Latches
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
5:25 AM
And I am—awake between woodstove just beginning to crackle-flare and coffee maker gurgling its dark brew. Still I can hear it, through closed walls and door. Hoot-owl’s Morse _ . . D for December, for dark, for death repeating dark dark outside, an hour before first-light as I urge the woodstove flame. Hoooo-who-who. My black cat Latches, curled in her basket on the hearth, flicks an ear. A tasty cat morsel. Last evening I walked out in the dark, looking for Jupiter conjoined with Saturn. But ridges to southwest got in the way and I stumbled on oak deadfall as if a corpse in the woods.
Mysteries of earthly dark,
with no bright conjunction to
light my question—Who.
And I am—awake between woodstove just beginning to crackle-flare and coffee maker gurgling its dark brew. Still I can hear it, through closed walls and door. Hoot-owl’s Morse _ . . D for December, for dark, for death repeating dark dark outside, an hour before first-light as I urge the woodstove flame. Hoooo-who-who. My black cat Latches, curled in her basket on the hearth, flicks an ear. A tasty cat morsel. Last evening I walked out in the dark, looking for Jupiter conjoined with Saturn. But ridges to southwest got in the way and I stumbled on oak deadfall as if a corpse in the woods.
Mysteries of earthly dark,
with no bright conjunction to
light my question—Who.
DECEMBER ACCOUNTING
Tally statistics, metrics, bottom lines?
My aging, weed-whacking, arthritic self
walking this morning under the live-oaks—
survivors of last year’s felling of oaks
for fire safety—too close to powerlines,
here where I’ve rooted my in-breathing self.
Blue and valley oaks let loose their leaves, self-
shedding in wind that brittles land and oaks
in our all-year season of wildfire lines.
Lines of verse beyond self, the song of oaks.
Tally statistics, metrics, bottom lines?
My aging, weed-whacking, arthritic self
walking this morning under the live-oaks—
survivors of last year’s felling of oaks
for fire safety—too close to powerlines,
here where I’ve rooted my in-breathing self.
Blue and valley oaks let loose their leaves, self-
shedding in wind that brittles land and oaks
in our all-year season of wildfire lines.
Lines of verse beyond self, the song of oaks.
COOKIE EXCHANGE, COVID STYLE
We meet masked with the old ranch gate between,
and trade our tight-wrapped goods as agreed,
then go our separate ways home in a keen
cold Christmas wind. Shared friend-treasure indeed:
your ginger cookies, my caraway seed.
WINDSHIELD GLARE
His pickup revving by the gate,
he yelled abuse regarding masks!
with new year just two weeks away.
A face-mask hides and will not show—
he couldn’t see our cheeks aglow
with new year just two weeks away.
He yelled abuse regarding masks!
his pickup revving by the gate.
STILL LIFE WITH PEACOCK & FOG
outside the Zoo
Cold raw December morning. Gray. I think
of people lost in fog, spending the night
far from home. There, at that concrete picnic
table, a gray-bundled man with push-cart
sits wreathed in smoke from a charcoal grill. Fog.
Not a good day for picnics. The Zoo’s closed
by Covid, its animals sheltering
in place—except the resident peacock
has a freedom-pass, goes hesitation-
stepping across dead leaf littered lawn. One
iridescent brilliance on this gray day.
NISENAN
No sound but winter on the breeze,
these dead-grass fields, a line of trees
and open distance, displaced creek,
white boxes empty without bees.
I didn’t ask you what we seek
here, where the acorn grinders lived
and left. Farming and the Gold Rush came;
miners dug and heaped earth, and sieved
for color, all in treasure’s name.
A barb-wire fence; dark oak hollow.
Something calls, but there’s nothing here,
yet silent voices bid me follow.
Old village site? A secret place?
I stand lost here in time and space.
No sound but winter on the breeze,
these dead-grass fields, a line of trees
and open distance, displaced creek,
white boxes empty without bees.
I didn’t ask you what we seek
here, where the acorn grinders lived
and left. Farming and the Gold Rush came;
miners dug and heaped earth, and sieved
for color, all in treasure’s name.
A barb-wire fence; dark oak hollow.
Something calls, but there’s nothing here,
yet silent voices bid me follow.
Old village site? A secret place?
I stand lost here in time and space.
Today’s LittleNip:
ONE BILLION AMERICANS
(response to Matthew Yglesias)
—Taylor Graham
This would be no cause for celebration.
