My Level Best

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

HEARTH
After ‘Home’ by Edward Thomas

Frequent had I passed this path
but now it felt I never left
or could be other than this place.
My home, one principality
we knew, I and the grasses blown,
one echo sown.

They greeted me.  I had returned
twilight it seemed from somewhere past.
The March of bud, freeze thaw, the norm,
said the same terms, familial
both good to us, though stranger too,
yet quite unblocked.

The finch from his beechloft down the way
gave his finale, or nearly so;
and as completed, from the oak,
a further one had opened notes,
but last, for sure, as I too knew,
the dusk had come.

When by his grey sight cott side gate
the carpenter moved on by, his soles
slow, part for tiredness, part release,
that through the stillness, from retreat,
the voice of sawtooth bounded all
that stillness bred.

 

 

 

 

THIS LIVING ROOM

The mantel is ingrained with flecks,
the knots removed before the plane,
spokeshaved to smooth, its shelf a gain,
display of tree-branch photographs,
and planished cups by forebears borne.

Grit honey stone surrounds the grate,
the quarry of sweat clawing men
who saw the shape of things to come,
their own Carrera in its form
as wall of inglenook performed.

The fangled fireguard, curlicues,
forged as copies, ancestry,
blown bellows, hammer, anvil, tongs,
then beaten, through for filigree,
malleability refined.

There, beaming from the ceiling, lines,
so architraves above the panes,
patina, winter smoke and soot,
oaks felled, now ringed by curtain hooks,
their canopy of greens restored.

That shorn of sheep, my cushioned stance
as I survey this living room,
beneath greyed slates once mine now roof.
Even the fruit bowl, chased round rim,
holds apples, ancient orchard seed.

Its lore, how life is, disobeyed,
first crabbed, then orange jelly, mould,
decayed like Medlars, bletted, core.
Grandfather’s clock chimes future now,
but stands by rock of ages, cleft.

____________________

LEVEL BEST

I do my level best, down stairs,
sure, shaky start, finding my feet,
till shod in slippers, toe curl grip;
descent, more handrail grab than neat,
with abseil leap, pillboxes hand,
bridge, arches, landing pad, sole sweet.

By waddle ducking, weaving ways,
I’m going surfing, gentle waves,
for laptop dancing, mancave days;
it’s all well balanced, scale of things,
with rise recliner taking strain
less one wrong switch, ejector seat

But on the level, I am good;
though pitching deck of rolling ship,
we set centre of gravity,
that moment, weight fix sombre sway.
The tempo quickens, lurch then brake,
not master of my dancing limbs.

And yet my measure holds the room,
its spaces, handholds, place to twirl,
the pitfalls noticed, noted, marked,
a steerage class as stand alone.
I am a journeyman of sorts,
apprentice moonwalker it feels.

Now rôle as floorwalker my goal—
I do my level best downstairs.

 

 

 

 
 

COMPANION

We’re told it’s love or hate affair—
or cupboard love, assuming there;
for those who choose, but thinly spread,
not smothered, mothered sons so dread.
My choice when sick, poor appetite,
light-covered toast as last night bite;
distinctive wafting, extract yeast,
as care climbs stair with snack or feast.
So there, a jar, Valentine treat,
not candlelit, but right and meet;
for common prayer as table fed,
partner, companion, sharing bread.

 

 

 

 

GREEN ROOM

As comfort, night time malted drink,
a pattern followed, by the clock,
without good reason to disown—
why would I end the day alone?

I’m told that change is all around,
I’m not an island to myself,
or I’ll be simply left behind,
which is my lot—as I remind.
Change marks growth, from seed to bloom,
but do core values yet remain,
the mannerisms, polite style,
courtesy, respect, second mile?

While yes, there’s much so strange to me,
it is routine, my leading star,
for I need anchor, taking strain,
secure hold, less their binding chain.
They have my ways mechanical,
when customary more my frame;
I sense my five alone will guide,
but well-worn paths from synapse hide?

