Wispas in the Night

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,

and Medusa

 

 

WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Grandchildren snacking, midnight feast,
their Wispas shared, hushed giggle fun,
aerated dense chocolate bars,
beneath the duvet covers, done,
their whispers heard, memory Mum.

Lit by the moon, lace tracery,
those wispy clouds, more air than drips,
keep searching out substantial cloud,
though sympathetic fallacy,
white wispers floating cross dark skies,

Deprived of sight, where nothing’s bright,
all other senses to the fore
with space for fear, first nurtured hint,
here’s echo chamber for afraid,
each noise, sound basis, further fright.

Boy Samuel on Temple mount,
Elijah quaking, still in wind,
there, lores galore would claim the voice—
though prophets rarely spoke so soft—  
breath, spirit, ruach, whispers, God.

But Chinese, most, such whispers ‘heard’,
from ear to lip many a slip,
long distance call, and cheeky too,
translated as men wont to do—
a late night party strategy.

So gossip tendered, palm to mouth,
campaigns to undermine some truth,
Iago to Iachimo;
by sleight of hand or slight from tongue,
the green-eyed monster is released,

In folklore of strange histories,
here horse and whispered mystery;
I heard achieved by biting ear—
expected pain, so Pavlov’s dog.
It dawns that day has followed night.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

IN THE NIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Gossip floats in windy dark
from tree to tree to tree.
In moonlight, branches
wave their leaves
to tap-tap on my window.
Did you hear? they whisper,
knowing I don’t know
the language of the night.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

I LIKE TO BELIEVE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

nearest stars to earth
whisper in the night
in lullabyes that
babies listen to.

Some whispers we hear
are nearly drowned out
by moon’s loud chuckles,
by planets in choirs.

If you ask some stars
to whisper, they won’t.
Then, slipping to sleep,
one hears that soft sound. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WE’VE MET THIS CAST OF CHARACTERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(prompted by Rachel Maddow’s recent mention
of a “protean set of facts”)  

To say that something is a "protean set of facts"
means that the facts are exceptionally changeable,
variable, and capable of taking on many different
forms or interpretations. This phrase is derived
from the Greek mythological figure Proteus, a sea-
god known for his ability to change shape at will
to avoid answering questions.

Koalemos is the Greek god of stupidity, considered
a daemon or a minor deity who personifies foolish-
ness and stupidity.

In Hinduism, Apasmara is a demon who embodies
ignorance. He is often depicted as being subdued
by Lord Shiva, symbolizing the constant struggle
between knowledge and ignorance. In some inter-
pretations, Apasmara is considered immortal,
representing the ever present nature of ignorance in
the world.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

IS MY BATH READY?
—Caschwa

Sure, just walk out to
the end of the pier and then
take a few more steps

* * *

RIGHT SIZE
—Caschwa

This is the secret
How to please everybody?
Keep household at one

* * *

FIRST AID
—Caschwa

Hit by a heart attack?
Grab the foil of one corner,
peel it back and chew

 

 

 

 

Naked Lady Lilies

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

My mother-in-law has naked ladies in her yard, and the welcome sight of them inspired me to dig out this old poem of mine. Maybe, if you listen, you can hear these ladies whispering in the night:


NAKED LADIES ARE DYING
 
in dusty fields alongside abandoned farm-
houses, where well-worn hands once planted
a few friendly faces. . .  Late August heat
 
has finished short leafless lives:  faded pink
bonnets bob away from searing sun, bow
to the golden grass crowded around their
 
feet. Farmhouses are just as faded: porches sag
as paint peels off the dry wood.  But the naked
ladies will be back when next year's sun climbs
 
once again into August:  fresh faces will
remember those well-worn hands that
planted them in the past.
 

 

—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

OBJECTS OF DESIRE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Objects of desire
Are drawn away,
Stretched into abstract
Things that pull away
From every form of substance,
Into papier-mâché,
Slopped onto
Rounded hubs
Brought into play

Throwing plaster
Onto molds
Carved and shaped from clay,

We feel the way
The hollows
Bring forth what we would say
When they are filled in
And brought to
Permanent reflection
As granite shines like skin.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LOOKING BACK
—Joe Nolan

All messed up
And all gone, gone.

All the ones I catered to
Have all moved on.

Was I so unworthy
To keep them here with me
Or was it just they
Never identified
With what I mean?

Looking back
On every broken urn
That used to hold some water,
But only for awhile,
I think about living and capture
That go into raising a child--
Taking up the yolk
And plowing down a field
Over and over each year
With blinders on
To not stray from the track,
Always keeping busy
With no time to look back.

 

 

 

DIno Buzatti

Dino Buzzati is an Italian fabulist 

whose novels and short stories are 

often called “Kafkaesque.”

BIRTHING BUZZATI
—Joe Nolan

If existential dread is your flavor,
Then Buzzati is for you.
Who is Buzzati?
What does he mean to you?

The flavors of summer
Are meant to be sweet,
Juicy and delectable,
Joyful, without retreat,

Ripe fruit
And ripe women,
Bared skin
From the heat,

As every heated hunger,
Unleashed, without surcease,
Inclines toward winter’s
Later births
That come in from the Fall.

We wince.
To acknowledge it all
The way that surly winter
Brings forth the births of Fall.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A HUMMINGBIRD
—Joe Nolan

A hummingbird
Fetches drops of water
In the air
From an oscillating sprinkler
Set out on a lawn.

It seems the bird is happy,
Delighted to drink pure,
Pure water
Before it touches earth.

It moves so lightly,
Dancing from place to place
Around the streams of water,
Taking just a drop each time
It goes in with its bill.

Delighted,
Like a man in love.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FOREVER
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Forever and always with you
I find the beauty of your soul growing
With your blues
Thunderstorm over this town
I can escape burning with your hand
The little unnamed flowers along the path
where river flows a sublime zeal
Dance and music nature's flowing through
Shimmering and shining with your cityscape
I always find a reason to be with you
My forever and always earthen song.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

—James Joyce

 
______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our contributors for their poetry and photos today, some of which are responses to our Seed of the Week, Whispers in the Night. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. And check each Friday, too, for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be closed for reforms
throughout August.
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!