Traveling Light

 Bird's Nest

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

 

 

WILD OUTSIDE THE HOUSE

My dog steps out the door as if
it’s terra incognita.

How can my laces be thick
with stick-tights when I just mowed here?

My dog, too—up to his ears,
and we’re not walking thru high weeds.

Look! a tiny bird’s nest’s fallen
from this oak—what kind of bird?

My dog’s intently sniffing
critter scat—do we have bobcat?

Here’s a black leather glove on the ground—
who was here to lose it?

After 16 years
home can still be terra incognita. 

 

 

 

 

PRACTICALITIES

I travel light, bring no field guide
to lichens on this trail. I’ll be listening
for gush of snowmelt in the creek,
the drumming drill of beak on wood—
pileated woodpecker?—and
raven’s call echoing off lava cliffs,
all part of an upcountry symphony.
Wildflowers in the meadow
outdo a pointillist’s daydreams.
And these boulders, I couldn’t begin
to name every species of lichen,
but marvel at their murals in grays,
vibrant orange and yellows,
palest pinks and greens.
I can check the field guides later. 

 

 

 

 

OLD RAILROAD TRACK

A sudden blinding
headlight on the track ahead,
bursting thru the dark
canopies of oak woodland.
It’s just July’s rising sun. 

 

 

 

 

THE DOE FAMILY STOLE YOUR TOMATOES?

Why did they wait so long?
Mama Doe descended on my just-beginning-
to-show-promise garden before the first squash
flowers, before the tomato plants’ tiny yellow stars.
A nibble of green leaves here, a nabble there,
small nubbles everywhere until nothing was left
but depressions like cloven hoofprints in soil.
There were no tomatoes
for Mama Doe & her twins to steal. Still,
they stuck around, summer thru fall and winter,
waiting for me to garden again in spring.
Their patience is laudable.
But no more tomatoes, no garden. 

 

 

 

 

OUT OF SIGHT AND HEARING

He’s walking straight ahead, no glance
to either side of blacktop trail,
his earbuds playing what he’ll hear
as ravens on their black wings sail.

His earbuds playing what he’ll hear
instead of birdsong on a breeze,
he doesn’t see what’s out of sight
beyond those thickets under trees.

He doesn’t see what’s out of sight.
My dog’s alert as we pass by
and looking back, and sniffing air
for dangers lurking under sky. 

 

 

 

 

ODD ONE
in the pioneer cemetery

I can’t make out dates
or her name—only letters
GENIA. Lichen
has eaten into marble
headstone. Who was she
and why is her grave facing
the opposite way
from all the other deceased?
Why does she rest here
on the backside of this great
incense cedar? I’d
like to ask her. Our guide tells
the history of this
place. Forest absorbs human
voices. Her untold
story dissolves in silence.
I’ll listen to wind in trees.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TURKEY-LAD SONG
—Taylor Graham

Wow!
turklings
can soar now
as mom-hen sings
her clear-the-fence song,
so glad her son can fly
at last, he’s feeling so strong
he could sail far above blue sky.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham, who, as you can see from her fine poems and photos, braves the heat to be outside, regardless. Forms she has used today include a Just 15s (“Wild Outside the House”); a Waka (“Old Railroad Track”); an Eight-ette (“Turkey-Lad Song”); a Three Moon Pattern (“Out of Sight and Hearing”); a Word-Can Poem (“Practicalities”); and a Choka (“Odd One”). The Eight-ette was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week, and her Mama Doe poem is a response to our recent Seed of the Week, “Mama Doe and her two fawns stole my tomatoes”.

In El Dorado County poetry this week: on Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features readings in Camino from the Voices 2024 anthology, 2pm; and on Wednesday, EDC Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows will read in Georgetown as part of  the EDC Poet Laureate Trail series. El Dorado County also has a regular schedule of workshops, weekly and otherwise; go to Medusa’s link, UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) and scroll down to the section on workshops. Or, for more news about El Dorado County 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/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

 

Two last-minute notices from Sacramento Poetry Center: Their 47-year celebration which was scheduled for this Saturday has been postponed to a date yet-to-be determined; and the submissions deadline for their visual poetry exhibit in their gallery has been re-scheduled again, this time to August 15. 

