—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
WELL
A fallen expanse of sky, a white hole in the night
coolness illuminated by midnight stars
No shadow scented with fruit-tree fragrance
near a rocky pasture
In my childhood, I would often draw water deep
into the night
a bird calling above my head
The well trembles, the blue brick and plank walls
sweet with scent
a jasper passage follows me into the depths
I hear a great creature walking below
its smooth, blind head soon to break the water's
surface
It sighs in the deep night
steeping flower buds in the water
at dawn it returns to the distant sea
a rusted-chained cave in the rocks
I would often go back empty-handed
the long chain of starlight creaking
the well spinning alone behind me
The terrifying beauty of my childhood
silence, starlight, that white, trembling secret
entrance
A fallen expanse of sky, a white hole in the night
coolness illuminated by midnight stars
No shadow scented with fruit-tree fragrance
near a rocky pasture
In my childhood, I would often draw water deep
into the night
a bird calling above my head
The well trembles, the blue brick and plank walls
sweet with scent
a jasper passage follows me into the depths
I hear a great creature walking below
its smooth, blind head soon to break the water's
surface
It sighs in the deep night
steeping flower buds in the water
at dawn it returns to the distant sea
a rusted-chained cave in the rocks
I would often go back empty-handed
the long chain of starlight creaking
the well spinning alone behind me
The terrifying beauty of my childhood
silence, starlight, that white, trembling secret
entrance
A WRONG JOURNEY
That year we went on a wedding trip
for the world was no longer fresh.
That year dawn broke in a strange way
the car traveled along the ancient road; after a gust
of hot wind
the village girl keeping watch was no longer in the
field.
Golden dust wandered all over the sky
Then gathered into human shapes on the main road.
Passing through the village, we heard birds singing
of ordinary joys
ancient faces, water, and sunlight
yet the journey had just begun when the destination
was already lost.
There were so many people that I couldn’t recog-
nize my lover,
in a fluster, I got off at the wrong stop
straying into the village, I could only put my hand
on the roof
watching the shiny train in the distance
carrying the crowd onward with their journey.
The same mistakes occur everywhere
changing colors with the seasons,
I no longer think about how in a city
there’s still someone who took my place.
That year we went on a wedding trip
for the world was no longer fresh.
That year dawn broke in a strange way
the car traveled along the ancient road; after a gust
of hot wind
the village girl keeping watch was no longer in the
field.
Golden dust wandered all over the sky
Then gathered into human shapes on the main road.
Passing through the village, we heard birds singing
of ordinary joys
ancient faces, water, and sunlight
yet the journey had just begun when the destination
was already lost.
There were so many people that I couldn’t recog-
nize my lover,
in a fluster, I got off at the wrong stop
straying into the village, I could only put my hand
on the roof
watching the shiny train in the distance
carrying the crowd onward with their journey.
The same mistakes occur everywhere
changing colors with the seasons,
I no longer think about how in a city
there’s still someone who took my place.
ULYSSES
We are lost in a colossal city,
still fervently debating poetry and life.
I feel a hint of awkwardness. The bus is packed—
people sidle like fish, eavesdropping on us.
Their listening isolates us, carving out
a small sweating void in the crowd.
Early spring still: derelict nests cling to bare
treetops,
noise piles like foam atop the clamor.
You seem so distant, as if living on an island,
great Achilles, just ten years ago,
we left the windswept plains, drunk on battle’s
glory.
Now we’re like street vendors starting out,
swept by the crowd to the fringes of days.
This is spring, yes—with concrete pipes sprawled
and green plastic fences. The conductor grunts,
already turned to a swine by Circe’s spell, her
golden hair
swirling with chalk into Charybdis’ vortex.
“We’re in the pigsty too.”
The bus veers from a book that never existed on
College Road,
passing downtown and the name of a friend,
discarding destinations one by one until
plunging into the geometric skirt of the develop-
ment zone,
emerging from desire’s low neckline.
Missing our stop, we become outsiders,
the provincial government looms in clouds.
“This feels more like a journey through hell,
I took you for Virgil, but you’d rather be Dante.”
Who you are, whether we arrive—
none of it matters now. Without you,
we’d never have known this alien body,
its organs half putrid, mingling with footprints
and tires
into a colossal clay sculpture, frozen on the horizon.
We are lost in a colossal city,
still fervently debating poetry and life.
