—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
MEMORIAL DAY
I’m out weed-eating, a battle against wildfire—enemy grown catastrophic these last years. We’ve let things get out of hand, turned Nature against us. Climate change. Not enough control-burns. Trees standing dead and dying, waiting for a flame. Such thoughts clutter my head as I swing my gas trimmer in a wide swath, mowing annual grasses gone to seed, tinder-dry—invasive species from European conquest. This morning I’m clearing what used to be wagon road—not to drive it, but remembering settlers who came before me; keeping a bit of local history; opening a path for walking my dog. Alien foxtails and ripgut brome have stings lethal as a rattlesnake’s, but
snake is peaceable,
winding its silent way through
uncut grass, away.
I’m out weed-eating, a battle against wildfire—enemy grown catastrophic these last years. We’ve let things get out of hand, turned Nature against us. Climate change. Not enough control-burns. Trees standing dead and dying, waiting for a flame. Such thoughts clutter my head as I swing my gas trimmer in a wide swath, mowing annual grasses gone to seed, tinder-dry—invasive species from European conquest. This morning I’m clearing what used to be wagon road—not to drive it, but remembering settlers who came before me; keeping a bit of local history; opening a path for walking my dog. Alien foxtails and ripgut brome have stings lethal as a rattlesnake’s, but
snake is peaceable,
winding its silent way through
uncut grass, away.
RIGHT-OF-WAY
He was sunning on warm asphalt
then threading through
weeds, tough and slender as cordage weaving
in and out of stockwire fence between
pasture and one-and-a-half lane road. He
didn’t want to meet me; disappeared
in the tumble of empty trash bins
but for a glimpse of coiled rattle-pattern
shade-on-sun. I kept going, weed-
eating our frontage, cutting long swinging arcs
marking/clearing my path ahead.
He doesn’t want trouble. Neither do I.
He has the right-of-way.
He was sunning on warm asphalt
then threading through
weeds, tough and slender as cordage weaving
in and out of stockwire fence between
pasture and one-and-a-half lane road. He
didn’t want to meet me; disappeared
in the tumble of empty trash bins
but for a glimpse of coiled rattle-pattern
shade-on-sun. I kept going, weed-
eating our frontage, cutting long swinging arcs
marking/clearing my path ahead.
He doesn’t want trouble. Neither do I.
He has the right-of-way.
FRESH SUBCONSCIOUS
I remember the snake, most of my life ago,
coiled on desert sand the color of snake
mottled and scaled as dry-mouth desert in
snake-pattern. It stings in memory, reviving
with a winding coil about the swallowed
breath of shock surprise at seeing ancient
myth uncoiling in the conscious mind seeing
but more, imagining beyond the bounds
of penetrable metal fence, of mortal logic.
I remember the snake, most of my life ago,
coiled on desert sand the color of snake
mottled and scaled as dry-mouth desert in
snake-pattern. It stings in memory, reviving
with a winding coil about the swallowed
breath of shock surprise at seeing ancient
myth uncoiling in the conscious mind seeing
but more, imagining beyond the bounds
of penetrable metal fence, of mortal logic.
STUNG
What’s this? two baker’s buns, honey-golden almost hidden in dead grass. Side by side as if lifted from a box, still warm from the oven. It’s chilly morn, my weed-eater almost ate them. I quit my swing, change direction. When my machine runs out of gas, I fetch my camera, stoop for a shot. Now I’ll pick one up; the two are linked together by a stem—twig broken from the valley oak that leans above us, the two oak galls and me. I turn them over, their underside a pair of kidneys the color of turnip.
How odd is Nature.
What insect created these
dainties with a sting?
What’s this? two baker’s buns, honey-golden almost hidden in dead grass. Side by side as if lifted from a box, still warm from the oven. It’s chilly morn, my weed-eater almost ate them. I quit my swing, change direction. When my machine runs out of gas, I fetch my camera, stoop for a shot. Now I’ll pick one up; the two are linked together by a stem—twig broken from the valley oak that leans above us, the two oak galls and me. I turn them over, their underside a pair of kidneys the color of turnip.
How odd is Nature.
What insect created these
dainties with a sting?
A STING IN THE AIR
There’s no one at school this morning
to upset the silence. Not even the eerie coo
of mourning dove. My dog shivers
with excitement. No magic collar,
she’s in harness ready to go to work.