Now dado, carpets, green I see;
this path I’m sure goes to my room.
But when the bell chimes in my head,
the corridors are meat and bread.
So here I am at bed and board,
with folks uncertain who they are;
that night-time malted drink my own,
so I’ll not end this day alone.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

BECAUSE OF THE DARKNESS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

We see not daytime stars,
but know, on course, there;
night dark makes wonder, bright.
So though looming darkness scares,
we concentrate on sparkle light,
less shower meteors are due;
then the blackness offers pool
from which spot streaking star.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry and pix~

 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

Grant Faulkner will read at

Poet 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

Keeping Me Awake

 —Poetry by Kushal Poddar, Kolkata,
W. Bengal, India
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

RAIN KEEPS ME AWAKE

Rain doesn't soothe me,
not in the beginning, not when it
dances with the skin.

Its OCD won't let this go.
All night it talks to sleep and pours.
'Mustn't fail. Calm him down.'
The noise ignites my awakening.

It perfects its rhythm, negotiates
with the gale, pays homage
to the dirt, tells the tale of my mother
and her love for petrichor, and I, still awake,

imagine a monstera leaf and droplets missing
the holes, missing the slits and exploding,
imagine the pearls those who pass forms on
another leaf beneath. I breathe, repeat

the song rain sings—“I calm you now.
I calm you not. One drop misses the spot.
One turns into a tear. One is the pearl
all mothers wear in memories."

 

 

 


SUMMER NYMPH

On the roof she bathes
in moonlight.
I know some
who went insane after
drinking her straight
poured in a glass.

One told me she
looked like a still life
of a scorpion in a liquor bottle.
The concoction was fermented
to see the reality beyond reality.

That, one told me,
wasn't a house. The roof
was a summer river
thin, drawn by child
with his HB pencil.

I look at her, the crazy
and nude neighbour
on her roof, in her river,
a scorpion in a bottle
of moonshine. 

 

 

 

 


CEASE

The old names have shifted
their alphabets. The new names
for God and those 'In/Out' in their
rectangular slots keep the cleaner
busy. This edifice, the one and only,
remains untouched by the fire,
and everywhere fire has scattered
its red feathers. The cleaner
keeps every particle of the dust
in a quite large bag in case he needs
those to rebuild, but since the fire
came here he has not been in the building.
Some says that the fire is an urgent prayer,
one desperate signal for intervention,
albeit some say he stopped coming because of it.
An ambulance and an army truck whistle by;
the cleaner works hard to wipe the brass,
brick, mortar, blood, flesh and bones until
even he ceases to exist, and ashes fly like doves.

 

 

 

 

MENTAL MAZE

A friend is gone
in the oblivion today,
yesterday, tomorrow;
I don't know
because time wears
its yellow raincoat,
stands on the road I see
from my window
although it doesn't rain,
and the traffic, busy, penetrates it.
Why did you, do you, will you
kill yourself? I don't guess
because a minotaur chases
its shadow in the mind's maze.

 

 

 

 

TALES

Someone once told us that the stories
open the escape routes from our reality.
We have been reading those maps.

The lost paths belong to us; we have turned off
the GPS; we leave the automobiles, sway and
dance forward instead of walking, striding.
The rose you sniff after plucking it from a wild
garden stuns you to a long sleep. The tea and
snacks at one bus stop push us to the toilet
eleven times in a day. Aunt Ginny has a problem
of not drinking enough. We will drag a coffin like
a Wild West movie. Monday stories have blue
rivers, the others days merge into each other.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE HERMIT IN MY SKULL
—Kushal Poddar

The local body builders' association
builds three tiers of flesh on the pier.
Near ocean lifts its hem a little.
The defunct lighthouse yawns.

I watch a naked hermit crab crossing,
offer it my skull. The gulls lose
the battle of speed. The crab and I
stroll toward the water and salt.
I feel light, mindless.