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:

Tending the Garden by Stevan Dohanos, 1951

 

Last week’s photo brought Ekphrastic poems from Stephen Kingsnorth and Nolcha Fox. (And thanks to Stephen for tracking down the title and painter of this painting.)
 

TENDING THE GARDEN

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth Wrexham, Wales

Another clapper board on show—
who ate the lettuce under flow,
for pristine rows, a dare to slugs,
or any other would-be bugs?
This turn up of relaxing hose—
I mean his trousers in this pose—
both pipe and braces (no belt) aid,
but can he tamp tobacco sprayed?
A veggie plot—few steps from door,
an evening tend—best time for pour—
is satisfactory I think;
contentment, Ma, away from sink.
I wonder, net curtain ajar—
like ‘quarterlight’, old English car—
was means to spy, when at her chores,
on garden life, raise wholesome scores.
Dohanos is the artist here—
Saturday Evening Post his sphere;
he designed stamps, and covered mags,
but did this man, Esquire, lack tags?

* * *

WHAT IT TAKES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

It takes mistakes
and lucky breaks
and grit, devotion
to another soul
to build a house
of sweat and dreams,
and grow the seeds
of love.

* * *

Here is a Golden Shovel from Newcomer Melissa Lemay. Melissa uses a lot of forms, and we’ll hear more from her next Wednesday, July 31. Welcome to the Kitchen, Melissa—do NOT be a stranger! 

 

Melissa informs me that she has been nominated for author of the month at Spillwords, and she would like you to vote for her. You have to sign up for an account to vote at https://spillwords.com/vote/. Here is Melissa's Golden Shovel:

 

 

 

a wave
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

"Wear gratitude like a cloak and it will feed every corner
of your life.” —Rumi

This morning, the world thought that it would wear
white, the stairs were salted, grass glistening. Gratitude
swept over me as a wave, like
a
cloak
of soft hail or a snowfield. My eyes cracked and
out of the corners of them, it
appeared that a bird flew by. But it had no will
to be concrete as I turned. Its songs will feed
the sky and every
darkest corner,
as it sings not for want or because of pride: it is of
angels, its message that it sends—open your
eyes, and be surrounded by life.

* * *

 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us a Seadna in response to our current Tuesday's Seed of the Week, Roadblocks:

 

 

 

NOT THERE YET
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

aging, they test me for cancer
supposing ready and ripe
dementia gets a top listing
I told them I’m not that type

learned my ABC’s with grammar
no D-mentia’s found in there
my mirror does its own misting
while I just breathe in the air
 

* * *

 

Carl sent this poem with quatrains alternating three and four feet. Neither of us can remember if this is a legit form, or what the name of such a form would be:

 

 

 

ONE LAST TIME
—Caschwa

we don’t need no president
and surely not a king
just let chaos rule us all
not worry ‘bout a thing

there’s crazies on the ballot
from top to the bottom
Napoleon Bonaparte
singing Early Autumn

miracle in Wisconsin
teenagers out with guns
can’t believe it wasn’t staged
like intentional puns

candidates like sausages
both are getting older
place your bet for faster horse
not the smell that’s bolder

I’ll place my bet in secret
really not tell a soul
except social media
because that is the goal

* * *

Carl has also sent us a Haiku chain:

 

 

 

LEAN ON ME
—Caschwa

tall, unlit candle
upright, potent, and steady
here, I will hold you

most proudly standing
on top of the birthday cake
till flames do us part

before you become
mere residue, table scraps,
a child will appear

take a deep breath and
proudly blow out all the flames
we’ll see you again

* * *

Joe Nolan sent us an Ode to one of his grand-nieces:

 

 

 

ODE TO MAEVE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A child like Maeve
Makes your heart gush with love
Like a fountain, run-amok,

Willing to work like a devil
To make sure she has enough.

If there are any
Children more wonderful,
We’ve never seen at all—
God has kept all those in Heaven
He can’t bear to let them go.

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen-of-Wales:

 

 

 

READING BETWEEN THE LINES
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Ghost writers, whiter shade of pale,
but which is shade, witch poltergeist
as long-dead poets read again,
in relived lines, past death reversed.

Those deadlines met before obits,
in time re-hearsed, All Hallows Eve,
their moving finger, writ moved on,
prophetic call, the poet’s wall.

