Canvas of Light

  

Night Has A Need

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

HEDGEHOG POEM
—Joyce Odam

Brazenly based on Hedgehog in the Fog
(animated film, 1975, directed by Yuri Norstein,
written by Sergei Grigoryevich Kozlov)

When I was out walking in the fog one day, I met
a materializing old horse with sad brown eyes. He
was an old dim photograph of a horse. We sur-
prised each other, each having no destination—he
cautioned me about the semi-darknesses in life, I
concurred to his wisdom. He was such a beautiful
old brown and gray horse. “Kinda’ like us” I said,
and laughed. He snorted and stomped and stirred
the air into silver particles that whirled awhile then
settled, we were talking about the word ‘Beautiful’
and agreed that it was a beautiful word and should
be allowed—with that solved, we talked some more
about the fog, how thick and long-lasting it was.
“Like sadness” he said and I shivered and felt the
sadness of the fog and the beautiful leaves started
falling—falling silverly around us—like tears—
beautiful, old, silver tears from an invisible tree.
We empathized a bit longer, having taken each
other at face-value and appreciating this brief in-
timacy of strangers. An evening breeze came up—
scattering the leaves and the old horse stomped his
hooves, and I stomped my boots, and the fog did a
fog-dance around us and thickened even more.
And I felt a sad loss—such a sad loss.

                                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/16; 10/4/22) 

 

 

 

Away Is Not Far

 

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS
—Joyce Odam

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone, but their
pace is faster, yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged. The
sand grows heavy under your
slowness. The day will not
hurry. Your eyes are
playing tricks, scouring
the distance which wavers
and changes. There is no one—
no one to follow, only the two
shadows—shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven, living again, some
long ago betrayal, failure of proof, the distance—

ever-widening—the following as useless as the love.
                
                                                           
(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/4/20)

 

 

 

Mother Dreaming

 

FLAPPER
A Tease
—Joyce Odam

Long ago my mama danced the shimmy—
shook her shoulders under sweaty lights                              
that whirled and glittered, the music loud and tinny.

She shook her hips and shimmied away the nights;
her hip-beads would swing and click against her
skirt.
Her legs were pretty.  She even caused some
fights—

she couldn’t help it that she loved to flirt.
She drank and laughed until the years would spin—
as if to hold away all future hurt—

the tears to be—the way it all changed when
the carefree jazz was traded for bad news,
brought by some man she loved.  But until then,

she danced the shimmy-shimmy—not the blues
she’d later dance—in sadder dancing shoes.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s  Kitchen, 5/12/15)

_____________________

THE REBELLION OF ANGELS
—Robin Gale Odam

After Autumn in the Scottish Highlands,
—Photo by Sorin Rechitan

Then the serpent said to the woman,
Ye shall not die at all... Genesis 3:4
(1599 Geneva Bible)


Translated in the reflection of the house,
the rune offers mystery but gives no clue.

Fishes swim just outside the door,
drag old fishing lines through watercolors
and the watery songs of birds through the
muddy waver of the deep skyline.

Trace the surface of the evening to the
worry at the edge of the water—the house
awash in sunset, the hill behind on fire
with the slow color of rust.

 

 

 

The Cocoon

 

WEB OF SUNLIGHT
—Joyce Odam
 
"Your own shadow sits in silent study”
                          —Charles Simic
                       
You sit in your yellow shadow in brazen
sunlight, haunted by the darkening eyes  
of watching—you glow for me—almost
burn with shimmering blindness—how
can I turn away. I have yet to love you.
The light forms around you with such
fierceness. I penetrate the glare with
my possessive eyes—you emanate
and draw me in. I become a blaze
with you—the web of sunlight
holding us together, till I am
merely a vibration and you
are a stunning presence
waiting to absorb me.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/24/17;
8/4/20; 2/15/22)

 

 

 

No Compromise

 

THE CHILD ARTIST AT AN EASEL OF LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

This maelstrom of self—this painting on mirror—
this
discovery—will the child come true—continue
to be,

primitive, child of the fierce proud look. How much
discovery can glass hold; how much distance

can extend behind the positioned, reflective, self?
What does the child know beyond color and smear—

what does he grasp of perspective’s first freedom,
how much will the child retain of the old
connection

between hand, and mind, and eye—and this canvas
of light—this pigment of the sun’s dispersive glare?

