Wednesday, June 30, 2021

To No True Good Is Up?

—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
 —Public Domain Photos

Cars, cars, cars, cars. Thy bluish headlights blind.
It’s the reverse of Jesus’ parable:
The mote is in mine eye, the beam in thine
Dazzling basilisk lamps. We’re arable
Land your vicious brightness plows with sharp-
Bladed discs. Your bliss makes corneas blister,
We swerve too close to dropoffs; lay the tarp
Over our corpses now. And so’s your sister
A berserker. Yeah, my windshield, at night, stars
As if you’d bullet-holed it, even when cleaned
Inside and out: your scintillating spars
Rank with unsafe and insane fireworks.
To have to plead for restraint, we feel demeaned,
Crying danger alongside old cranks each itch irks.

[See “Blinded by Bright Headlights? It’s Not
Your Imagination,”
New York Times, 6/5/21.]

You chose a straight instrument, slim barrel of wood
That segments and packs in a small carry-on case.
As the tube of the Pied Piper to no true good
Is up, it wooed you, pretending supple grace
—Like river-reeds? Stiff, jointed, key-clapping surfaces.
Those blowgun note-darts flit from thin twin reeds
You custom-shaved thin to those purposes
Of flapping vibration shape the airstream outbleeds.
Commander Philip Taft and Peggy Sahmaunt
And Steve Foster trained in you that plangent wryness
Of tone that could’ve fulfilled a lifelong want;
An oboe cocoon would uncaterpillar shyness.
You performed, at someone’s insistence, on English horn
In Honegger’s King David. That goose-voiced thing
Cracked honks, like “gold uncurrent within the ring.”
One concert of squawk! You went silent, in self-scorn. 

Look closely if you mean to look at all.
This painting is by Edmund Walpole Brooke,
Who scuffed trail dust with Van Gogh; thick dust
            mutes footfalls.

It’s watercolor, impasto is impossible,
Yet Brooke seems eager to mimic Vincent’s thick:
Look closely if you mean to look at all.
Japan in blue leaf-blobs, branch-straw grays, no squall
Like Wheatfield with Crows; all Vincent’s gusts turn rook.
Brooke scuffed trail dust with Van Gogh? Does dust
            mute footfalls?
Brooke daubs his foreground-background-perplexing pall
The more coolly to concentrate the path that hooks
—Look closely if you mean to look at all—
Hooks us to a red-obi’d woman and infant trawled
Where all paths lead: a shrine swiped in by Brooke
Who scuffed trail dust with Van Gogh—thick dust
            mutes footfalls—
Who, lesser of palette, easel, and smock, traced al
Fresco Impressionist-emulating strokes:
Look closely if you mean to look at all.
Brooke scuffed the same trail dust. Van Gogh
            mutes Brooke’s footfalls.

[See “The Hunt for Clarity about Van Gogh’s Last
Days Leads to Maine,”
New York Times, 6/4/21.]


Today’s LittleNip:

I guess I just look at talent as a very subjective thing. I mean, if you never tried playing an oboe, how do you know you're not the most talented oboe player ever? The point is that if you don't love it, then it doesn't matter.

—Steven Soderbergh


Good friend Tom Goff sends us two sonnets and a villanelle—all tasty fare for this bustling Kitchen Chez Medusa this morning! Form Fiddlers who Function on Friday can appreciate the smooth quill with which Tom plies his fare… Thank you, Tom!

Tomorrow night, Thurs. (7/1), 7pm (new time—not 8pm), Poetry Night in Davis will feature Emily Hughes and Charles Halsted IN PERSON, plus open mic, at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Facebook info: Host: Andy Jones. (Check out Dr. Andy’s new [free] weekly newsletter at, and please subscribe!)

For “A Brief History of the Oboe”, go to


—Painting by E.W. Brooke
For more info, go to

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!



Tuesday, June 29, 2021

A Jostlement of Shadows

She Listens
—Poetry and Photography by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
After Stanbury Moor (Photograph by Fay Godwin 
from Remains of Elmet, Poetry by Ted Hughes)  

What shall I name this darkness with its torn black sky,
its shadows that sweep the distances.

I know this night is strange but it has brought me here
to mourn, so I mourn.  I fasten to the horizon

with bleak unwilling eyes—it is too far.
I am where I am, at another beginning, no strength

and no provisions.  One silver path cuts through
the land, one curve of hill outlining land from sky.