____________________

Kushal Poddar is the author of nine books, including Postmarked Quarantine and How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch. He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the globe. Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet/. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Kushal!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Kushal Poddar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

Chimera, The Mystery

Apologetic

 —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

IN THE PAVILION
—Joyce Odam

I am in the pavilion, selling tickets.
The tour-boat is filling up behind me,
the expectant faces all turned in my
direction, but my back is turned to

them. Husbands come up and want to
marry me. I am sixteen. I am in the
summer, but it is cold. Something is
wrong with the weather. People are

shivering on the boat on the restless
motion of the water. The docks are
struggling. Soon the captain will ring
his bell and the boat will chug out into

the chilly bay. The faces will all be
turned toward the sea. I will become
a receding time-figure to them; so will
they to me. The day empties. The year

slips away. I am standing in the empty
pavilion, a roll of red tickets in my hand.  
The dock rocks and creaks. I wait all my
life, but they do not return.
                                      

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/21)

 

 

 

 In The Mirror

 

SOME OBLIVIOUS THOUGHT 

—Joyce Odam

There is
too too many of me
this morning.
I am plural of mind.
I am at odds with myself.
Too many of me
look back
through the mirror.
Too many of me
look in.
I wash my faces
with hands that
wear strange rings.
I know that below
the line of glass
I have no body.
I float in the room
like an incompleted drawing.
There is no touch in
my glistening fingers.
Now it is raining
in the room.
The sound of it
runs down the glass.
The ceiling light
is burning through my skin.
The paint of which I am made
is mixed too thin
and I am melting
out of time.
Some oblivious thought
keeps running
into my eyes.
                             

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/11/15)

 

 

 

At The Shadow

 

IN THE PURPLE GARDEN

are shadows to be known
far in the corner-edge
where the sun sets first

enclosing all
that lingers
out of some dare

or curiosity—
out of some line
of an unfinished poem,

reluctant to continue,
or out of the shadow
that hushes with the flowers—

what sort of garden holds
such mystery
from innocent intruders,

only there to steal—
or only mean to steal
a single flower out of so many . . . ?

 

—Joyce Odam
                                                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/3/20; 3/30/21)

 

______________________

A TREE SO THICK WITH SUMMER
After By the Stream by Paul Gauguin, Autumn 1885

—Joyce Odam

A
tree—
so thick
with summer,
ablaze with color
from standing so still
in the still air, a tree not
to be stared at, else risk
turning blind, a tree as red
as the sun at sundown on a
hot, hot day, until it can only
be seen as a red blur, mute, and
lovely, and envied for the fusion
of its leaves, which stir, which stir,
rustle and stir, as spectacularly in the
laden atmosphere as an irrepressible
blush
from praise . . . .

 

 

 

 Over There

INSIGHT
After “Silence” by William Carlos Williams
—Joyce Odam

Something as silent as a whir of thought
in its passing—

as bird shadow, peripheral,
and slow—

as the moment is slow
in its impression—

what else is there to note
and lose before the loss is realized?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/15/16)
 
_____________________

SPECIES
—Joyce Odam

The bird has no name
so I call him Silence.
I make up my own prayers for him.

The bird has no eyes
so I call him Dark.
He looks at me through color.

The bird has no mind
so I call him Oblivion.
He sings and sings.

                                
(prev. pub. in Hibiscus Magazine, 1988,
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/15/16)

 

 

 

Rasta

 

THE HOUSE FILLED WITH BOOKS
—Robin Gale Odam

The dream is the house filled with books full of
dreams.
The bindings are worn and the margins are marked
In light pencil and referenced on strips of scrap
paper
Inserted between every chapter—the bookmarks
Are old and the cases are heavy with volumes
Of whatever dreams could be captured and
written—

Chimera, the fantasy. Wraith in a trance.
The specter of hunger. The cases are heavy
With endings and bookmarks all scribbled in
shorthand
To anchor the reference to memory—scribbles of  
Marks long forgotten—what is a dream after all,
Past recollection—the cases are heavy.

Chimera, the mystery scribbled in shorthand.
The specter of hunger. The wraith in a trance.

 

 

 

Up Here

 

IMPRINT
After The Moon-Woman Cuts the Circle,

Painting by Jackson Pollock

—Robin Gale Odam

Precision bears down into continuum,
the section and resection of the cell—

the first ripple, the electric spark of
dawn, the red river of memory, the blue
vapor of breath—the violence of divinity,
mystery in disguise—the day, the night,
the death . . .
 