To what far-self does the child begin to compare
with his rapt intensity. See how he is private—

lost in his art—how he holds his brush—its body
braced, sure of itself?  See how his eyes insist on

his just-discovered right to perfection, how he fills
the glass surface and beyond, how he paints on

through the dimension of mirror, paints the ground
beneath, paints the frame’s restrictive, bordering
air,

how he paints the blue and dazzling sky behind
him;
how he paints the lowering sun, how he paints
himself?

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Tule Review, Summer 2000; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/14/15; 2/15/22) 

 

 

 

The Intentions of Dreams

 

sword of flames for light
in remembered fantasies
riding upon fire

through an olden tale of dreams
with the old imaginings

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

An Old Temptation

  

                        
FAME
—Joyce Odam

I didn't know him, standing in winter, standing
among trees, his face smiling cold, his shirt open
to his heart, standing like a young man, awkward
and alive, brazen with power, hands on his hips,
having shouted someone's name and waiting for
their answer. Branches and sky fought the air
above him. He gave them no attention. What he
was doing now was being seen for the man he was,
a poet, a wild man of dreams, and all his songs
were in his heart, beating, he was the wealth of ex-
istence, having written his one book of sorrow and
truth; how he believed in himself. It was in his face,
expectant and open, shining from the darkness that
was descending from the awesome suddenness of
wilderness. There was no home here, why did he
stay, to mock the question and the answer. Why
did the one he called not hear?

___________________

THE FRUSTRATED POET
—Joyce Odam

After “Shall I compare Thee”
by T. Alan Broughton, Southern Review, 2001
(“According to early Icelandic law, it was a serious
offense to address a love poem to a woman, even
an unmarried one.” )

How will I hide this, and you not know, not fear
my ardor, (suspected or not) not know by my
glance, or certain silences (filled with pending).
How can I not offend you with my love poem
made of guarded words, or made of outpourings,
I must speak—must overwhelm you—with my
longing. How else can I disobey the old taboos :
will love kill me? cause rumor and shame? must
I write this on silence—hoping you’ll find it and
lower your eyes in my direction and make some
sign? O Lady, dare I risk this poem for you?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/6/16)

 

 

 

Shaping the Moon

 

THE LONELY RAIN
—Joyce Odam

What a lonely rain. What a strange night for a
lonely rain to fall. What a sad shame that the
lonely night has to end under such a lonely rain.

What a cold sight to see two leaning people under
a struggling umbrella—leaning into and away
from the cold sad rain—pressing hurriedly to-
gether as they cross the rain-dimensioned street
and disappear into a flattened doorway where the
white moon casts an image that reflects and then
shreds back against the night.

What a slow-moving night : the rainy window, the
cold room, the remnants of beauty still on their
faces as they lie together—almost in love—listening
to the rain.

    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/25/18; 9/24/19)

 

 

 

The Silence

 

EXHALE
—Robin Gale Odam

At the fire on my day
my breath will burn away—

my written words and promises
to vapor in the embers.

And works not done are born again
and breathing in the fire—

my breath will draw itself once more
and the muse will draw another.
                              
__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ALBINO NIGHTINGALE
—Joyce Odam
After “No Swan So Fine” by Marianne Moore

Made of pure light, sent from imagina-
tion’s land, straight out of childhood’s
fairy tales—a nightingale of course, in
a silver cage, with an open door to test
its loyalty—mind’s albino nightingale
that preens,  and sings,  and struts for
the emperor whose ownership proves
    vulnerable with mind-sweet trill.  
          I hear it still—all the way
                 from then to here.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/3/15;
12/15/20; 5/17/22)

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Brazen”, but there is nothing brazen about the Odam Poets—fine as their work is, it needs to be seen, and our thanks go to them for today’s sparkling presentation!

Our new Seed of the Week is “It’s That Time Again”. What time are we talking about? Winter? Holidays? School starting? Daylight Savings (Nov. 3 out West here)? Dentist appointment? 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.

For more about the Russian classic, Hedgehog in the Fog, go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedgehog_in_the_Fog/, or see YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKDeMBzXnpg/.

