—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
KEEPING SOMETHING UP YOUR SLEEVE?
Why wear the makeup, make believe,
as though our greasy paint deceives,
or knuckle dusting wipes away
sight, site when being secretive?
A statement made by sheltered tongue
beside ears pricking, mouth agape?
Yes there’s foreboding, those pricked thumbs,
bewitched by whirl, whorl imprint stained.
A stagecraft, though who’s cast away
is doubtful, scene seen by fourth wall—
dramatic irony in deed—
for motive, message in the eyes.
Here’s cheek, not cheerful, in their guise,
guys used to plotting one’s demise;
taut temple, what you should believe—
the weakest link, defending thought.
If ever prompt was unrequired,
hear here, as words recalled, conspired;
no limelight, nor soliloquy,
but body language speaks to deaf.
So why the mask, masque playing ball?
Pause in applause at curtain call,
with new reviews, unsatisfied?
Is this a Revenge Tragedy?
An open book at read-through stage
but now unscripted frame-up framed?
How does the vest link with the sleeve?
Full picture here we do not see.
Why wear the makeup, make believe,
as though our greasy paint deceives,
or knuckle dusting wipes away
sight, site when being secretive?
A statement made by sheltered tongue
beside ears pricking, mouth agape?
Yes there’s foreboding, those pricked thumbs,
bewitched by whirl, whorl imprint stained.
A stagecraft, though who’s cast away
is doubtful, scene seen by fourth wall—
dramatic irony in deed—
for motive, message in the eyes.
Here’s cheek, not cheerful, in their guise,
guys used to plotting one’s demise;
taut temple, what you should believe—
the weakest link, defending thought.
If ever prompt was unrequired,
hear here, as words recalled, conspired;
no limelight, nor soliloquy,
but body language speaks to deaf.
So why the mask, masque playing ball?
Pause in applause at curtain call,
with new reviews, unsatisfied?
Is this a Revenge Tragedy?
An open book at read-through stage
but now unscripted frame-up framed?
How does the vest link with the sleeve?
Full picture here we do not see.
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
TELLING TRUTH
The present gift is yet alive
though bones protrude as flesh is sunk,
while muscle wastage gives a rest;
it’s what is seen in line of sight
that boasts skeletal once was strong.
It’s not a hanker, better past
in terms of world, relationships,
but focus on what now is passed,
that treasure trove of memories
which swells the chest, unlocks forgot,
or seeps from eye, incarnate scenes,
the mind recounting richest stock.
I’ll try not burden younger set
with tales, unless they’re telling truth—
though dress them in a modern cloth,
release them from the clutch now gone,
rebirth them where there’s common bond.
The Wild Hunt of Odin by Peter Nicolai Arbo
TRUTH OR DARE?
Near fifty past in Wistmans’s Wood
connections with The Hunt, their sale
for tourist bounty, rural rides,
though county next in Cornish lore
the Devil’s Dandy Dogs seemed frail.
Grimm tales, long spread, all underlaid;
did delta drain, restrain aura?
Here’s host of pruning, thinning ways—
those Marvel Comics, Quatermass—
with music, modern media.
But myths are truths, allegory,
so commonalities exist,
a pattern made, if not pre-laid,
each culture with twist patented,
like stubborn stubble, winnowed grist.
Midst winter woods, ferocious winds,
both howling hounds and growling storms,
as plagues, wars, famines strip the ground,
land spirits from cult-of-the-dead,
all baying, gallop, restless forms.
These spectral and nocturnal hordes,
a muscle memory of tears,
less threat by naming, slotted box,
or by transforming to our taste—
so fairy hosts late version bears.
As culture vultures search their roots,
find routes by which we share our fears,
new faiths accommodate as must,
adopt or demonise as best—
for monks and missionaries steer.
In harmony, strange Schönberg see—
while Weber also joins that Liszt.
Here Hecate and Wicca merge
in pagan pantheon with Norse,
that none be missed in vaulting mist?
The nightly frothing horse stampede,
thronged ravens of the Odin flock,
those spectral riders, Arbo’s frame—
feel menace din of restless souls,
these trolls, werewolves, Valhalla stock.
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
NEGOTIATE
That bird awaiting upturned worm,
with eagle eye but robin’s breast,
just cocked his head as watched for squirm
amongst rich compost I’d laid down.
Dripped ghee tips, asparagus spear,
tough marrow gourds from bonemeal spread,
once pods of bean rows, yesteryear,
tap, leaf, cob discard, stalk, skins shaved.
Between its swoops, the waiting game,
he played tame to negotiate,
though chasm scale, our patience same,
for he clod turn, me tilth for growth.
Though he would harvest as I sowed
thoughts ‘Are you the seed or the soil?’;
my packets scattered, pantry stowed,
that patch grown, eaten, scraps for loam.
The actions of today bear fruit—
my feathered friend has been served well,
and with due blessing, root and shoot,
crop season cycle, table top.
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
STRATIFIED
A brazier, lit picket wood,
old fences snapped, incinerate,
matched striker’s fire on picket line
as drivers hoot passing support.
How long outstretched this breaker’s yard
before tired feet returned to work,
a straggle hungry, angry men,
defeated in their wanton quest,
a feat beyond their meagre wage
save those with something set aside?
At least the winter, whether blessed,
brought standing warmth of filtered sun
as dawned, their struggle a lost cause,
with mothers weeping, babe at breast,
while wide-eyed kids envied feasts seen.
Arrested at the scene before,
their families without a dime,
wood embers losing, rising warmth—
a battle line of solar, son,
for ’twas his lad first calling quits.
But wisdom of an older lore
became essential in this war;
while young have visions, old dream dreams,
so muscle memory revived.
They bore slow hours to meditate
bathed by the glow that justice bears,
while learning season’s tanning health
through face, skin, mind, its flow to heart.
As spring brought fresh life on those grounds
so budding craftsmen came to bloom.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
―Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry about truth and negotiations around it. As fir the graveyard photos from behind his house, one can always find the truth in a graveyard, yes?
“…my feathered friend has been served well…?
A reminder that
Heather Bourbeau and Andrea Ross
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!
Heather Bourbeau and Andrea Ross
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!