______________________

IF THEN
—Robin Gale Odam

What if you meant to say a thread of
uncertain synonyms for if and then,
and then I looked away—a fine strand
of twisted fibers—

I tried to write this letter, I thought
I heard you say,

for if and then, as statement of fact—
and then you looked away

—starlings in the sky again, the flurry
of startle—

evening divides into two evenings.
If you arrive then I shall go.

 

 

 

 Worrisome Dreaming

                           

THE WIDTH OF MY ILLUSION
—Joyce Odam

I own the century.
I stand on the pinnacle of life’s expansion.

I wrap my arms around the width of my illusion.
Skies are empty of falling. I have wings.

My smile covers my face
for you to see.

I never surrendered my bitterness and question
to your confusion—I am that complicated.

I am the pose of patience and observation
of heart and soul.

I have great offerings of wordless meanings
and gestures.

I tremble with light
that steals my shadow.

I am without substance now.
I am all mind—

separated and combined.
Am I the answer?

                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/31/19)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

at the mansion gate
in the scribing of my death   
I will turn and weep

riven by the ghost of shade
light cascading to my feet


—Robin Gale Odam

____________________

Our thanks to the Odam poets for this morning’s fine poetry, and to Joyce Odam for equally fine visuals! Our Seed of the Week was "Ornery", and I dunno—Rasta the Roosta looks pretty ornery to me~

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Unexpected”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

And be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Chimera, The Mystery
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Poets & Writers Workshop meets

in Cameron Park tonight, 5:30pm.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Them Ornery Poets

  Wheelbarrow Man
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee, Ernest Federspiel,
and Caschwa
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Ernest Federspiel, and Medusa

 

 

MYSTERY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

One ornery dog stole an eggshell
that her daddy didn’t notice
missed the kitchen trash.
Her mommy wondered why
her girl was quiet, way
too quiet, on this lovely day.
Her mommy solved the mystery.
She found eggshell
confetti fluttering
around her office floor.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

HUMOUR? BILE!
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

From root to shoot, all be it, side,
vox populi define a word,
for by their usage stake the claim,
though undermining ground as was.
It irritates, the textspeak screen,
that it should transfer, written work,
the more so, flow without a pause,
no punctuation, making plain.

I’m all for speaking plain myself,
and not awake to what woke thought—
though there’s a term, like gay I guess,
where spin invaded lexicon.
It’s all the power of ’60’s flower
as Okie from Muscogee flagged,
and as for ‘Nam, what happened there,
conceded, stayed out there as needs.

They talk of apps—applied at night—
they drink from plastic, not the tap;
the biggest threat said climate change—
but pay a pound for bottle waste.
Correct phrase judged political,
a would-be, banished from my tongue;
for granted, unreliable,
like those, offensive, ‘round the Tet.

I calculate, iPhone on tap,
their cheatings more than notes on cuff—
recalling my work at the till—
the joke was me, a Tiller Girl—
but young can’t count out change, as we;
their body image seems to be
of paramount—thought me dis-eased—
splenetic, vexed, dyspeptic, peeved. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

A perfectly new morning
The hidden hydrangeas hide in the blush
A soulful symphonic trodden path
For full of nectar the heavens drank
The river runs deep ahead
Porcelain touches lose my vision
Yet the morning is beaten against
The sweeping currents of adversity
Proclivity for the blissful Hippocrene
I hear a Byzantine reverie
Enter the summer breeze breeding of beads
For the first touch of dropped waterfall. 

 

 

 

—Visual Courtesy of Ernest Federspiel

 

HELP ME SEE
—Ernest Federspiel, Litchfield, MI

Where did all of the butterflies go, when in my
heart it began to snow.
Did the springtime joys all fade and die away,
when my heart started to turn cold and grey.
Was everything destined to remain dark blue,
just because I was no longer in love with you.
How did I let life become so harsh and stale?
Why did my mind become so weak and frail.
What can I do to have the sun shine back on me?
Please give me a clue to help me see.
My love of life didn't really die,
but for the pain I forgot how to cry.
Springtime flowers are what I need to deep-breathe,
and bring the butterflies back to see.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MIXED FEELINGS, II
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