I feel a hint of awkwardness. The bus is packed—
people sidle like fish, eavesdropping on us.
Their listening isolates us, carving out
a small sweating void in the crowd.
Early spring still: derelict nests cling to bare
treetops,
noise piles like foam atop the clamor.
You seem so distant, as if living on an island,
great Achilles, just ten years ago,
we left the windswept plains, drunk on battle’s
glory.
Now we’re like street vendors starting out,
swept by the crowd to the fringes of days.
This is spring, yes—with concrete pipes sprawled
and green plastic fences. The conductor grunts,
already turned to a swine by Circe’s spell, her
golden hair
swirling with chalk into Charybdis’ vortex.
“We’re in the pigsty too.”
The bus veers from a book that never existed on
College Road,
passing downtown and the name of a friend,
discarding destinations one by one until
plunging into the geometric skirt of the develop-
ment zone,
emerging from desire’s low neckline.
Missing our stop, we become outsiders,
the provincial government looms in clouds.
“This feels more like a journey through hell,
I took you for Virgil, but you’d rather be Dante.”
Who you are, whether we arrive—
none of it matters now. Without you,
we’d never have known this alien body,
its organs half putrid, mingling with footprints
and tires
into a colossal clay sculpture, frozen on the horizon.
NOON
All the gods of this world are resting
the sky has sucked in all sounds
and turned perfectly bright
On such a silent noon
looking up in a dark dwelling
like someone waiting for a miracle
sitting at the half-bright, half-dark doorway
Behind is the furniture in the dark,
clumsy old beasts
where light dies in their mouths
behind are a lifetime's dust, utensils and fabrics
The water jar full of oil is sweating
over there, the childhood cart hesitates
like a lamb nudging the corner
with a note for exchanging secrets still stuck on its
head
Relatives are sleeping in a deeper place, behind
the curtains
their eyelids are serene, trusting this noon
almost making you believe the people who are
gone
will step across your threshold and come back
with fruits of eternal blue
(A street where summer is gradually slanting
your father is holding a watermelon
walking towards you with a smile
From then on, he always keeps coming
coming, yet never arriving)
Nothing can save you!
the plain is slowly smoking
blue dust pervades the mountaintop
not memories, nor love, nor even dreams
There's only one threshold left in the world
sleeping relatives unknowingly sink into paleness
flowers and leaves are flying, trees are planted into
the fog
the ever-cracking abyss
light and shadow interweave, like the confused
eyes of gods
(One noon in summer
you sit on the threshold of life
and find that the house where generations have
lived
is just an old and dark frame
exposed to the light of the afterlife, rugged and
empty
your shadow, conjoined-infant with the threshold,
is cast upon the rolling white fog
like a monster probing the abyss of existence)
All the gods of this world are resting
the sky has sucked in all sounds
and turned perfectly bright
On such a silent noon
looking up in a dark dwelling
like someone waiting for a miracle
sitting at the half-bright, half-dark doorway
Behind is the furniture in the dark,
clumsy old beasts
where light dies in their mouths
behind are a lifetime's dust, utensils and fabrics
The water jar full of oil is sweating
over there, the childhood cart hesitates
like a lamb nudging the corner
with a note for exchanging secrets still stuck on its
head
Relatives are sleeping in a deeper place, behind
the curtains
their eyelids are serene, trusting this noon
almost making you believe the people who are
gone
will step across your threshold and come back
with fruits of eternal blue
(A street where summer is gradually slanting
your father is holding a watermelon
walking towards you with a smile
From then on, he always keeps coming
coming, yet never arriving)
Nothing can save you!