We’d drown in our own population.
_____________________
Hats off to Taylor Graham for a sparkling first post of 2021! Here are the forms that Taylor has sent us this week: Normative Syllabics (“Still Life with Peacock & Fog”); a Tritina (“December Accounting”); an Epigram (“One Billion Americans”); an Octo (“Windshield Glare”); an English Quintain (I think that's what Carol Louise Moon’s poem was last week (“Cookie Exchange, Covid Style”); a French Sonnet (“Nisenan”); and a Haibun (“5:25 AM”).
Yes, Carol Louise’s poem last Friday was an English Quintain, in addition to being one of her own forms, the EIEIO. More about that later.
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 for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.)
Welcome back and Happy New Year to Claire Baker this week! She sends us a Triolet, which she defines as her “Triolet with variations to avoid sing-song sound. Can be used for light or heavy subject.”
MELLOWING MOTH
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
A tiny moth, wings apart,
warms our round porch light.
While pushing laundry, I stop my cart
beside the moth, wings apart,
surprising shape: a pristine heart—
no hint of sorrow or fright.
Today, a moth with wings apart
warms a rounded light.
And now, about that poem I posted by Carol Louise Moon; here is Carl Schwartz (Caschwa)’s response: "I looked over “Christmas Choir” by Carol Louise Moon (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2020/12/christmas-bliss.html and scroll down to “Christmas Choir”), and found it had the same rhyme scheme as an English Quintain, and it also fit right into Carol’s own form, the EIEIO. [So it's a two-fer.] Here is my response":
WHAT I WANT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
erstwhile two front teeth stood proud
indeed now a gaping hole
every memory shaded by cloud
indecision dominating my soul
one more chance, please, with that lump of coal
WHAT I WANT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
erstwhile two front teeth stood proud
indeed now a gaping hole
every memory shaded by cloud
indecision dominating my soul
one more chance, please, with that lump of coal
"Erstwhile, two front teeth"…
Carl also sent us two Kyrielles, which was last week’s Fiddlers’ Challenge:
WAY BACK THEN
—Caschwa
daily routine imperial
same breakfast bowl, same cereal
had a craving for certain grains
fond memories include no pains
there’s Travel Town in Griffith Park
a daytime treat closed after dark
how satisfying riding trains
fond memories include no pains
my sweetheart tease from junior high
no date, no kiss, no apple pie
we slid apart to our own lanes
fond memories include no pains
sixty miles from the city line
one can view all the stars just fine
no smog or smoke or other banes
fond memories include no pains
Death Valley known for extreme heat
overnight lows can feel like sleet
you sense it right down in your veins
fond memories include no pains
* * *
OUT OF TOUCH
—Caschwa
some folks know their bible by heart
not me, wouldn’t know where to start
they recite quotes from Book of Ruth
all their rote facts are not my truth
ever meet strangers who know French?
foreign word cloudburst, sure to drench
your primary language, forsooth
all their rote facts are not my truth
vendors scheme to get your money
close the circle, call you “honey”
lead you into the kissing booth
all their rote facts are not my truth
gentlemen, older and wiser
even than Old Faithful Geyser
short on morals and long in tooth
all their rote facts are not my truth
anecdotal diagnoses
look as real as fabric posies
reshaped by an internet sleuth
all their rote facts are not my truth
great comparison shopping tips:
don’t stretch budget to buy rose hips
free advice with glass of vermouth
all their rote facts are not my truth
that ignorance is really bliss
is as brittle as a promise
by those who’d steal your very youth
all their rote facts are not my truth
WAY BACK THEN
—Caschwa
daily routine imperial
same breakfast bowl, same cereal
had a craving for certain grains
fond memories include no pains
there’s Travel Town in Griffith Park
a daytime treat closed after dark
how satisfying riding trains
fond memories include no pains
my sweetheart tease from junior high
no date, no kiss, no apple pie
we slid apart to our own lanes
fond memories include no pains
sixty miles from the city line
one can view all the stars just fine
no smog or smoke or other banes
fond memories include no pains
Death Valley known for extreme heat
overnight lows can feel like sleet
you sense it right down in your veins
fond memories include no pains
* * *
OUT OF TOUCH
—Caschwa
some folks know their bible by heart
not me, wouldn’t know where to start
they recite quotes from Book of Ruth
all their rote facts are not my truth
ever meet strangers who know French?
