—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
BLACKBIRD PIE
The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird?
Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers.
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s almost spring, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
All around her chair, blossom-rot gathers
a shining ring of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2020)
The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird?
Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers.
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s almost spring, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
All around her chair, blossom-rot gathers
a shining ring of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2020)
NO ANTS?
in this
Magic Forest,
green-leaf tent for curbside
dining pandemic-style—downtown
picnic!
in this
Magic Forest,
green-leaf tent for curbside
dining pandemic-style—downtown
picnic!
SHOOT FOR STARS
Grass grows
tall enough now
to hide miner’s lettuce
which reaches up for stars with white
blossoms.
Grass grows
tall enough now
to hide miner’s lettuce
which reaches up for stars with white
blossoms.
CURE
The doctor gave you the temporary shoe
for a bad foot. Now your legs don’t match below
the ankles, but this doesn’t speed up your gait.
You walk outside the clinic mostly blind (this
is permanent). You’re treading as if on ants.
It’s too cold for ants, a March day that feels like
February. Now you have this gift of half
a shoe-pair. Step lightly into the daylight.
The doctor gave you the temporary shoe
for a bad foot. Now your legs don’t match below
the ankles, but this doesn’t speed up your gait.
You walk outside the clinic mostly blind (this
is permanent). You’re treading as if on ants.
It’s too cold for ants, a March day that feels like
February. Now you have this gift of half
a shoe-pair. Step lightly into the daylight.
HOME TREATMENT
I’m trying to salvage your stride—
your long-hiked feet now dry and flaky
as sycamore’s patchy white hide, ankles
like pale cabbages—you, man
of trees and gardens. Your heel’s
the birthplace of cracks and fissures,
infection. I wash and dry the badness,
apply dressing with bacitracin ointment
(yes, it’s chilly); begin bandaging.
Shall I wind the vet-wrap in cornucopia
spirals, figure-8s by 26 degrees
ascending? (you taught me compass
as we searched with our dogs
to find the lost). There, it’s done—
not pretty, but it serves.
I’ll get better with practice.
I’m trying to salvage your stride—
your long-hiked feet now dry and flaky
as sycamore’s patchy white hide, ankles
like pale cabbages—you, man
of trees and gardens. Your heel’s
the birthplace of cracks and fissures,
infection. I wash and dry the badness,
apply dressing with bacitracin ointment
(yes, it’s chilly); begin bandaging.
Shall I wind the vet-wrap in cornucopia
spirals, figure-8s by 26 degrees
ascending? (you taught me compass
as we searched with our dogs
to find the lost). There, it’s done—
not pretty, but it serves.
I’ll get better with practice.
A SLAVE’S JOURNAL
A dark house with one candle lit,
secrets too black to tell out loud—
none of the places of his past—
escaped in inky marks on the page.
Secrets too black to tell out loud—
families sundered, and floggings
escaped in inky marks on the page.
Who taught this slave to write?
Families sundered, and floggings,
whip-scars like words on paper—
who taught this slave to write?
Black strokes on white—freedom.
Whip-scars like words on paper,
(he won’t write names or dates),
black strokes on white. Freedom,
a dark house with one candle lit.
A dark house with one candle lit,
secrets too black to tell out loud—
none of the places of his past—
escaped in inky marks on the page.
Secrets too black to tell out loud—
families sundered, and floggings
escaped in inky marks on the page.
Who taught this slave to write?
Families sundered, and floggings,
whip-scars like words on paper—
who taught this slave to write?
Black strokes on white—freedom.
Whip-scars like words on paper,
(he won’t write names or dates),
black strokes on white. Freedom,
a dark house with one candle lit.
Today’s LittleNip:
WHICH OF THE 4 WINDS?
—Taylor Graham
Face mask, keeper of
private breath and word—has sailed
on a windy day.
Where’s your mask bound, beyond your
finding? your coverage, your care.
Life’s contagious, spring
wind’s a puppy rushing to
sniff the world entire.
WHICH OF THE 4 WINDS?
—Taylor Graham
Face mask, keeper of
private breath and word—has sailed
on a windy day.
Where’s your mask bound, beyond your
finding? your coverage, your care.
Life’s contagious, spring
wind’s a puppy rushing to
sniff the world entire.
_________________________
Good morning, as we end the week with our SnakePal, Taylor Graham, who has been a contributor since we opened the Kitchen in 2005. Taylor is a phine phorm and photo phiddler, too, and today the forms she has sent us include last week's Fiddler's Challenge, a Ballade (“Blackbird Pie”); a Boketto (“Which of the 4 Winds?”); Normative Syllables (“Cure”); a Word-Can Poem (“Home Treatment”); a Pantoum (“A Slave's Journal”); and two Cinquains (“No Ants?” and “Shoot for Stars”). Those colorful photos, by the way, are from Main Street shops in Placerville.