the plain is slowly smoking
blue dust pervades the mountaintop
not memories, nor love, nor even dreams
There's only one threshold left in the world
sleeping relatives unknowingly sink into paleness
flowers and leaves are flying, trees are planted into
the fog
the ever-cracking abyss
light and shadow interweave, like the confused
eyes of gods
(One noon in summer
you sit on the threshold of life
and find that the house where generations have
lived
is just an old and dark frame
exposed to the light of the afterlife, rugged and
empty
your shadow, conjoined-infant with the threshold,
is cast upon the rolling white fog
like a monster probing the abyss of existence)
THE DEMISE OF SUMMER
Flowers that make their abode in the heart lift the
earth's lid
they possess more landscapes than we do
the earth juts out in the stamen, flames turn pitch-
black
flowing down hairy leaves. Only humans are left
lonely
This is the only dedication: the blind open their
eyes
yet cannot suddenly stop, entering the brilliance
of the setting sun
trees, like down, flutter around the eyes
flowers that make their abode in the heart lift the
dark lid
They carry golden vessels, pour beauty into dusk
and dawn
a night of wind brings ripe apples
tall goddesses stand under the trees
how many horrors pour out to the river
Demise, demise. Ice and flame appear hand-in -
hand
suddenly descending upon you. Who can meet mis-
fortune with calm
maintaining a violent posture for life with accelera-
tion
tomorrow all will vanish, desolation rising from
within
Better to return to the childhood stove, tossing
paper snakes onto the roof
a chill comes along the ridge
blood extinguishes the ashes, moods shift back
and forth
in the dust and yellowish light
Though old, though cold, though dilapidated and
beyond salvation
yet longer and more reliable than youth thinned
like gold leaves
stained glass absorbs the moonlight, roads fall into
the wind
who rises at this moment, opening the door of
emptiness
After this, all is as silent as a hall, with gleaming
staircases
will hang in uncertainty. Can we truly reach the
roof
flames flicker and escape into the depths of the sky
a city collapsing every day, our bodies resounding
with cries
Like frightened animals dragged toward a stove
blood bears the lethargy of summer, secreting con-
stellations
minds stay awake yet grow soft, huge flowers
stretched straight by a thread, while their shadows
touch the soil
The desolate earth rises toward pure brightness
crowns of blazing ice on high, forging all things
above the gold-melting woods, the day turns
murky
moss shows the footprints of angels, flowers
return to the devil's abode
Flowers that make their abode in the heart lift the
earth's lid
they possess more landscapes than we do
the earth juts out in the stamen, flames turn pitch-
black
flowing down hairy leaves. Only humans are left
lonely
This is the only dedication: the blind open their
eyes
yet cannot suddenly stop, entering the brilliance
of the setting sun
trees, like down, flutter around the eyes
flowers that make their abode in the heart lift the
dark lid
They carry golden vessels, pour beauty into dusk
and dawn
a night of wind brings ripe apples
tall goddesses stand under the trees
how many horrors pour out to the river
Demise, demise. Ice and flame appear hand-in -
hand
suddenly descending upon you. Who can meet mis-
fortune with calm
maintaining a violent posture for life with accelera-
tion
tomorrow all will vanish, desolation rising from
within
Better to return to the childhood stove, tossing
paper snakes onto the roof
a chill comes along the ridge
blood extinguishes the ashes, moods shift back
and forth
in the dust and yellowish light
Though old, though cold, though dilapidated and
beyond salvation
yet longer and more reliable than youth thinned
like gold leaves
stained glass absorbs the moonlight, roads fall into
the wind
who rises at this moment, opening the door of
emptiness
After this, all is as silent as a hall, with gleaming
staircases
will hang in uncertainty. Can we truly reach the
roof
flames flicker and escape into the depths of the sky
a city collapsing every day, our bodies resounding
with cries
Like frightened animals dragged toward a stove
blood bears the lethargy of summer, secreting con-
stellations
minds stay awake yet grow soft, huge flowers
stretched straight by a thread, while their shadows
touch the soil
The desolate earth rises toward pure brightness
crowns of blazing ice on high, forging all things
above the gold-melting woods, the day turns
murky
moss shows the footprints of angels, flowers
return to the devil's abode
FATHER OF AUTUMN
Father of Autumn sets forth from the flowers
He passes through all things and the darkness
between them
Deepening himself in the light, with plenteous
flames
Gathered between his brows
Riding a bundle of rice stalks, Father of Autumn
glides like sunlight over the water's edge
He goes to the heights, a great golden axe glowing
brightly behind him
Our firewood door is always creaking without end
Yearning for the mountains and forests that turned
white overnight
Father of Autumn, please split dry firewood for
us to get through the winter
Let sunlight and dust tremble and chirp together
We watch his powerful movements
The great axe glimmers darkly
Thus the warm stove fire illuminates us
In the faint moonlight, our father's arms rise and
fall
At midnight, Father slips in the shadows
Snow falls on the axe blade, blurring his image
Snow falls so thick one can barely open their eyes
Lonelier beasts huddle close
Thus our father abandons the axe and departs
Like a flower with white head, a star
He no longer concerns himself with us; he goes to
fulfill himself
At the edge of the moon, ladling water with the
gods
Bloodthirsty butterflies cluster on the axe blade,
lingering three days without leaving
Father of Autumn, how dark the earth is, where
will the earth go?