 

And yes, "Flapper" is a Sonnet, and a sassy one, indeed! Joyce frequently contributes form poems to Tuesday, but I usually snatch them up and move them to our form day (Friday). I did scoop up her Abracadabra for Friday of this week, but Flapper was so perfect for our Brazen SOW that I left it here. Enjoy!—and check in for Friday's poem, too.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Autumn in the Scottish Highlands
—Photography by Sorin Rechitan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brazen Poets

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Devyanshi Neupane, 

Caschwa, Joe Nolan, and
Victor Kennedy
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

SCARECROWS?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Brazen breaks through lazing zone,
wakes the snoozing, zipped up, blurred,
the muzzy mind, prone whining moan,
those unfazed, stirred by undeterred.
Faced with daring (you perceive),
confrontation in their stride,
their ‘in your face’ ( as you believe).
made dizzy, dazzle, plied with pride?

Brash, immodest, with no shame,
steely ’gainst prevailing code—
is that how bold as brass became?
Defiant in audacious mode.
Sight required beyond those eyes
hardened in effrontery,
full frontal guise so undisguised,
a conning tower to win the prix.

Daring crime, type breaking mould—
hemline slash high, flash-flesh bare—
so artists’ con, or gossips’ scold,
this brass, old gold—there’s envy’s snare?
Secret admirers of the brave—
who dares wins, the tidal flow
with waves that crave to be the knave,
once guilty pleasures, scared? Now crow. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHE KNOWS HOW TO UNDRESS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Look in her window. There you can see a very small patch of dark blue, framed by a little branch. Pinned up by a naughty star, her red rose tattoo glows on her hip. The tattoo plays peek-a-boo as she wiggles out of her pencil skirt. The dark blue silk slip caresses her body, as you wish you could. If only you weren’t so shy. You inhale the perfume of her. You want to see more, but she closes the curtains. You’ll have to imagine the rest.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE EARTH IS BURNING
—Nolcha Fox

 

(In reference to the recent passing of Nolcha's dog)

Audrey is dead.
The earth and sky
are mainly orange flames
that sear the air,
incinerate our lungs.
These are the final dog days.
The world is collapsing.
Change is in the air.
Grief is thick with sorrow,
and I can’t breathe it in.
Audrey left a fork in my heart.
I’m bleeding red tears.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SPECTRAL SHADOWS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

A small child of buried past
Pocketed her memories
Over her little watch—
Ping out the unhinged wall
Over the bricks,
Little tulips here and there
Lying flat over
A cauldron
Of Holocaust shrieks
And template of dehumanized
Silence.

The sudden fall of
The writer
And institutions that zipped
Up his lips
Over testimonies
Later, he wrote a book
On linguistic silence.
His fall failed back
Between two worlds
Masked and silenced
Words of Jews and
Zeroes.

Dates of people
She remembered well
Her taped
Eyes that grew up
Upon seeing flashes
To spectres
In a whim
Of seated big men,
Eating away within
The ruptured channel.

On Monday,
She met a friend
Of her past school
Swaying by the river walk
Of little feet dangling above.
Rosebuds after the summer haul
And she made friends
From one to many
And chalked out their birthdays
Like her favourite puzzle—
Two of them strung out
She could remember too much
She touched the thumb
And cut the string
And sat down by the last bench
With her little flowery skirt
And loosened net shoes.

"I sat and counted
One two three
I can remember all of them—“
Her favourite way to dance in the hall
And how she made her first cut-out
I sat then and became invisible
A whole bunch of rosebuds
In the afternoon fall
The fallen petals, the trampled buds
And I sat at the end
Tallest and I counted
One petals two and three
With my bag of rosebuds after
The classroom went dingy
And I was alone
And it rained hard
Then I gave them my
Umbrella and my favourite petals
As I sat with my
Spectral shadows
With my pocketed watch. 

 

 

 

 Shiva and Devyanshi Neupane on a train

 

 

A RIDE ON A TRAIN

—Devyanshi Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

I love to ride

On a train

With my Daddy.

He takes me

To the city.

He reads a story

For me,

On a train.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

NO TIME FOR LOGIC
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Response to a recent Seed of the Week,
“Imperative to Stash”)

inside my brain is a very dedicated
librarian who helps me keep facts
in order so that such information can
be retrieved as needed. However,
lately she has threatened to go on strike,
demanding higher compensation and
better working conditions.