A last thin rim of light hangs low enough to sharpen—
I’ll aim to that—still bright enough to beckon.
The Summoning of Light



Walking in fields through dusty evening toward the
summoning failing light, we slowly dissolve into our
shadows. The western sky is an easy sadness for our
quiet eyes.

A dream has fallen among the hollows of darkness.
The other end of things is the goal. The field’s dimin-
ishing edges press in. The house with no lights is
becoming a dark shape behind us.

Only the golden tips of weeds still celebrate their
place in things and cling to our clothing long after
we have returned to the beginning-point of our aim-
less stroll against the night.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)



In a puddle of water—the sky—
clouds confined to this small rain lake,

the brief flight of gulls
that do not stir the surface,

that do not seem displaced or strange
though they fly upside down;

and vertigo is not the point of this—
that such a shifting vastness

can be caught—fragmentary—
and deep, if one looks down to see,

and does not break
the image with their own reflected feet.

(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine,
slightly revised, 1996)
The Death-Bird Sings

After Tulipa, Pastel by Maria Sylvester
Guide to the Arts, 2003)

It’s in the feature known as background,
a drooping red flower—huge crowding
leaves for the hiding—petals too heavy

for the light—the ineffectual light—
caught in a jostlement of shadows.

Urgent daubs of green and splotches
of orange overwhelm the flower—
the breezeway trembles with
confusions—the shade has lost the light.

Someone has died here.
A death-bird sings in the absence.
All The Edges


I am a wall with no pictures.  Mirrors
enter me and weep for their lost identities.

All my edges are worn thin as water.
I slip through into depths of drowning.

I paint screams upon my silence,
utter myself from all directions.

Great rooms of complexity
surround me.

Nothing hears.
Day by day more of me disappears.

I am the cruel center of myself.
I forgive no one—

beggars come by with golden fingers
and stroke my arm.


After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887

black fire, somewhere in the dark, your
arm around my waist, supporting me,

offering the old betrayal, the lie
that I endure, allow your presence,

leading,    guiding,    tenderly,
as a lover would—Ah, you are Holy,

knower of the dark, soothing
as I cling to you—I am wooed,

your arm around my waist,
your head bent down to mine,

your voice consoling—urging.
The dark opens, takes me in,

your arm at my waist,
your mouth at my ear, whispering.
Darkly Beautiful

time of no shadow.
we are vertical.
reverent to the silence.
standing in the sun like scarecrows.
our black-to-the-center eyes
holding the landscape together.

at midnight
we become flesh of darkness.
holding our arms out like we do.
stars on our fingertips.
night clouds in our hair.
our eyes deep with the suns of that hour.
darkly beautiful.

(prev. pub. in Poetry View, 1976 and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2016)



walk to me early in tears and stories of love
i will hold them for you
till you are no longer cold
i know how you feel, i tell you,
(and i do)

oh walk with me in the poetic rain of bad days
when love is no good
i will walk there too
our hair wet with defiance
with our not caring

how old is beauty? one of us will ask
and the other will have no answer

walk with me under the healing of the wine
i will cut the cheese and separate the crackers
i know what to do,
i know what is nourishment,
i will make you strong

after you have gone
i will lie on the floor
and cry for your sadness
or for the sadness of the wine
or the rain
or whatever it is
i think i remember

the appointment will be kept,

i tell myself,
and the room will come down and cover me
for i will be so tired after all that healing

(prev. pub. in Valley Light: Writers of the San Joaquin,
Poet & Printer Press, 1978)
Gathering Light For A Poem


Muse with me while we gather light
for a poem, we will read it later,

tell each other what it means,
then reminisce—

compare amazements :
how much our lives are parallel—

how many years—while we
confess, or commiserate,
let down the burden of our cares,
hold each other’s dark,

find new, old-words
to fill our silences with explication—

then laugh or cry,
whichever is needed, old love,

old friend—
as close and separate as we are.

I muse these thoughts for you from this old,
well-worn, and reliable, loving heart.    

Today’s LittleNip:

—Joyce Odam

It all splits into darkness; something fol-
lows the light, and the small room tightens.

It’s not like this is where you need to be—
the world outside expands—

tries to pull these walls away from you  
but there is glass in the light—

wavering back—confusing you—
you know how it is with imagination.

Good morning and big thanks to Joyce Odam for writing to us about our Seed of the Week: My Friend, the Darkness. She says this SOW is “right up my alley, yes?  I selected and sent with no pity for the timid…” Well, Joyce, since when
did you have any pity for the timid…?