Like one seeking truth, Father of Autumn leaps
onto the rushing current and departs
You will return from time to time. Father of
Autumn
Return through our bodies, real, silent
Light the stove for us, then depart
Taking the white butterflies of a night's heavy
snow
When we grow up, standing in the dark, the axe's
light heavy in our hands
Father of Autumn will not return
Until we in turn slip in the golden glow of the
great axe
Father of Autumn will carry us away on the
rushing current
Father of Autumn sets forth from the flowers
He passes through all things and the darkness
between them
Deepening himself in the light, with plenteous
flames
Gathered between his brows
Riding a bundle of rice stalks, Father of Autumn
glides like sunlight over the water's edge
He goes to the heights, a great golden axe glowing
brightly behind him
Our firewood door is always creaking without end
Yearning for the mountains and forests that turned
white overnight
Father of Autumn, please split dry firewood for
us to get through the winter
Let sunlight and dust tremble and chirp together
We watch his powerful movements
The great axe glimmers darkly
Thus the warm stove fire illuminates us
In the faint moonlight, our father's arms rise and
fall
At midnight, Father slips in the shadows
Snow falls on the axe blade, blurring his image
Snow falls so thick one can barely open their eyes
Lonelier beasts huddle close
Thus our father abandons the axe and departs
Like a flower with white head, a star
He no longer concerns himself with us; he goes to
fulfill himself
At the edge of the moon, ladling water with the
gods
Bloodthirsty butterflies cluster on the axe blade,
lingering three days without leaving
Father of Autumn, how dark the earth is, where
will the earth go?
Like one seeking truth, Father of Autumn leaps
onto the rushing current and departs
You will return from time to time. Father of
Autumn
Return through our bodies, real, silent
Light the stove for us, then depart
Taking the white butterflies of a night's heavy
snow
When we grow up, standing in the dark, the axe's
light heavy in our hands
Father of Autumn will not return
Until we in turn slip in the golden glow of the
great axe
Father of Autumn will carry us away on the
rushing current
PAPER SNAKE
A paper snake urged forward, segment by segment
coldness travels to its tip
scales flutter, the snake puffs out its vivid belly
In the night, you meet it suddenly
emerging from the vast darkness of things
the paper snake fixes you with a cold stare
upright, as if frozen stiff by its own chill
It coils on the roof
dusted with golden particles
like a fluffy mound of earth
We retreat, segment by segment
to the dizzying bed of childhood
between the dim floor and mother’s stove fire
comes the cold rattle of shaking links
The paper snake will hatch the house
it can no longer be cast away
we cannot escape the game
dismantling it to the last segment
we still find no source of the cold
Dry, striking, stretched at will
a hollow tube filled with darkness
above our heads, or beneath the bed
making us motionless
Hush—be quiet
how can we slip through a lifetime
to reach the mother who knows nothing
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.
―Sarah Addison Allen, First Frost
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Ma Yongbo and his fine poetry today!
A paper snake urged forward, segment by segment
coldness travels to its tip
scales flutter, the snake puffs out its vivid belly
In the night, you meet it suddenly
emerging from the vast darkness of things
the paper snake fixes you with a cold stare
upright, as if frozen stiff by its own chill
It coils on the roof
dusted with golden particles
like a fluffy mound of earth
We retreat, segment by segment
to the dizzying bed of childhood
between the dim floor and mother’s stove fire
comes the cold rattle of shaking links
The paper snake will hatch the house
it can no longer be cast away
we cannot escape the game
dismantling it to the last segment
we still find no source of the cold
Dry, striking, stretched at will
a hollow tube filled with darkness
above our heads, or beneath the bed
making us motionless
Hush—be quiet
how can we slip through a lifetime
to reach the mother who knows nothing
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.
―Sarah Addison Allen, First Frost
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Ma Yongbo and his fine poetry today!
A reminder that today is
the deadline for The
Al Cortez Memorial
Youth Edition of the
Sacramento Poetry Center
New Rivers Chapbook
Series Contest.
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!
the deadline for The
Al Cortez Memorial
Youth Edition of the
Sacramento Poetry Center
New Rivers Chapbook
Series Contest.
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!