We never actually agreed that I would
pay her anything, but I just thought that
it comes with the territory like the role
of angels at the gates of Heaven.

And now, with Intellectual Property
being such a big issue, and Patents,
Copyrights, Trademarks, etc. who
among us without photographic memory
can competently store and retrieve all
that information?

If I tell you, I’ll have to insult, demean,
or otherwise discredit you because there
is no other way to attach logic and
reason to what is basically a house of
mirrors. Yes, that is what is inside my
head, and I am terribly proud of all its
brazen distortions and vagueness.

Now somewhere in that labyrinth of
reflections is a well worn librarian who
is seeking a better existence. But it is not
I who holds the Patent on the creation of
human beings, with all their peculiarities
and habits and manners of storing data, so
I’ll just refer those concerns to a higher
authority.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNDERTURE TO THE BURIED
—Caschwa

we’re here for you to look into the sky
to fix a gaze at clouds and birds and planes
to answer that eternal question why
investments do not always realize gains

you live a life that’s long and hard and then
the bank sends out a squad to seize your stuff
one payment missed, big deal for mice and men
who count the beans and never have enough

a reel-to-reel projector lights the screen
as you are huddled in a seat that squeaks
you can’t sustain attention that is keen
while everyone around you moves and speaks

but you won’t have to worry any more
you’re in a place that’s permanent, they say
no pressure to upgrade or to restore
expired old computers plug and play

we’ll leave you now to ponder your whole life
some say it doesn’t end when people die
we understand you didn’t bring a knife
just disappointed we forgot the pie 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

JUST CHECKING
—Caschwa

browsing some ads and saw an
intriguing abbreviation: CFM
could that be Chocolate Fudge Mousse?

Nah, just Cubic Feet per Minute
referring to how much air a power
blower displaces

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

AT THE DINNER AFTER CHURCH
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was naughty diner’s day
Down at the
Greasy Spoon Café
Where everybody
Got to have his way
On Sunday,
After church,
With ice cream,
Sodas
And burgers on
Toasted buns—
You know the ones,
The ones that are to die for
Toasted on grease on the range.

Yes, indeed,
We all gathered,
Some even stood in line.
It was the place that was
A-happening,
For the best things—
The finest time.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

BUFFALO IN WINTER
—Joe Nolan

My, oh my!
It’s Buffalo in Winter.
Everything is covered
In snow.

We crawl out our
Second-story window
With cross-country skis,
Since our front door
Is plowed-in,
Down below.

Once we have landed
On snow-covered pavement
We can cut tracks
Down snow-covered roads.

It’s really rather magical
How our ways, our hacks,
Turn trials into jubilation
As we glide up and down
Through fluffy powder
That slips us on to
Where we want to go.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ALIENATION FROM FREEDOM
—Joe Nolan

You brought yourself
Abruptly to the surface
To get away from
Things you couldn’t swallow.

Everything is hollow,
So, you believe,

And everyone
You say you love
Has something up his sleeve,
Ready to play
In the next game.

What if it’s
All the same,
When losers
Are the bettors
And the reason
You subscribed to
Was found to
Be insane?  

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

HARBINGERS OF FUTURE, SENSELESS WARS
—Joe Nolan

Oh-Oh!
Exactly how
The harbingers
You know,
Will doll out
Future fortunes,
Remains to
Be shown—

Like bullet-holes
Fired into
Concrete walls,
In the 1990's,
Remnants of the ruin
Of Sarajevo,
The birthplace
Of World War One,

Where the Austrian Empire’s Archduke
Was assassinated
And the two European Alliances
Fell into war
Against each other
In the Summer
Of 1914.

On maps we draw
Lines and diagrams
To try to explain
The convergence of forces,
Men sitting in trenches for four years,
Who, when they went over the tops
Of their trenches,
Mostly were mowed down
To fertilize
The corduroy landscapes
Of Belgium and France.

 

 

 

 Let wisdom protect us…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

PROPORTION
—Joe Nolan

Let me see, now,
Let me see, now,
Everything that waxes
Also wanes.

Let me see, now,
Let me see, now,
Increase
Is followed
By decrease—
In shrinkage
We all feel our pain.