Our new Seed of the Week is “Small Mercies”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to 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.


For more about Remains of Elmet by Ted Hughes, see

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.



Monday, June 28, 2021

Monday, Monday

—Poetry Recipes by Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), 
Michael Ceraolo, and Joseph Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I can barely contain myself!
the warmth of you beckons
my every sensual receptor
it has been far too long
missing your delicate kiss
on my lips and on my tongue,
awakening a whole, wonderful
world of peace and happiness

you have made it very clear
that I can’t just rush in and
enjoy all you have to offer, as
enticing as that may be, I will
heed your repeated, sharp
warnings to wait for your

finally, it is safe to lift the
handle and retrieve my
cup of coffee 



after the youngster hooks
a fish, virtually everyone
around him, including some
who have never fished a day
in their life, will bullhorn their
foolproof ideas regarding the
choice, timing, order, and
intensity of each of the next
several steps necessary to
land the fish

yes, that Little League mom
is also in the crowd hovering
close enough to share her
spirited suggestions

boy, doesn’t that jury really
need some help now, after
the presentation of evidence
has been wrapped up and the
attorneys for both parties have
said their closing arguments?
if only one could get their foot
in the door to offer some golden
insights that the court’s jury
instructions may have missed

I can see clearly
now, the crowd is gone, I can
see all obstacles

A Collection of Poetry by Michael Ceraolo

            Connie Mack

I should have retired a decade earlier than I did,
but I still had the dream of another championship team,
hoping to find another Eddie or Robert to build around
Unfortunately, for baseball purposes,
players like Eddie and Robert are rare
Fortunately, for a manager's sanity, the same

* * *

           Robert "Lefty" Grove

I was a mean and arrogant SOB
during the early and middle parts of my career
There had always been
something about losing that set me off,
that caused me to take out my anger
on inanimate objects
Fortunately, for team and ballpark property,
I didn't lose very often
After I lost my fastball I mellowed a bit:
inanimate objects were safer
And because I knew how to pitch,
I still didn't lose very often

* * *

           Mickey Cochrane

I got knocked out once in football,
then went right back in the game
I got beaned a few times, same thing
Not to mention taking foul tips of the mask
I was hyper-competitive,
putting so much pressure on myself
that I had a nervous breakdown
the year after we won the Series in '35
The year after that
Bump Hadley's pitch almost killed me,
and that was the end of my playing career
And it was the end of my success as a manager:
once I could no longer lead by example
or direct things from behind the plate,
I wasn't very effective

Today’s MediumNip:

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

We could sing our songs in diamonds,
But we write them all in clay.
We could coat our cheeks
In crystals,
When our tears had
Dried away.

We could watch our hours disappear,
Like rain that
Washes down
Our windowpanes,
To let in
Light of day.

Come will,
Fulfilling our imaginings,
As days
Grow slowly warm,
We’ll take our walks
In meadows,
Well-past our winter storms. 


Good Monday morning and many thanks to today’s contributors, as July 1 lurks right around the corner!

Tonight, Mon. (6/28), 7:30pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Eileen Malone and Kathleen McClung online at; Password: r3trnofsd. Host: Angela James. Facebook:

Speaking of July 1, this Thursday night (7/1) at 8pm, Poetry Night in Davis will present Emily Hughes. Host: Andy Jones. Stay tuned for more details.




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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!




Sunday, June 27, 2021

A Poem Should Be . . .

—Public Domain Photo
—Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)

A poem should be palpable and mute  
As a globed fruit,

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless  
As the flight of birds.


A poem should be motionless in time  
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,  
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time  
As the moon climbs.


A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean  
But be.


Today (6/27), 3-4:30pm, Poets Club of Lincoln features Judy Rollings plus open mic at Zoom. The meeting ID will be 837 0247 9851; Passcode: 792265. Go to, click on "join a meeting" up at the top, and use the above ID and passcode to join.



