Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth and Medusa
SEERS
We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.
We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.
—Image by Marie-Michèle Bouchard
CARBON CAPTURE
A pile-up for sum petrolhead,
here’s clash of crash, less colour clash,
for pastel paintjob in the sky,
a canopy without the green.
like campanile where bells toll
both steel and steal, stealth killing us.
A nut tree, shells and husks array,
with buries of that paler hue,
this headstone over graver seen,
its trunk, whose memory outlasts
all flow of living xylem, phloem.
But Beetles thrive to rove the land
from rings of growth now sadly capped.
Was this Sequoia, Zephyr stripped,
once haunt of Spider, Hornet nest,
where Robin, Skylark, Tercel preyed
with Rabbit, Ram and Fox displayed?
Here’s trunk topped trunks, storage to boot,
with bonnets, hoods, though poor for rain,
will rain forest reign, pour again?
Hear heavy metal funeral songs,
totemic of that death we face?
FLORIOGRAPHY OF WAR
Find hips and haws, where might, arose,
hung over row of lane-edge hedge,
hair of the dogs, trimmed farmer’s scythe;
where derring-do from primrose banks,
and scarlet pimpernel lies too.
There’s deadly nightshade, nettle rash
for those who creep, preparing war
on Dover’s cliff top, Kentish ways,
past dents de lions, sycamore
blades, time, tide blowing in the wind.
For airmen, dogfights in the skies,
above Kent cotts they to defend,
right royal battle of Britain
for cottage gardens, lupin swoops,
for cornflower, kingcup, our set ways.
Their funerals, Canterbury
bells, tolling ’neath that battlefield
of clouded skies where interweave
the Spitfires in snapdragon mode
above the Weald of Churchill’s pose.
Red poppies, trench art for our lost,
the soiled earth rising to new birth;
a peony for paeon praise
where victors parade on the stage
as hop poles fruit to carry bier.
The Reverie of Mr. James
—Painting by Rene Magritte (Belgium) 1943
—Painting by Rene Magritte (Belgium) 1943
TO BE OR NOT, A COMPLEMENT?
Regret masters Réne Magritte.
Analysis he would reject;
the boy’s lost mother, suicide—
Régina, queen, face-covered, drowned—
all blamed each other’s escapades.
To cap it all, she milliner,
devoted as a Catholic,
yet father anticlerical.
For roses, thorns go hand in hand
in wispy, wristy floral tryst.
An egg, drawn bird with outstretched wings,
to liquidate conventional;
the mirror glass that sees behind,
or handiwork for trellis growth—
so many questions framed for us.
His meet to marry, seven years,
that butcher’s daughter at the fair,
the girl Georgette his later muse,
for first exhibits, critics rose,
but piled abuse served, moved him on.
The Rêverie, entitled dream,
but did our Monsieur James think so?
And would he care, or others dare?
He did not look outside the box—
denied the box was ever there.
Through periods, and phases, styles,
the occupation, war, mind more,
those forgeries of headline names
and currency in leaner years,
but were notes printed cash for real?
Try Ceci n’est pas, for a line,
the pipe as concrete through the gap
to what stand painted, poster pen,
when artist seen and not the thing;
surrealist in play-along.
His oeuvre, time and time again,
by repetition, trauma marked,
but each unique though looked the same
for image seen not image been,
a complement in every scene.
the boy’s lost mother, suicide—
Régina, queen, face-covered, drowned—
all blamed each other’s escapades.
To cap it all, she milliner,
devoted as a Catholic,
yet father anticlerical.
For roses, thorns go hand in hand
in wispy, wristy floral tryst.
An egg, drawn bird with outstretched wings,
to liquidate conventional;
the mirror glass that sees behind,
or handiwork for trellis growth—
so many questions framed for us.
His meet to marry, seven years,
that butcher’s daughter at the fair,
the girl Georgette his later muse,
for first exhibits, critics rose,
but piled abuse served, moved him on.
The Rêverie, entitled dream,
but did our Monsieur James think so?
And would he care, or others dare?
He did not look outside the box—
denied the box was ever there.
Through periods, and phases, styles,
the occupation, war, mind more,
those forgeries of headline names
and currency in leaner years,
but were notes printed cash for real?
Try Ceci n’est pas, for a line,
the pipe as concrete through the gap
to what stand painted, poster pen,
when artist seen and not the thing;
surrealist in play-along.
His oeuvre, time and time again,
by repetition, trauma marked,
but each unique though looked the same
for image seen not image been,
a complement in every scene.
Ceiling Toadstools in Porcelain
—Painting by Carsten Höller
—Painting by Carsten Höller
FLY AGARIC!
But fly agaric, not so fast.
I think that you misunderstand—
I spoke your name, but not command;
as ‘hang in there’ is your reply,
with hint of magic mushroom speak,
I’m keeping my feet on the ground.
It cost me, sixties, £sd,
those flights of fancy, Kubla Khan,
my extraterrestrial mind,
as psychedelic orbits found
around my skull within my head
before black holes became the norm.
Above your bulb, though underneath,
in ceiling sunk, mycelium;
I root my worldview, gravity.
These humans stand too stable here
to be space station sentinels
afloat, as upside down, in fact.
I doubt those floor lights might be fans;
more likely planned exhibit scams.
But few harms done by second look,
another scan, fresh point of view,
in changed perspective, new field probed.
That is a rôle of poetry.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us”.
―Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry!
. . .new field probed. That is the rôle of poetry. . .
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that
Poetry Night in Davis
features
Keith Ekiss and Robin Ekiss
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!
Poetry Night in Davis
features
Keith Ekiss and Robin Ekiss
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!