We think
We must
Grow and grow,
But if we did
We would be
Too crowded.

We must,
In future,
Be shrouded
By sense of proportion,
To know
When enough is enough—
Let wisdom protect us—
From homelessness
And living rough
Which follows when
Too many
Claim support
From too few.

 

 

 

 Medusa has a headache…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE DEATH OF THE GORGON
—Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia

The Medusa myth never made any sense
until I read Barthes.
Why was she killed for turning men into stone
when rich and powerful men
pay big money to artists
to make statues of them?

But “The Death of the Author” explains it.
Perseus was a hitman.
Statues are worth a lot more
when the sculptor isn’t around
to make any more.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

UNNATURAL WEATHER TANTRUMS
—Joe Nolan

Oh, my!
Starlink was a lullaby
That let us whisper music
Into each others’ ears
When all the other ways
For far-away,
Had fallen down.

Let us thus
Be thankful
For mercy
On those
Distraught
By weather tantrums
Caused by who-knows-who?
For surely they were unnatural.

_____________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom sent poems on our Seed of the Week, Brazen. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest SOW.

Sacramento Poetry Week is starting next Sunday! This year, Sac. Poetry Day (10/26) has been expanded to a whole week of events (10/20-10/26), including specials like contests for youth and adults. See all the info about what's happening every day at https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com (click on Events).

The final day, Sat. (10/26), 7-10pm, will be the Sacramento Poetry Day Awards Gala at the Sacramento Public Library Tsakopoulos Galleria, 828 I St., Sacramento, CA. (Info: https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com/.) Free, but get tickets at Eventbrite while they last: (https://www.eventbrite.com/e/sacramento-poetry-day-awards-gala-tickets1029546560477?aff=ebdssbdestsearch/).

And see Medusa's link, "Sacramento Poetry Day by Patrick Grizzell" (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/sacramento-poetry-day-by-patrick.html) for the whole story about the origins of Sacramento Poetry Day.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Sunny holds money for Pablo Escatbar
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Poetic License
will meet in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center’s
Youth Open Mic meets tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these 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!

 

Monday Mood 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Forgiving Stars

  —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

CALIFORNIA BUTTERFLY

It flutters up and down,
around and around
the closest eucalyptus tree
like a guardian of those slender
gray-green leaves.

Spurred on by thirst,
flying lower, it seeks a chalice
of milkweed, abandoned long
ago in my roughly-tended garden.
Now it glistens: that I could grow

for it and its kin fresh milkweed,
nourish it in a planter
on my lanai deck, watching
from living room as the beauties
delve into the sour nectar.

An elder, no pets to care for,
this California coastal yellow,
orange and black-marked beauty
is mine, and its mother tree,
all bonded charismatically.

 

 

 

OUT OF THE BLUE

We remember when
songbirds kept
circling our doubts.

We might have caged
them for clarity.
Instead, we let

the flock circle,
as we listened
intently to their song.

    
(Printed in Brevities in
slightly different version)

 

 

 

OUI!  OUI!

If a
statue can breathe
as Rilke hinted, then
surely that sculpture is Rodin’s
The Kiss

 

 

 

WHAT I MEANT…

to email you
must have clicked out
all wrong, a script you read

as dismissive,
not the light little song
I so intended.

Meanwhile, let’s keep
breathing until the stars
settle back into place.


(From Poetalk, Editor John Rowe; prev. pub. in
a different form on Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/1/24)

 

 

 

 

WOMEN ON THE HIGH WIRE
abortions criminalized,
another day that will live in infamy                                     

Most men respect a woman’s body and her life.    
Yet thousands are raped, impregnated by
fathers, stepfathers, brothers, even droll,
joke-telling uncles and the nice boy
next door. A sonogram reads:
a maimed baby will live quite
helplessly, likely die before
age three; add a woman  
with six children living
in hunger, in poverty.
 
Now see with me a miles-long line of beleaguered
women, having to balance a heavy pole and
inch across a chasm, only fragile nets to
catch them, should they fall.

In seeking balance, the pole often tips
wildly up/down/up; often nearly
slips from grip. But pregnant
brave women honor
their own bodies,
own consciences,
moving ahead
into lifelong
decisions.

These American women, with freedom
and justice for all, now nationally accused
law-breakers, their own uteruses no longer their
                        own
                        personal
                        property?!
                     