For more about Archibald MacLeish, go to



Saturday, June 26, 2021

A Few Observations

—Poetry and Artwork by Norman J. Olson, 
Maplewood, Minnesota

palm fronds wave
like arms,
like charms,
prehensile in the wind…
prehistoric pelicans on knife-edge wings
float above
the gray, hot parking lot
with its neat white and  
lines and rows of metallic
insects, blue, red, white, gray, silver
and black… 

BOCA RATON HOTEL/back lot and parking area
what does this scene
mean?  is the person with
a rake really there?  is the
stick a snake?
the mourning doves  
seem indifferent to the fat ape, ME,
lugging suitcases across the lava…
time may have forgotten that
the sun is an exploded
avocado dripping its
wan starlight on rakes
and snakes
with no expiation in sight… 
spinning galaxies walk through 
windows of reflected
the old world has a spider for  
a brain
and the new world is insane…
robots with fire for eyes
sell insurance in offices lined
with tulips…  my face
itches and burns as I sip diet soda  
through a red striped  

books will burn like  
if they are soaked in paraffin… the dogs
of revenge and  

are biting hungry children…
we hold hands and pray for rain, but
the climate
has changed and even the elves are
running for cover…
my hand is a broken robot
and my necktie
is of no
further use… 

somebody must
be responsible for trees
that sink into the ground
like a bad internet
yes, the plants do seem to communicate
with each other but they
are not sending messages
of love and peace…  how could they be?  they  
are at war with each other
with the green and rubbery 
hidden in the shrubbery…
the umpire has called us all  
out and  
first base has exploded like a fertilizer
bomb on the expressway… 

Today’s LittleNip:

—Norman J. Olson
hanging by a string
between time and the still
uncounted stars,
I am a man in the wrong
fighting the wrong war,  
singing the wrong
and worshipping the wrong
on hungry, painful


Our thanks to Norman Olson for dropping into the Kitchen today with his fine poetry and artwork! He writes, “I was interviewed a couple weeks ago by Melissa Blundell, Education Director of the Wilzig Erotic Art Museum in South Beach, Florida, as part of their Tea and Sex series...  we talk about my use of the nude in my art and whether or not my art is "erotic art" per se...  anyway, it is a chance to see some of my large paintings at scale...  and hear me read a poem lol...  the technical glitches are due to this being my first attempt at zoom...  so, you can check it out at:” Don't forget that visuals on Medusa's Kitchen can be enlarged by clicking on them once.

In national poetry news, the 2021 Pulitzer Prize Winner in Poetry is Natalie Diaz for her
Postcolonial Love Poem collection, released by Graywolf Press. Natalie is the first Latina to win this prize, which includes $15,000 for a distinguished volume of original verse by an American author. Congratulations, Natalie! Info:

Today (6/26), 11am-1pm: Writers on the Air presents Sue Daly’s book launch
(Language of the Tea Leaves from Cold River Press) and poetry reading at the Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. This is an open air venue which will have socially distanced seating, and vaccinations and/or masks are appropriate. For those not comfortable with social contact yet, the reading and follow-up open mic will be Zoomed at; meeting ID: 358 106 078; passcode: 419778.

Also today (6/26), 2pm, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills returns with Lara Gularte and Taylor Graham plus open mic at Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co. (patio), 411 Hwy 49 at Pleasant Valley Rd., Diamond Springs. Host: Lara Gularte.

And tonight (6/26), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance ( presents Julie Woodside plus Bill Pieper’s book release of his
Borders & Boundaries from Cold River Press ( 1169 Perkins Way, Sacramento. Host: Tim Kahl.



 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!


Friday, June 25, 2021

Those Ponies Express

Pony Handoffs, 2021 Pony Express Re-Ride
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA


Pony Express Re-Ride 2021

Two golden Haflingers haltered,
picking bits of hay from slow-feeder nets,
raise heads to sample air or airwaves

while 2 riders on the ground
+ 1 ham monitoring the Pony’s progress
regroup for a photo-op with saddled horses

& I’m catching snippets of rider-talk—
some off-road stretch of mountain, no moon—
trust old Roman to find the way;

glad there’s 2 of them this evening,
riding the county roads, shoulder & asphalt,
commuter traffic, it’s safer in pairs

& I’m catching deep reflections
from the well of Rocko’s eye,
picking bits of lore & remembrance

& a golden horse whinnies
into western distance, sun setting
on unseen horse & rider on approach. 


gray barn
listens still
for hoof-beats, slap
of leather mailbag on saddle—away! 


The Pony passes
and along the field’s fenceline
4 bay horses canter
unsaddled, leading the way
tails high, jubilant, running. 


For weeks, nothing. Then
a dry-grass nest in the box.
Then I counted four blue eggs.
This sky-blue morning, deeper
blue in the box—don’t disturb. 