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.)Claire J. Baker has sent us a peppy poem today that is metered lines in couplet rhymes which, Claire writes, “often suit the writing of light verse, but more serious work, as well”:
IN PASSING
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
There’s one within a crowd
who stays more calm than loud,
another strolls our street
who we are drawn to meet.
And yet we cannot claim
we even know their name.
Both pause and don’t walk on,
may grin, or even yawn.
And, hey there, we can tell
we know each other well!
In passing with a sigh
hooray, and no Goodbye.
Here is a Ballade about the “diminished mosque” from Carl Schwartz (Caschwa):
MOSQUITO
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
opened door to let the dog out
absorb vitamin D sunlight
it was a proper move, no doubt
quarantining does not feel right
stuck in small places really tight
why not slide the door? you must ask—
behold within your sense of sight
a little bug: diminished mosque
it carries disease worse than gout
by all means do avoid its bite
more taxing than a ten-round bout
it can drain you of all your fight
background of noise, an endless white
keeping control—a thankless task
like broken string on wind-torn kite
a little bug: diminished mosque
the mirror shows you firm and stout
reinforcing that you are quite
above losing all in a rout
nor would your predators incite
in light of day or dark of night
keeping distance, wearing the mask
leading prayers that you will write
a little bug: diminished mosque
low IQ, it’s not very bright
in glow of deeds it cannot bask
nor will it reach any great height
a little bug: diminished mosque
MOSQUITO
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
opened door to let the dog out
absorb vitamin D sunlight
it was a proper move, no doubt
quarantining does not feel right
stuck in small places really tight
why not slide the door? you must ask—
behold within your sense of sight
a little bug: diminished mosque
it carries disease worse than gout
by all means do avoid its bite
more taxing than a ten-round bout
it can drain you of all your fight
background of noise, an endless white
keeping control—a thankless task
like broken string on wind-torn kite
a little bug: diminished mosque
the mirror shows you firm and stout
reinforcing that you are quite
above losing all in a rout
nor would your predators incite
in light of day or dark of night
keeping distance, wearing the mask
leading prayers that you will write
a little bug: diminished mosque
low IQ, it’s not very bright
in glow of deeds it cannot bask
nor will it reach any great height
a little bug: diminished mosque
This is an Abhanga from Carl:
WORLD ORDER
—Caschwa
inconsequential men
defined: those who don’t vote
do everything by rote
and fade away
they take some nature walks
amused by subtle change
in forests and the grange
baffling colors
never in the vanguard
blazing trails too risky
and distant from whiskey
those are the rules
new possibilities
such as tea and crumpets
introduced by trumpets
die in the wind
ripe-and-ready women
springing from the bowsprit
photogenic bare tit
viewed from the sea
wake up, my dear, it’s dawn
you can’t be late to work
world orbits ‘round a clerk
so hang in there
WORLD ORDER
—Caschwa
inconsequential men
defined: those who don’t vote
do everything by rote
and fade away
they take some nature walks
amused by subtle change
in forests and the grange
baffling colors
never in the vanguard
blazing trails too risky
and distant from whiskey
those are the rules
new possibilities
such as tea and crumpets
introduced by trumpets
die in the wind
ripe-and-ready women
springing from the bowsprit
photogenic bare tit
viewed from the sea
wake up, my dear, it’s dawn
you can’t be late to work
world orbits ‘round a clerk
so hang in there
And here is a beautiful Haibun which Carl has based on Medusa’s Seed of the Week: "Excuses Not to Write":
A DAILY STROLL TO THE GARDEN
—Caschwa
a gravel pathway, perhaps
some decayed cobblestone
defines a route to the garden’s
edge, 50 shades of gravel
melting away into rainbows
one who is well read in alphabets
of the world might recognize the
myriad shapes that form letters,
form words, and carry some kind
of here-and-now meaning
we truly know in our hearts that
there must be messages on that
pathway underfoot, just as clouds
and stars overhead present images
of thousands of words, and so
even stones have no
excuses for not writing,
even cobblestones
__________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! 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!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:
Diatelle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/diatelle.html
__________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Abhanga: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/abhanga
•••Ballade: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ballade.htm
•••Boketto (“Listen to the Light”):
poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain
•••Diatelle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/diatelle.html
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Pantoum: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html
•••Word-Can Poem: putting lots of random words on slips of paper into a can, and then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them.
__________________
—Medusa
—Quote by George Carlin
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.