(First printed in Benicia Herald)

 

 

 

 

PRAYER FOR RECOVERY . . .
after reading Tao Yuan Ming, 3rd century AD

If searching for a lost ring at cliff edge
and you lose your footing,
may you fall toward the shine—
now a kind of halo
over one’s
purest essence.

Beyond DNA,
may you live mightily,
often laughing at yourself
so loudly that gods and angels cover
their ears and won’t let you pass until
your name pulsates among the forgiving stars.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

REALLY?!
—Claire J. Baker

Just as I was trying
to sort through my worst

shadows, how they
originated & when & why,

& might I ease them                                                             
to disappear, a host

on KQED intones:
Embrace Your Shadows.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center Gallery
will hold a reception today, 4pm,
for its latest exhibit.
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!

 

 

 

How It All Began

 —Poetry and Visuals by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA 

BIRDS IN MY RINGTONE

I prefer quiet.

I let the phone ring and ring.
I walk away from it.
I have no desire to speak to spammers.

There are birds in my ring tone.
I have nothing but love for birds.
I let my phone ring and ring
until it is silent. I breathe easy
when the calls have stopped.

I prefer quiet,
especially in the afternoon.
I take a nap
in the middle of the day.
I sleep until
I smother my anxiety with dreams.

 

 

 

SO MUCH DISTANCE

There is
so much distance
to the front door.
I cannot
open the door for you.
I  cannot
let disorder
into my life.
Distance protects me
from you. It makes me
feel good knowing
I can decide to keep you
away. You dress as
one thing but I know
you’re another.

 

 

 

 

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

I wrote poems on the margins
of old newspapers, bubble gum
wrappers, and Mean Street magazines;
on paper napkins, receipts from
supermarkets and fast food joints,
junk mail envelopes and hotel
stationary. Much of them
were drivel and rhymed like song
lyrics. That’s how it all started.
That’s how it all began. With time
and life experiences, the words
evolved. I read the words of the
masters, stayed away from work-
shops, got myself a library card,
read everything I could get my
hands on, researched the writers
that interested me, and some I
found by luck. I continued the act
of writing it all down and doing it
again, again, and again.

 

 

 

THERE ARE DAYS

There are days
blood fills the sky
red roses wilt
the sky’s entrails split open

There are days
the butt of jokes
are all we
become as we’re tossed aside

There are times
we tire of this life
assigned to us

There are times
we feel paralyzed

Why bother taking
another step?

Settle in, settle down, wait.

 

 

 

THE NEW NORM

I grimace as I lose my memory
of tender thoughts that have
become the new norm of absurdity.
Horses become dogs as I am taken
away kicking and screaming.

I cease to know my past. Faces
become like dust and ash. I cannot
recall when I was young or youthful.
I curse my eyes that can only look
but cannot see the flames in front
of me. Roads diverge. For only one
night did I dream about being young.
I douse my memory with sweet wine.
There are thorns at my side seeking
a forest of full-grown trees and flowers.
It only hurts if I pull them out.

I have mastered the art of forgetting.
I almost feel worthless as I walk
like a blind man. Things were not like
this when I was young. Then again
it was always hard to speak without
sticking my foot in my mouth. The

old me was young once. These days
I do not feel so well. I come across
like a lost man. The softness in my
brain feels night approaching, like
dark clouds rolling in slowly.

 

 

 

 

NAMES

I assign the name Shadow to my pain
and the same name to my sorrow.

Much of my joy, named Light, has
been reduced to darkness. I believe

Light will return to me. Without it
the seeds of Love will dry up. Love

is the name I give to my calm heart.
With a calm heart I keep anxiety at

bay. It is not easy to live with Shadow.
I find solace living with Light and Love.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RESTORE
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Restore my mind
before it withers.
Caress my mind
before I die. Hear
the murmurs in
my mind’s complaints
of the lack of
harmony in my thoughts.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poems and pix!

 

 

 

 —Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the Tahoe Literary Festival
continues today; and
Mosaic of Voices
meets in Lodi at 2pm, with
Danny Romero and Cathy Arellano.
For info about these 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!

 

 Poetry with fangs~!

Wind in the Aspen

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Caschwa, and Michael H. Brownstein

 

 

WHERE AM I?