ere I err and
kick your ass

ere I err and
dump on you
my candidate’s
propaganda

ere I err and
rely on the polls

ere I err with air
and inflate the issues

ere I err and
deny the heir
to the throne

ere I adopt the
royal air and
err in all my
actions

ere I err and
shoot an arrow
at no particular
target

ere I err and
start with the
eraser and
miss the point

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A STRONG ECONOMY
—Caschwa

when I can give my whole family
an upscale wardrobe, then take
them in a chauffeured limousine
to enjoy the meal of their choice
at a five star restaurant

the economy looks like it is operating
at a very strong level….for me

but in the real world, I’m more likely
to struggle with the decision of
whether or not I can afford to add a
mere slice of cheese to my burger order
at the drive thru 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CHATTEL CHATTER
—Caschwa

the United States of America,
hard at work making changes
to form a more perfect Union

until those changes don’t respect
the long history of blacks and
women being the property of
Pure White Men!

and then the USA is hard at work
making excuses founded on the
same royal privilege that prompted
our Revolutionary War

Pure White Men! top of the chain,
power to rule over all blacks and
women just like a king over royal
property

it is there on paper, we freed the
slaves, then gave them the right to
vote…

we gave women the right to vote,
also, but…

we manage to deny many blacks and
women the means to vote, or to enjoy
many other rights and privileges we
eagerly extend to Pure White Men!

so here we are, still puppeteering the
everyday lives of blacks and women
like that is our civic duty

to Hell with a more perfect Union!
there are some changes Pure White
Men! cannot tolerate 

 

 

 

 Blue-Footed Booby
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A TWIST AND TURN
—Caschwa

remember way back when
you first learned the meaning
of the word decapitate

and then you were certain
sure you also knew what
the meaning of deliver was?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DOWNSIZED
—Caschwa

here sits a commode
respectful of code
won’t use more water
than one flush oughter

____________________

Thanks to our contributors for today’s poetry—some of it rather irreverent in keeping with our Seed of the Week, Ornery.

Newcomer Ernest Federspiel writes that he is a retired poet—but there’s no such thing. Once a poet, always a poet, yes? Welcome to the Kitchen, Ernest, and don’t be a stranger!

 

 

 

 Ernest Federspiel

The June issue of Sacramento Poetry Center’s Poet News is available online now at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Editor Patrick Grizzell reminds us that the deadline for SPC’s next Tule Review is July 15.

Another publication of note, Berkeley’s Poetry Flash and its editor, Joyce Jenkins, will be celebrating 50 years of publication this year! Check out the June issue at https://poetryflash.org/.

And Medusa’s Kitchen celebrated its 19th anniversary last week, on May 31. Poor Old Medusa is getting kind of long in the... snake…

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Sac. Poetry Center
features Poetry FORMulas
with Susan Kelly-DeWitt’s
Workshop Group tonight, 7:30pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 LittleSnake in ornery mode~

The Orgasmic Nature of Illegitimate Acquisition

 —Poetry by Gary D. Grossman, PhD, Athens, GA
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

ARS POETICA

How do I write thee, let me count the ways.

The sonnet of my marriages, first through third.
The haiku of fatherhood, kids in one breath.
The haibun of my career, 41 years, then done.
The cento of my published papers.
The epic of our family history—Europe to US.
The limerick of my There once was a man from…
The villanelle of my five hobbies.
The ode of my tongue in yet one more lover.
The ghazal of my repeating illness.
The elegy of my too-short life.

 

 

 

 

UNDERWATER

I lasted a week at the first foster home.
There I learned to only inhale, because
a completed breath brought the unknown—
days to come were milk poured into water,
cloudy and without taste, I was underwater.

The second home taught me to hold my breath—
the blue backyard plastic pool, where in June,
my bully foster brothers played octopus.
Binding arms and legs while pushing
my head under water.

Number three included parents who never
left the couch or TV—obesity, cockroaches,
and a baby boy with soiled diapers.
No AC and the thick August air
felt like breathing underwater.

Even a crazy Mom beats this, so I returned
home for a year, then at 17 moved out.
Mom left LA for Tecate, Mexico, and died
eight months later, when her car vaulted
an embankment and ended up underwater.