There are no covered bridges here.
Water, when it comes, is not profligate,
does not wet the abutments.
Children may scream for ice cream,
but we practice stoicism as the mercury rises.
The dog who loved to roll in the grass
lies spread-eagle on linoleum.
We don’t ask about the journey’s end.
All things will pass in a trickle
over the rocky ford. 


Field of dry stalks
where turkey walks
heedless of hawks—
strolling along

from fence to heap
of ash asleep
since winter’s keep—
since woodstove’s song.

What’s that dust-cloud,
floating gray shroud?
The turkeys crowd,
an ash-bath throng! 

Today’s LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

Poufy white, as if
knit by a child not precise
with her new stitches—
from this hilltop, see cloud-lace
unravel across June sky.


Our thanks to Taylor Graham, who says she sends us “mostly tankas this time, but also a Tetractys (“Waystation”) and a Rhupunt (“Turkey Spa”)”.

The Pony Express rides again!—and Taylor has sent us poems and photos about that annual re-creation. For more info about this year’s ride, go to

And now it’s time for . . .

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.)

Taylor Graham sent us several Tankas this time (, and Carol Louise Moon sent us a couple, as well: 

—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

Mom’s jewelry box
moonstone ring, crystal bead brooch
sorority pin
gold pendants—more questions than
answers in velvet darkness

(prev. pub. in
Poetry Soup, 2021)

pine-coned boughs bob and
bounce off my tile roof making
childhood memories—
summer days with my sister
bouncing on yard trampoline
—Carol Louise Moon

Joyce Odam has sent us an Italian Sonnet, which some say is the same thing as, or a slight variation on, a Petrarchan Sonnet ( So if you look around, you’ll see varied opinions on what constitutes an Italian Sonnet. I say let's just enjoy Joyce’s smooth poem:

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Oh, how I want, and find I cannot have,
I who would challenge everything that binds.
Every restriction, every pitfall, finds me
back at some beginning, nothing to grab
but hands that slip away. A curse, a laugh,
escapes my mouth, for that far shining blinds
me still, and my persistence winds its
dull way forward—and its dull way back.

Oh, how I pity me—woe after woe—
longing, for what it’s worth, does not teach much.
I lick my wounds and wish it were not so,
for still the need continues to aspire
beyond reality’s elusive touch—
and at the end, there is only this desire.

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) wrote a Rhupunt (last Friday’s Fiddlers’ Challenge)—a whole chain of them, in fact:

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

millipedes crawl
slow if at all
thousand legs tall

army of ants
lines up to dance
given no chance
but to abide

turkey can’t choose
good walking shoes
terrible twos
cast it aside

lowly inchworm
tiny but firm
groomed with new perm
wins race with pride 

About this next poem, Caschwa writes: “With so many dizzy, spinning, political arguments in the air, thought it was time for a Rondo. So here is my Catena Rondo poem.”


it used to be a simple majority
though exceptions came out of the woodwork
and built an argument that worked for a few
it used to be a simple majority

though exceptions came out of the woodwork
crying foul, terrible breach, we can’t have this!
do not attempt to disrupt power and money
though exceptions came out of the woodwork

crying foul, terrible breach, we can’t have this!
don’t ever mess with the top one percent
they will whine and pout and turn mean
crying foul, terrible breach, we can’t have this!

don’t ever mess with the top one percent
the living soul of royalty we vanquished
so we could proudly raise our own flag
don’t ever mess with the top one percent

the living soul of royalty we vanquished
and replaced with consent of the governed
most of whom didn’t have stock options
the living soul of royalty we vanquished

and replaced with consent of the governed
it used to be a simple majority
we showed royalty the exit door
and replaced with consent of the governed

it used to be a simple majority
though exceptions came out of the woodwork
and built an argument that worked for a few
it used to be a simple majority


This next poem is an Englyn Penfyr, a form sent by Taylor Graham last week which inspired Caschwa to try one:


we know all Hell is going to break loose
because it already has
and we’re not just talking jazz

Juneteenth is now federal official
more folks will participate
in voting, marking their slate

innuendos will not keep them at home
we are all in the same pack
united states, coming back


And here is a Haiku chain from Caschwa which was inspired by Medusa’s Seed of the Week (“Taking the Plunge”):


all shades of friendship
graze in the valley of gray,
welcoming color

from scorching heat, to
golden brown toast, nothing is
lost in the darkness

apricots picked fresh
right from the tree, several
making a good snack

buckets of friendship,
gifts of loving Earth, given
to neighbors for smiles


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 We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!



See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:



MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today: 
–Public Domain Cartoon

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.