Fake news, or license, take your pick,
like Xanadu, by drug induced;
so post replies of sympathy,
make me a cheat in poetry.

What should I do, hoax history,
my story read, testimony,
when it is observation, sole,
revealing truth, though whole excised?

So should I cease those stanza works
assumed biography in genre,
reel story nearly as if real,
as would a patron, could for cash.

It is a novel way to write,
to weigh each word, exactitude;
a bio, graphic, not allowed,
though permit issued, verse aloud?

Because dilemma recognised
should I set warnings, trigger so?
And where would Dewey have me be—
some friction in veracity?

___________________

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.) Try:

•••Dectina Refrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dectina-refrain

•••AND/OR howzabout a wee Dixdeux (dee-duh):

•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux

•••AND/OR join Melissa Lemay in a Golden Shovel—remember those?

•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form

•••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 “Roadblocks”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Dectina Refrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dectina-refrain
•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux
•••Eight-ette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/eight-ette
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html

•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables

•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Three Moon Pattern (devised by Joyce Odam): Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together
•••Waka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka
•••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

___________________

—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

 

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!

 

 

 

Blue Hours on the Shoreline

 —Poetry by Sterling Warner, Union, WA
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

SIGHTS, SOUNDS & SKYWALKER JAVA

Coffee steams out of my Darth Vader mugs
rolls down my empty gullet as Quaker oatmeal
comes to a boil on the stove; peering out
my kitchen window, I notice a small herd
of whitetail deer ankle deep in Annas Bay
pensively scanning the Hood Canal

alert ears listen to harbor seals bark,
Canada geese honk, and sea lions grunt.

Pouring a second cup of java, the herd
stood spellbound, observing an orca pod leap
out of water, emitting various pulsed calls,
whistles, and echolocation clicks while waves
lap at their legs, soothing tired, cloven toes
chilling keratin hooves, waiting for ebb tides

to reveal hidden salt flats and oyster beds…
lead to small-island safety where does birth fawns.

 

 

 

 

 

31 FLAVORS REVISITED

Frozen lactose melts
down conical waffle sugar cones
young unwashed fingers squeeze the essence
of a momentary freeze as if corralling stray sheep,
confident broad tongue strokes would curb inertia
chocolate embracing a thawing mass, destined
to decorate diamond match sidewalks
like butter in frying pans
or else trickle down
parched throats
drip ice cream
rivers, refresh
bellies that feel
like furnace
cavities ready
to explode,
shrivel like
beached
jellyfish
in the
sun.

 

 

 

 

FORECASTER FAUX PAS

Weather predictors proclaimed inaugural spring
as buds emerged through tree branches
daffodils sprouted from down below
birds sought dry grass to construct nests.

We washed mold & mildew off our slip ‘n slide
placed peatmoss like a feather mattress
on a stretch of lawn to cushion landings
& increase momentum on the plastic film.

Three days in a row we’d wait till classes ended
hurried home ASAP to begin our ritual exercise
skimming the slick sheet like stones
skipping across waterways…never sinking.

In a week the butterflies, June bugs & buzzing bees
disappeared following a torrential downpour
unexpected, endlessly pelting our water slide
with rain, hail, and a micro blanket of snow….

 

 

 

 

WEEPY WALLPAPER

Interlocking chains hang
from the ceiling molding

to a wooden wainscoting
discolored maroon wallpaper

clung to lathe and plaster
water spot stains revealed

places where rain seeped
through leaky roof shingles.

I stared into the weepy design
imagined its genius from ink

patterns and finish drying
to cutting and packaging

decorative rolls that seamlessly
incorporated mold and mildew marks

into the initial blueprint, placing
water blemishes beyond reproach.

 

 

 

 

JUDICE MISCONSTRUED

A blue hour descended along the shoreline
I hear Judice’s gospel voice whisper, whisper,
whisper
    from on high then shed light far below
    haunting heaven’s pearly gates with academic
    curiosity less anxious to dwell as a spiritual
    entity
than examine the remainder of glacial fjords
watching Washington’s winter snowcaps drool
down mountains, etch irregular patterns.
 