Confounded in this world
of dead-soldier trees still standing
after the fire—forest I loved,
my home woods—
Here, a fresh deer print,
overhead, turkey vulture
on surveillance. Atop a pine
not totally burned,
Raven
guardian bird.

 

 

 

 

PREDATOR STATS

Mostly, they won’t attack humans but,
as the percentages cut,
there’s still that leastly
that’s beastly.

 

 

 

 

I WON’T TELL

A new camp’s stashed away in underbrush
off the trail. a floral bedsheet serves as
canopy over a neat arrangement
of personal items. And I glimpse two
legs stretched out as if at leisure. It’s well
past nine in the morning, past time to rise
& shine, I’d think. I hear music softly
played—a hint of song carried off on wind
to not give this hidden shelter away.
Don’t ask me where this camp is, I won’t say.

 

 

 

 

WIND IN THE ASPEN
 
What secrets do aspen leaves whisper
in the wind? How close the fire came, burning
the grove’s edges from three directions?
how the trees still mourn their kin?
is the mother tree alive only in her offspring?
Do they whisper among themselves
about the images, human numbers and letters
scribed into white tree-skin so long ago?
The artists are certainly dead now,
leaving the owl high on its perch, its outline
scabbed dark and thick as the tree healed itself.
Do trees speak of a wild pig’s head carved
across the way, gone with other victims
of that fire? Do they speak of us, three humans
sitting on collapsible camp chairs in midst
of young aspen and pine, eating our
peanut butter sandwiches? We’ve wandered
tree to tree, trying to find meaning
in those old carvings. It must make no sense
to an aspen. It must be cause for much
whispering behind our backs.
We just call it wind in the quaking aspen.

 

 

 

 

HAUNTING HAPPENINGS

Autumn, season of changes, when veils
between worlds, between living and dead
grow thinnest, season of hauntings
and happenings unexplained by human logic.
On this October afternoon I watched
a delivery truck drive slowly up a private
driveway, along stockwire fence
as goats in their grazed-stubble field
bunched into a running mass, expecting
supper. Surely a delivery truck doesn’t serve
livestock meals? The driver slowed,
backed up beside a few stacked bales of hay;
got out of his truck, and pitched one big
flake of alfalfa to the waiting crowd.
Doesn’t he know his business, how he’s
supposed to scatter a few small flakes
so all the critters get their chance at eating?
Truck drove away, leaving big ruminants
butting the smaller ones out of competition.
That’s business I guess, even in Autumn.

 

 

 

 

THERMOMETER THIEF

The
cat lies
impassive
on the table—
what happened to the
instrument lying there?

He
only
stole pencils
and pens and three
table knives before.
Now he’s going for tech?

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NUGGETS
—Taylor Graham

golden drops
a stream down pine bark
sylvan mining

_________________

Taylor Graham has been upcountry again, examining the aspen carvings that were done so long ago, and we thank her for her poems and pix today! Forms she has sent us this week include a Word-Can Poem (“Where Am I?”); an Odd Step Down “(Predator Stats”); some Normative Syllabics (“I Won't Tell”); a Haikuette (“Nuggets”); and a chain of Stepping Stones (“Thermometer Thief”). TG says that the “Odd Step Down" (four lines, syllable count 9-7-5-3, rhyme abab) is a chance invention; she composed the poem in her head on the trail, wrote it down, looked at its form and decided to name it. Predator refers to the mountain lions that have been sighted in the foothills this year.

Coming up in El Dorado County this weekend (tonight and tomorrow) is Tahoe’s first-ever Tahoe Literary Festival, with workshops, panels, and key speakers in Tahoe City, CA—including an Ekphrastic workshop with Lara Gularte entitled "Explore a Poet's Sense of Place Through Ekphrastic Writing" tomorrow, 1:30pm. $35 for the entire Festival, or $15 to hear only keynote speaker Obi Kaufmann tonight. Info/schedule/tix:
https://yourtahoeguide.com/2024/09/tahoe-literary-festival-schedule-tickets/?fbclid=IwY2xjawFke4RleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHXRzOcB-dGPYTrAqfYhJx5CIQytjKIXou5uKVdWRdgRRS8talUd_QGOfKA_aem_Ql_P1c1m91ou2aDkiOexwg/.