You’ve walked across the quad,
guiding on the sunken amphitheater—
I think of ancient tragedy;
on the news a girl who never came home
from school. You walk placidly
as on a beach, down
the concrete steps you go, as if
you might disguise yourself on empty
stage. Our dogs would know you
by your scent in a crowd of strangers.
Suddenly
you’ve vanished. Clouds
building to the east, a flash
of distant lightning. Before the crack
of thunder, can my swift dog find you?
There’s no one at school this morning
to upset the silence. Not even the eerie coo
of mourning dove. My dog shivers
with excitement. No magic collar,
she’s in harness ready to go to work.
You’ve walked across the quad,
guiding on the sunken amphitheater—
I think of ancient tragedy;
on the news a girl who never came home
from school. You walk placidly
as on a beach, down
the concrete steps you go, as if
you might disguise yourself on empty
stage. Our dogs would know you
by your scent in a crowd of strangers.
Suddenly
you’ve vanished. Clouds
building to the east, a flash
of distant lightning. Before the crack
of thunder, can my swift dog find you?
SLEEPING THROUGH SUPERMOON
This was my chance to see
Moon at odds with the Sun—
daylight not yet begun,
Moon going dark.
But I was dreaming fast
in a sleep-healing haze
too deep to wake, to gaze
at Supermoon.
Will this be my last chance?
I’ve seen them before, night
eye blood-red-pink in fright
or just because.
This was my chance to see
Moon at odds with the Sun—
daylight not yet begun,
Moon going dark.
But I was dreaming fast
in a sleep-healing haze
too deep to wake, to gaze
at Supermoon.
Will this be my last chance?
I’ve seen them before, night
eye blood-red-pink in fright
or just because.
Today’s LittleNip:
STILL LIFE WITHOUT STING
—Taylor Graham
What do the bees care
to have their picture taken
in the blue lupine?
They’re busy making honey
of a briefly blooming world.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham today, who has sent some thoughts about our recent Seed of the Week: Memories That Sting. Snakes, lupine and more weed-eating—a season-long morning meditation for Taylor Graham. She has sent forms: a Word-Can Poem (“A Sting in the Air”); an Abhanga (“Sleeping through Supermoon”); a couple of Haibun (“Memorial Day” and “Stung”) and a Tanka (“Still Life Without Sting”).
A note that Swan Scythe Press Poetry Chapbook Contest has a deadline coming up soon: JUNE 15! Go to www.swanscythepress.com/contest.html for submissions information.
And another note that the deadline for the 2021 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest is July 20. Email The Poets Club of Lincoln’s Contest Coordinator Alan Lowe at slolowe@icloud.com or slolowe44.blogspot.com/ for contest information.
And now it’s time for …
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
STILL LIFE WITHOUT STING
—Taylor Graham
What do the bees care
to have their picture taken
in the blue lupine?
They’re busy making honey
of a briefly blooming world.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham today, who has sent some thoughts about our recent Seed of the Week: Memories That Sting. Snakes, lupine and more weed-eating—a season-long morning meditation for Taylor Graham. She has sent forms: a Word-Can Poem (“A Sting in the Air”); an Abhanga (“Sleeping through Supermoon”); a couple of Haibun (“Memorial Day” and “Stung”) and a Tanka (“Still Life Without Sting”).
A note that Swan Scythe Press Poetry Chapbook Contest has a deadline coming up soon: JUNE 15! Go to www.swanscythepress.com/contest.html for submissions information.
And another note that the deadline for the 2021 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest is July 20. Email The Poets Club of Lincoln’s Contest Coordinator Alan Lowe at slolowe@icloud.com or slolowe44.blogspot.com/ for contest information.
And now it’s time for …
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
We’re starting off today with a very wry poem by Carol Louise Moon:
ALWAYS QUESTION A QUESTION POEM
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
What is a question poem?
Should I write a question poem?
Are there “shoulds” to this poem?
Why do poets write question poems
when the answer is
right in front of them?
Should the question be rhetorical?
Does a poet have to capitalize the first
letter of every line, or just capitalize
on the IDEA of a question poem?
Should I question the method,
or even motive, of a question poem?
What is an oxymoron?
Did I spell oxymoron correctly?
Ever tried a question poem?
If you did, did it make sense?