Judice’s misread chill inexplicably melted away
her natural ablation mimicked icy peaks nearby
baptizing promontories, flooding gopher and mole
    burrows on the headlands; patient and kind,
    she never “suffered fools” yet gave me weekly
    chances
to notice her profile in the university theatre lecture
hall
always two seats away on the left; like lost oppor-
tunities
amid frog rain, regret consumes me upon reflection.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some people walk in the rain. Others just get wet.

—Roger Miller

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sterling Warner for today’s fine poetry!

 

Be sure to keep SnakePal Nolcha Fox in your thoughts today, as she undergoes surgery in hopes of relieving her mega-monster migraines. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

LittleSnake in frog rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Without A Recipe

Butterfly

—Poetry by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
—Photos by Ann Privateer

 

 

HE

A grownup
A retired
Architect
In a second
Marriage
Squeals with joy
When he finds
A penny
His only solitary
Accomplishment
For the day.

 

 

 

 Fountain

 

 

SHE

Never married
Until age 50
The child
Of a demanding
Mother
Now squelches
His every move.

 

 

 

Fish

 

WE

Friends
A long time ago
Present-day shoulds
Command
Attention
Put off
The weekend
To want to be alone.

 

 

 

Greens

 

MUSHROOMING

Absurdity
Lives beneath
Mushrooms
Where they discover
Mystery in moments
Laughing, undressing
How they electrify
In a go-around
Without a recipe
To unfold. 

 

 

 

Lion

MEDITATION

Get rid of the garbage
Periodically
Update oneself
Thank the I
Inexhaustible
Presented
By the me
Thinking, caring
Sharing
Happy.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Be happy in this moment. This moment is your life.

—Omar Khayyam

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Privateer for today’s fine poems and pix!

 

 

 

 Eqyptian Sparrows Nesting in
Queen Hatshepsut’s Tomb

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Frozen Against The Darkness

Today  

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

 

 

POEM FOR SADNESS
—Joyce Odam

Everything is broken.
All my golden winds are
crying at the eaves.

The shadows make
their indecisive motions
and the terror of

the leaves is on the day
like answers in the
the fumble of a question.

Sounds ebb and flow
and seek the slower dying
of the echo.

Light can make
no further struggle so it lets
the darkness know.

Somewhere
a single goose
is slowly falling;

his space fills up with crying
and the ground prepares
its shudder.

The flying of the seed
is like a burden
in the pregnant air.

What if the dream be real . . .
and what if there is nothing
in the after.

                           
(prev. pub. in Oregonian Verse, 10/22/67; and
Harlequin Press, May 1968) 

 

 

 

The Sadness

 

 
AXIOM
—Robin Gale Odam

Because my eyes are masked,
and because rivers of tears have
stained my cheeks, and even though
my lips are hidden in shades of dark,

she has come to my hand out of the
axiom of art—from the quill pen—the
rue bird from the theory of sorrow.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019)

______________________

THE POET’S WIFE
—Joyce Odam

She came to the door,
night-eyed, witch-haired,
and whispered,
“My poet is locked in his tower.
No one disturbs his twenty-third hour.”

“How did you meet him?”
we asked her. She smiled.
“He composed me one day
when he was drunk on rhyming.
He liked my sound and metaphor.
I liked his timing.”

“Oh, what are your children doing?”
we shuddered.
She shrugged. “They are cutting out words
from what we say, doing research
for their father.
But he throws their adjectives away—
why do they bother?

“Will you show us your forest-garden,”
we flattered.
But she warned, “Something heavy
is in the air. No one can breathe what’s growing.
The night is sick with molding green.
And I am sick with knowing.

“Will you tell him we came…” but whirlpools
moved in her moody eyes,
and she
was already climbing her husband’s stair,
taking key-shaped pins
from her struggling hair.

­  
(prev. pub. in Trace, 1965;
“My Stranger Hands”, Wagon & Star, 1967;


and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/23)

 

 

 

Look At The Weather

 

THE POET MENTIONS HER CHILDREN
—Joyce Odam

She has such children,
such children,
hidden in bibles and prayers,
hidden under blanket-tents
pulled over chairs,
hidden in the world
away from her . . . hidden.
But her strings are silver rain
and her children come home again
to dry her hair,
to kiss her wet weeping.
Her strings are silver rain.
Her children return.
She holds them . . .
she sends them away . . .
it is an old pattern.