foreign word cloudburst, sure to drench
your primary language, forsooth
all their rote facts are not my truth
vendors scheme to get your money
close the circle, call you “honey”
lead you into the kissing booth
all their rote facts are not my truth
gentlemen, older and wiser
even than Old Faithful Geyser
short on morals and long in tooth
all their rote facts are not my truth
anecdotal diagnoses
look as real as fabric posies
reshaped by an internet sleuth
all their rote facts are not my truth
great comparison shopping tips:
don’t stretch budget to buy rose hips
free advice with glass of vermouth
all their rote facts are not my truth
that ignorance is really bliss
is as brittle as a promise
by those who’d steal your very youth
all their rote facts are not my truth
Carl sent a poem and I asked if it was a Cywydd deuair hirion. He wrote back, “Honestly, I hadn’t heard of the Cywydd deuair hirion (poetscollective.org/poetryforms/tag/isosyllabic-7/) before your mention of it here. Very enlightening! In my poem, the ending accents were random; I just gave it a simple rhyme scheme, so if there was rising and falling, it was not on purpose, and I arbitrarily chose the 7-syllable count, perhaps thinking of the 7 slide positions on a slide trombone. I’ll now have to follow suit by conjuring up something (like 11 lines of 8 syllables each) in light of the 88 keys on a piano…”
BACK TO CRAWLING
—Caschwa
a few years back I was a
“newborn” senior citizen,
my next birthday I’ll be an
aging senior plus seven
beware, our roots are showing
from after the Civil War,
fuming bad sentiments burned
down our dwellings and much more
we tend to put too many
bad actors away in jails,
wonder why they won’t behave
as our penal system fails
topping our chain of command
was a goon who had no clue,
a hamster on PBX
with an appetite to sue
HAPPY NEW YEAR! is the shout
we are ready to embrace,
a true adult to lead us
at a careful, measured pace
—Caschwa
a few years back I was a
“newborn” senior citizen,
my next birthday I’ll be an
aging senior plus seven
beware, our roots are showing
from after the Civil War,
fuming bad sentiments burned
down our dwellings and much more
we tend to put too many
bad actors away in jails,
wonder why they won’t behave
as our penal system fails
topping our chain of command
was a goon who had no clue,
a hamster on PBX
with an appetite to sue
HAPPY NEW YEAR! is the shout
we are ready to embrace,
a true adult to lead us
at a careful, measured pace
And here is one of those long-title/impossible-to-pronounce things that starts with a C; Carl has placed the properly accented words at the end of each line correctly. Good job, Carl! But getting such things exact in the English language every time is a fool’s errand, so don’t bust your cranium over it. I know—heresy!
OPEN WYDD
—Caschwa
I thought I heard a foghorn
in the distance, so forlorn
peeking outside the window
no sign of fog quite this low
we have trucks and planes and trains
often the source of migraines
but we’re distant from the coast
where ships are sounding utmost
perhaps it was stroke of pens
drawing beautiful sirens
brightest stars of firmament
have a look, won’t cost a cent
____________________
And many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling in 2020, despite the many challenges and distraction. I’m sure 2021 will be different, and I’m hoping all our SnakePals will curl up and stay safe as long as is necessary.
Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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!
____________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
OPEN WYDD
—Caschwa
I thought I heard a foghorn
in the distance, so forlorn
peeking outside the window
no sign of fog quite this low
we have trucks and planes and trains
often the source of migraines
but we’re distant from the coast
where ships are sounding utmost
perhaps it was stroke of pens
drawing beautiful sirens
brightest stars of firmament
have a look, won’t cost a cent
____________________
And many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling in 2020, despite the many challenges and distraction. I’m sure 2021 will be different, and I’m hoping all our SnakePals will curl up and stay safe as long as is necessary.
Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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!
____________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Cywydd deuair hirion: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/tag/isosyllabic-7
•••EIO (or EIEIO): a five-line poem where the ends of lines rhyme in the scheme of A,B,A,B,B. The beginning words of each line begin with E,I,E,I,O. (Carol Louise Moon)
•••English Quintain: www.thepoetsgarret.com/2007Challenge/form18.htm
•••Epigram: www.litcharts.com/literary-devices-and-terms/epigram
•••French Sonnet: www.thepoetsgarret.com/sonnet/french.html
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Kyrielle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/kyrielle.html
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Octo: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/octo
•••Tritina: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/tritina.htm
_____________________
—Medusa
Lots of Bluebirds of Happiness to you for 2021!
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