Every poet should… write?
Is it that difficult, really?
Or, is it so simple that it’s fun?
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us his own take on Question Poems. Are there no dumb questions, he asks:
OBVIOUSLY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Is it true that there are no dumb questions?
How does one go about proving that?
Is it found in a rat’s deathbed confessions?
What are you keeping under your hat?
How many crumbs are in a slim slice of pie?
Is that enough for a trail to catch a thief?
Why do the 5 W’s always end in why?
Does a dog’s food pyramid rely mostly on beef?
Here is an Espinella from Carl:
MY FIRST TIME
—Caschwa
the pool water was twelve feet deep
situated ‘neath the high dive
spring board tense and very alive
family taking pics to keep
I steeled my mind to take the leap
first time I’d ever climbed up there
the lifeguard grinned and stroked her hair
knees not on speaking terms with feet
regulars in line to repeat
okay, I’m ready, just don’t stare
This is Carl’s clever Palindrome:
MOUNTAIN TRAIL
—Caschwa
piled debts up high
very sorry not on time
for job, cheap tables
waited
tables, cheap job for time
on, not sorry, very high
up debts piled
Plus his Boketto:
POWER AND MONEY
—Caschwa
if we violate the rules
we are run through the grinder
and thrown out with stinking trash
unless we’re cash
and then it’s okay
old money can deviate
from all the rules we follow
but of course
This week, Carl has made up a form that uses three stanzas of 8,9,8,9 xaxa (xbxb, xcxc), using near rhymes only. Got that? It’s also a response to Medusa’s Seed of the Week: "a cat was standing…"
72-WORD POEM
—Caschwa
cool cats create their own standing
gluing our glances to every
suave move without blinking an eye,
so many choices to endeavor
scamper easily up a tree
leaving all the tasty fruit intact
cocked and ready to leap and pounce
another morsel thrown in the sack
enamored of kill torn apart
a casserole that’s fresh and gory
menu full of unwary prey
always king or queen, never sorry
72-WORD POEM
—Caschwa
cool cats create their own standing
gluing our glances to every
suave move without blinking an eye,
so many choices to endeavor
scamper easily up a tree
leaving all the tasty fruit intact
cocked and ready to leap and pounce
another morsel thrown in the sack
enamored of kill torn apart
a casserole that’s fresh and gory
menu full of unwary prey
always king or queen, never sorry
Now we have Joyce Odam’s beautiful Sestina! Read it carefully; we’re challenging you to write your own this week:
FALLING FEATHER
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
I watch a white sky-feather
slowly falling through ache of light—
far from morning.
Somewhere there is rain
where wet streets shine.
Why am I afraid?
Of what am I afraid?
Vague cloud-drifts feather
across the sky and darkly shine
Tinges of sharp light
glint like first stingings of rain.
This morning—
this long-ago morning—
I was not afraid,
the air smelled of rain.
Then silver-feathered
gulls came crying through the heavy gray light.
The air did not shine—
and you know how air can always shine
through the grayest of mornings—
that struggle that dark makes under light.
Something that makes me afraid
is brushing like a boa feather
across my face. There is the dark feel of rain
in the gathering air—a slow-motioned rain
with a dull air-shine,
and I am still watching the feather
that began falling this morning.
Is that why I am afraid—
this feather falling so slowly through wet gray light,
this ominous wet light
that feels like rain?
Is it the slowness of the falling that makes me afraid—
this dry feather drifting with a curious shine,
leaving its long slow streak on the morning?
And how can this heavy feel of rain not wet the feather?
In this tedious ache of old light my old tears shine
and become the rain. I am so far from morning.
Why am I afraid? I watch the falling feather.
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!
_____________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
Sestina: www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Sestina
Joyce Odam has sent us a lovely Sestina (see above) this week, so let’s use her example and give it a try. If you’ve never done one, you’re in for a treat and a rite of passage. Hint: when you choose your six words, it helps to choose generic ones like Joyce did, words that can stretch into many uses. Good luck!
______________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Abhanga: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/abhanga
•••Boketto (“Listen to the Light”):
poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
•••Espinella: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/espinela-poetic-forms
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Palindromic Poem (Mirror Poetry):
www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/poetic-form-palindrome-poetry-or-mirror-poem
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Sestina: www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Sestina
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••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
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