In other El Dorado County poetry events this week, if you happen to be down in Merced today, El Dorado County Residents Moira Magneson (poet) and Robin Center (artist) will be reading from their book, A River Called Home, 3pm, Merced Main Library. Next Monday, Poetic License meets in Placerville, 10:30am. And El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/.

For more news about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!
 
And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Last week’s photo brought response-poems from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):


STUCK IN SUMMER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m stuck behind a car
behind a car behind a car
behind a car behind
an antique Ford that wants
to stretch a mile
beach drive into hours.
I’m sweaty and disgruntled.
heat radiates from roadtop,
melts my tires and my brain.
By the time we hit the beach,
sun will set and we will
have to turn around
and head back home.
I hope we’ll get back
sometime before midnight.

* * *

TAKING OVER
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

To pass would simply be unsafe,
not least to driver, other side,
pose death, destruction in its wake;
for mass and speed to overtake,
saves moment for so little gain.

Remember when you first took wheel,
that patience shown when learning stalled,
those early years, crunch gears, stop, go?
You know now that the older slow,
that soon too others see that you.

But as for leader of the pack,
try using mirror to look back,
recall temptations, shout out, hoot;
so hope for lay-by on the route   
and use that viewpoint to reflect.

Here is a panorama site
to oversee most points of view;
the drive to reach point B from A,
a chance to bray, your wheels display—
just jaunt to ponder scenery?

But if our will, to overtake
is testament to how we live
while global half in despair, tired,
the day will come, our dreams backfired,
and punctured, pompous, Jack alright.

* * *

TAKE YOUR PICK
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

was doing substitute teaching in
public schools, and one sunny
morning found myself driving to
Escalon, California for an assignment

there was only one road to take
and it was a speedy, 2-lane highway
stretching out over many miles on
farmland, with vehicles travelling
well over 60 mph in both directions

on this one occasion there was a
(take your pick) combine, harvester,
thresher ahead of me doing about 15
mph, its width, all in all,  occupying
the entire 2 lanes making any passing
attempt a risk not worth it

like a game, one could see other cars
coming the other way moving almost
off the road in their failed gestures to
pull around this wide, multiple purpose
machine

good thing I had left early so I could
afford to spend some extra time dealing
with this situation

eventually the gargantuan machine did
finally reach some destination where it
casually pulled off the road, thus allowing
traffic to resume a normal flow

while I did enjoy the novelty of this
experience, it will never appear on my list
of things I would like to repeat

* * *

Michael Brownstein sent us three Haiku which he has labeled “linked Haiku”, since they have his hydrangeas in common. 

 

 

hydrangea bee hives
red, white and blue into windstorm
petals lift outward


My watered garden
blooms with hydrangea colors—
petals color rain


fragrant hydrangea
sends perfume throughout heaven—
God takes a whiff, smiles


—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth, upon gazing at his book shelf:

 

 

 
SHELF LIFE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

My books arranged as Dewey would,
but by some feet poetry shrunk,
the journals launched, space hollowed out,
but sell-by date too soon arrives.

With names which catch their spirit’s breath,
the shelf-life of these paper plates—
designs amongst the text of verse—
most sad expire, death come too soon.

When taken, family, for meal,
some hope nouveau cuisine, most more,
a curry, wonton, carvery—
take twelve menus to satisfy.

I want my words, one volume spread,
with space, stanzas, right justified,
and rhyming, light, free, metrical,
all courses, diets, foods, full range.

As testaments, most genres case—
in one book, poem library—
it’s that full range enables me
to flick the page, taste varied dish.

____________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s take an odd step down with TG’s new form:

•••Odd Step Down (devised by Taylor Graham): four lines, syllable count 9-7-5-3, rhyme abab

•••AND/OR let’s go for, well, Zip:

•••Zip: http://popularpoetryforms.blogspot.com/2014/01/zip.html

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Brazen”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Caesura: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caesura
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Haikuette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/haikuette
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Odd Step Down (devised by Taylor Graham): four lines, syllable count 9-7-5-3, rhyme abab
•••Stepping Stones (devised by Claire Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (7, etc.)
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
•••Zip: http://popularpoetryforms.blogspot.com/2014/01/zip.html

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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!