(prev. pub. in Voices International, 1989
;

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/1/14) 

 

 

 

As We Watch

 

 
THE POET, STEALING TRUTH
—Joyce Odam

We saw how you stole
line after line from
yourself and called it
original, how
you threaded strands of

sunlight into your
hair when you stood at
the burning window;
how light entered you—
the transparent light

with you shining there
—an apparition,
alive and screaming
until a din of
silence received you.

How will we find you
among the golden
ashes that still hold
your original
presence. Your words were

written on the glass
where rain erased them—
your tears, as you turned
back to us—unchanged
and we believed you.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/3/17)

_____________________

THE POINT OF THE STORY
—Joyce Odam

come to me after the others
I will tell you a tale so slow
it will take hours

the point of the story
will never be reached
it will always have to be
continued
it will take days

it will be boring
but will have
a thread of interest

you will get caught up in it
like a soap opera
it will take years


(prev. pub. in Free Lunch, Autumn 1991; and
Song for a New Beginning chapbook, 1993,
Red Cedar Press of Colorado)

 

 

 

Birdbath

 

AND OVER THERE
—Robin Gale Odam

. . . in the leaves, the by-
gone of a different time barely
away from me now . . .

. . . of a different time, the
quiet stirring blown over, un-
remembered, in the past . . .

. . . the little wind and the flutter
of leaves, almost ready to fall, con-
signed to oblivion . . .

. . . or maybe just buried
in a line on a page of the journal,
and nearly forgotten . . . 

 

 

 

To Woes of Others

 

POEM WITHOUT AN ENDING
—Joyce Odam

Let us begin a poem and never finish it—just let it 

dwindle off the page as if there is more to be said, 

but when you turn the page another one begins. 

And let us title it “Poem Without an Ending” and 

give it only that one page to struggle on, ending 

there, maybe with the word and, or at least no 

punctuation-mark in a punctuated poem. And let it 

enjamb—and have too big a gap of meaning—

built up to, but not quite conveyed. And it will be 

intense rough draft—the way first thought comes, 

so quick and obscure we can only follow to see 

where it leads. And it will lead us away from it-

self, as if it resented our awakening—though it is 

the one that came to us—tossing like stones at our 

window, our faces frozen there against the dark-

ness, looking out to see—as if this is the way life 

is—on its single page the long quick scribbling—

the—
                                                                      

(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, July 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/29/19)

 

 

 

Mercy

 

POET OF ALL THE TENDER THINGS
THERE ARE TO HARM
—Joyce Odam

The young lover of life
is more than I can suffer.
He is so passionate of all the loves
his heart can conjure.
Poet of all the tender things
there are to harm.
Gentle as gentleness
would have him be.

How can I tell him, Listen,
there is
the cruelty
and the losing
and the never becoming what you need to be;
there is the failure
and the hate to be a part of;
there is the settling for something less . . . !
when he looks at me with tangible love
and says, Yes, I know . . .
but not awhile yet . . .

Oh young imbecile,
whom I love as a sort of miracle
and dare not yet believe—
write yourself that way then.
I hope life believes you.


(prev. pub. in Nickel Review, 1970; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/20; 9/20/22)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

exhale at the looking glass
resolution of gravity

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019)

_____________________

Our thanks to the Odams—Joyce and Robin Gale—for today’s fine poetry as we continue to swelter here in California!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Roadblocks”. 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.

 

You may not have been able to access yesterday’s post, and if that’s true, then I’m very sorry. Let me know, and I’ll send it to you. One of our poets listed the Seven Naughty Words in his poem, so Blogger got irritated and blocked the whole post, insisting that people click certain things to get in. Not exactly censorship—more like a filter to keep kids out. As I said, I’ll get it to you if you weren’t able to access it.

And I guess we’ll have to watch what we try to post. So know that, if you use such words, I’ll have to take them out. This is, incidentally, the first time this has happened, even though we do use the F-bomb and the S-bomb on occasion. 

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 …against the darkness…

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai presents
three Fresno poets:
Tino DeGuevara,
Charlie Hensley & Paul Pierce
tonight, 6pm.
Reservations recommended!
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!

 

 

Overstaying One's Welcome

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