, in time
many songs
of hope
and love and peace
becoming
intertwined
in Hair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Then came the spikes
and streaks and shaves
of grungy aggression
and despair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Now there’s a medley
of coloured words.
The dark and bright
past
intertwined.
Revolutions dying
and being born.
Pasts intertwined
in the words
and in the hair.
First came the flowers,
then the song.
Then, in time
many songs
of hope
and love and peace
becoming
intertwined
in Hair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Then came the spikes
and streaks and shaves
of grungy aggression
and despair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Now there’s a medley
of coloured words.
The dark and bright
past
intertwined.
Revolutions dying
and being born.
Pasts intertwined
in the words
and in the hair.
(First published in Vox Poetica, August 2018)
THE REVOLUTION IS POSTPONED
The revolution is postponed
until the towels are on,
so they once said.
Until
last orders had been called
and the beer pumps
covered
with towels
to make it clear
that they would be pulled no more
that night,
ten minutes drinking-up time
then it was,
“do your talking
while you’re walking”,
we’ve had your money, now piss off,
and a beery smokey exit.
Unless
there was a lock-in
in which case the revolution
would be postponed again.
Now they’re open all hours.
There’s no last orders,
no need of towels
to cover the pumps.
No ten minutes
allowed to drink up.
They’re open all hours
and the revolution is postponed.
Again.
(First published in Literary Yard, May 2018)
The revolution is postponed
until the towels are on,
so they once said.
Until
last orders had been called
and the beer pumps
covered
with towels
to make it clear
that they would be pulled no more
that night,
ten minutes drinking-up time
then it was,
“do your talking
while you’re walking”,
we’ve had your money, now piss off,
and a beery smokey exit.
Unless
there was a lock-in
in which case the revolution
would be postponed again.
Now they’re open all hours.
There’s no last orders,
no need of towels
to cover the pumps.
No ten minutes
allowed to drink up.
They’re open all hours
and the revolution is postponed.
Again.
(First published in Literary Yard, May 2018)
WAITING, STILL WAITING
I’m still waiting for the revolution
in thinking,
in acting,
in feeling,
to happen.
I’m still waiting for it all to collapse
so we can reform
reshape
remake
it from the ruins.
Still waiting, waiting
it’s too long
to be waiting
for growing,
restoring,
recreating
rethinking
and then to watch
them rebuild it the same.
Only the masks are new.
I’ve not waited for that.
No, I’ve not waited for that.
I’m still waiting for the revolution
in thinking,
in acting,
in feeling,
to happen.
I’m still waiting for it all to collapse
so we can reform
reshape
remake
it from the ruins.
Still waiting, waiting
it’s too long
to be waiting
for growing,
restoring,
recreating
rethinking
and then to watch
them rebuild it the same.
Only the masks are new.
I’ve not waited for that.
No, I’ve not waited for that.
(First published in Stripes Magazine, Spring 2021)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Art is either plagiarism or revolution.
—Paul Gauguin
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry from across the sea!
Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this May 29, and we will celebrate with poetry, of course. Send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on May 29. 20 years! Amazing!
And Peter Spencer writes on Facebook: The
closing ceremony for Viola's and my collaborative art project, The
Ghosts of Electricity, will be held from 4-6pm tomorrow (5-22). The art
is on display at the SMUD art gallery located in their building at 6201 S
Street in Sacramento. It will be a casual event where I will talk about
the project and read a couple of Viola's poems written in response
to art (known as ekphrastic poetry). In addition, ten excellent local
poets responded to photos of mine and some will read their poems. Hope to see you there!
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.
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!
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!