 

 

 

 

SELF-EXAMINATION

If the recession of 2008 hadn’t maimed so many of us accountants, I wouldn’t have started shoplifting. And though I floated towards homelessness, I clawed my way back up the economic beach, even after watching that ebb tide sweep so many bellowing colleagues out to sea. I don’t mean to lack compassion, no, really, but like they say, “if ya done it, it ain’t bragging.” At that point I realized my salvation lay in the collection plate of petty crime. I mean, wife and kids sayonaraed me long ago, and I’ve been on my own now for one hundred seventy-eight weeks. My initiation into larceny began with basic needs stuffed down my pants—snickers bars, white bread, tins of potted meat, and pony bottles of beer, really just things to tide me over, but then a better plan skipped across my mind like the way a crumpled styrofoam cup skates over an oily canal on a windy day. Reaching back into my old quantitative tool-bag, I began computer-scamming—targeting the idle rich, sweeping their crypto out from under their noses, while posing as a 40ish blonde widow whose nipples peered like shy buttons from a sheer black nightgown. Twelve years later, sometimes I ask myself “do you really know the difference between want and need”, even though these economic curves are the basis of civilized capitalism? Yet neither produces the orgiastic thrill accompanying a successful theft, abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily at the start and relaxing with each exhalation as the crime struts forward. Nonetheless, my new financial security necessitates greater self-examination, literally, more looks in the mirror, to ensure the moral portion of my face doesn’t start decomposing right in front of me—like so many portraits by Francis Bacon. Which brings me to my ultimate question, can one recover from a life of property crime, and is it even necessary? I mean, doesn’t society owe everyone a living, and doesn’t economic inequality justify my takings? I know those are rationalizations, weak as raspberry leaf tea. Still, how much do I really need, and how much do they really not need, and is enough ever enough, especially given the orgasmic nature of illegitimate acquisition?

Some questions really shouldn’t be asked.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

All your questions can be answered, if that is what you want. But once you learn your answers, you can never unlearn them.

—Unknown

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Gary Grossman for today’s intriguing poetry!

 

 

 

 Gary Grossman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the 

RIPE AREA FESTIVAL
takes place in Placerville today, 

starting at 11am.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 Aaaaargh...

 

Poems From the Heart

 —Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

WHERE WE ARE

Oh, I can text good morning,
And I can wish you well,
For the—what?—several-hundredth day in a row,
And I will always care for you,
And I will always love you,
(Oh God, I will always love you)
And there are so many “ands”,
And—no—I will not edit one of them
Because they are so indicative of where we are.
Of where we are.

I will wish you well,
And, every single day, I will say goodnight,
As I will long for that one night
Again
Again
Again
And I will know that there is so much you are not 

telling me,
That you are holding back from the truth of the matter,
The many truths.

And I will know what you are avoiding.

And perhaps I need you to avoid it.

Because I love you,
And I want you so very much,
And if good morning is all we have,
From here to every one of the goodnights,
Then I love you enough
To accept those moments alone.


(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)

 

 

 

 

ON SUFFERING AND HOPE

Oh yes, the chest compressions hurt,
Or their after-effects do.
His ribs ache,
If ache can describe the knife-twist
When he breathes,
And the pressure that does not relent,
As if he is still being resuscitated,
And maybe he is.
Maybe that was the hope.
Someone’s hope.
Those who thought they could bring him back to life
After all that has happened,
And what he suffered even prior to the event.

Maybe this pain, they believe,
Can be exchanged for what went before.

A different form of suffering, that also did not relent.

But he did not suffer then,
And he does not suffer now,
Even when moving,
Even when he hears his sternum creak.

He has not, in fact, suffered for a great many years,
Even before they brought him back.
For that, you see, would have required what they have,
And what they have, it seems, for him still.

That would have required hope.


(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)

 

 

 

SEMANTICALLY SATIATED ON
VALENTINE’S DAY

The morning after the night before,
The supermarket flowers already wilting,
The service station chocolates long since bloomed,
The wrappings abandoned to recycling,
As much as the sentiments are, too.
We read the words, every year, festooned with 

Cupid’s arrows,
And adorned with love hearts
On cheap cards produced for quick profit,
As quick as the profit some of their senders might 

well have hoped for,
On a date that too easily stands in for every other day
When love might well be spent,
Might well be earned,
Might well blossom beyond the tawdry
Into something that carries meaning
Beyond the well-worn and the lovelorn.
We risk semantic satiation,
The phrases, the gestures, losing their meaning
With the careless repetition
Encouraged by a calendar devised by card companies,
By chocolatiers,
By those for whom the meaning is never love
But gain.
Which is where we came in,
This morning after every previous Valentine’s night
before,
When we put out the rubbish,
When we behave as if it is only ever about one day,
When love should be that one day forever more.

If we love ourselves, we are owed nothing less.


(prev. pub.  in What is Love to You?)

 

 

 

 

WHEN TIME SLOWS

Isaac said that time runs at one second per second,
The same rate everywhere, the same rate across 

the universe,
But then came Einstein, and he said
That time is relative,
That the passing of time at the start of the universe
Is slower than the time passing now.
That the ticking of the clock would seem the same
To citizens of the universe at that time,
But to us—now—it would be slower,
That the seconds to them, as experienced by us,
Would be attenuated,
Would be stretched,
Each one held for extra beats,
Each one expanded.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet.
I do not need to travel back in time.
I do not need to be transported to the cosmological past,
Because one second with you,
One second with you,
One second with you,
Is worth tens of minutes with everyone else on this Earth,
Is worth a lifetime of minutes and days and months
In my own span.
One second with you
Is the birth of the Universe,
Is the expansion of time and space,
Is the moment held in the moment held in the moment
Of the start of everything.
Never doubt it, my love.
One second with you
Lasts the lifetime
I would give you
If you wanted it.
Is the lifetime I would so happily give you.


(prev. pub. in What is Love to You?)

 

 

 

ANALOGUE WARMTH IN DIGITAL DAYS

Maybe it is the capstan, the capacitors,
The belt, still with some life to it,
Though so many of this vintage have degraded to gunk.
Maybe it is the wow and flutter,
The inconsistencies absent from the digital copy,
The unpredictability even of the tape as it is
Pinch roll pulled across the heads,
Whether it will survive its journey from one spool 

to the next,
Whether it will become entangled in the workings,
Never to play intact again without audible signs of 

the damage.
Maybe it is the worn stylus, the self-destructing 

pressure pad,
The direct drive no longer so direct,
So driving.

And yet,
There is, they say, warmth here not found elsewhere,
Something genuine even with the deficiencies
Introduced by the aging mechanism,
The magnetic tape,
The quality of the vinyl.
There is warmth to be found in the imperfections
In manufacture, in materials, in the analogue recordings,
Although not everyone can hear it.

Perhaps not everyone wants to,
Happy with digital copies always identical,
Always first generation,
Always perfect,
At least as far as the medium is concerned.

Perhaps not everyone needs the warmth,
Or appreciates the beauty in the blemishes,
Perhaps some are blind to it,
Even in their own mechanisms.

I am not.
I need the warmth,
Even the inner-groove distortion,
As the amplitude increases,
As we get closer to the centre,
As we reach our physical limitations,
As we love each other for our imperfections.

I love you.
I will always love you.
I will always love you for every imperfection
You feel you might have…
The supposed imperfections are what make you who
you are,
And I love you for every one of them,
For every jump in every groove,
For the wow, for the flutter, for the analogue deficiencies.
I love you for who you are.
Always.

I will drop the needle,

I will always listen,

I will be here always.

I love you.


(prev. pub.  in What is Love to You?)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.

—Vincent Van Gogh

______________________

Mike Hickman used to visit the Kitchen regularly with his jaunty, accessible style, writing in his caustic way about the world around him. Then he disappeared.

Now he has written to say that, in the meantime, he had serious health issues (cardiac arrest). And now he has sent us these fine, heart-felt poems, for which we are most grateful. Take care, Mike. Hearts are so easily broken… And yet…

Check back into the Kitchen on Saturday, June 8, for more poems from Mike.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

And yet…