—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers' Friday!!
THE REAPER
Slant sun-glare in my eye as I gaze
across a field of wild oats uncut. Morning
weed-eating for defensible space
before the mid-day swelter. In half an hour,
I could fill a bin with mown harvest
but, mid-July, all the goodness is burnt out
of it; worthless, shining platinum
in early light. Cornucopia of tinder
sun-lit—imagine the field ablaze.
I won’t call down disaster in drought,
this forever fire-season. Words of the past
branded in memory, summoned
once more, reaper in the gleam of dawn.
Slant sun-glare in my eye as I gaze
across a field of wild oats uncut. Morning
weed-eating for defensible space
before the mid-day swelter. In half an hour,
I could fill a bin with mown harvest
but, mid-July, all the goodness is burnt out
of it; worthless, shining platinum
in early light. Cornucopia of tinder
sun-lit—imagine the field ablaze.
I won’t call down disaster in drought,
this forever fire-season. Words of the past
branded in memory, summoned
once more, reaper in the gleam of dawn.
XII: DISASTER
a Boolean?
It crawled from the tenements.
Must the sons of families which survived
shipwreck ultimately pay the ends of death,
its dark morality? Withdraw this fear.
Is death fatal? and law entirely the firmest
whole? What is that? The truest valuables
found in air, grass, home, where God’s
dew wets the bare lawns of metaphysic.
By faith in early morning sunlight
be your small homage and lyric: live,
wonder, hope.
a Boolean?
It crawled from the tenements.
Must the sons of families which survived
shipwreck ultimately pay the ends of death,
its dark morality? Withdraw this fear.
Is death fatal? and law entirely the firmest
whole? What is that? The truest valuables
found in air, grass, home, where God’s
dew wets the bare lawns of metaphysic.
By faith in early morning sunlight
be your small homage and lyric: live,
wonder, hope.
WE ARE NOT ALONE
Hello vermin!—ground squirrels
in field and garden and under the deck;
and now, tiny ants swarming the kitchen.
I don’t include as vermin the skunk
I saw, early morning, its black flag unfurled,
strolling across our swale—he/she was
causing no trouble; nor the buzzard
posted by our gate, a respected member
of Nature’s cleanup crew.
But the ants! I’ve had to rig a wobbly, squat
tower for my cat’s food on kitchen counter:
lazy-Susan platter of diatomaceous earth
as foundation for an upside-down
custard cup and, atop that, the cat’s bowl
with its careful heap of nourishment—
food arrangement is critical for a whisker-
stressed cat. This is how we subsist
together in our homey ark.
Hello vermin!—ground squirrels
in field and garden and under the deck;
and now, tiny ants swarming the kitchen.
I don’t include as vermin the skunk
I saw, early morning, its black flag unfurled,
strolling across our swale—he/she was
causing no trouble; nor the buzzard
posted by our gate, a respected member
of Nature’s cleanup crew.
But the ants! I’ve had to rig a wobbly, squat
tower for my cat’s food on kitchen counter:
lazy-Susan platter of diatomaceous earth
as foundation for an upside-down
custard cup and, atop that, the cat’s bowl
with its careful heap of nourishment—
food arrangement is critical for a whisker-
stressed cat. This is how we subsist
together in our homey ark.
ODE TO AIR
We come back home to heat
brooding in a house kept shut too long.
I hustle to open windows,
let in unfettered air. Delectable, cool
air! Free as a remembered
dog dancing when a Delta breeze
came stringing through our canyon.
He’d grab a garden-pruning—
artichoke frond dried-out
almost weightless—and wield it
like a sabre, like a flag, a sashay-ribbon
till it made me dizzy laughing
at his tremendous joy. Free
of leash and lessons, free as air
sifting through screens. The natural
cool of nights with windows wide,
sky dancing on skin.
We come back home to heat
brooding in a house kept shut too long.
I hustle to open windows,
let in unfettered air. Delectable, cool
air! Free as a remembered
dog dancing when a Delta breeze
came stringing through our canyon.
He’d grab a garden-pruning—
artichoke frond dried-out
almost weightless—and wield it
like a sabre, like a flag, a sashay-ribbon
till it made me dizzy laughing
at his tremendous joy. Free
of leash and lessons, free as air
sifting through screens. The natural
cool of nights with windows wide,
sky dancing on skin.
DANSA BALADA
I can’t dance to this beat,
a troubadour technique
of refrains that repeat
with a sonic mystique.
I can’t dance to this beat,
the rules tangle my feet.
I can’t dance to this beat
not meant for folks to speak
in triple digit heat.
I can’t dance to this beat
they say is quite antique.
I can’t dance to this beat,
however it may pique
as nearly obsolete.
I can’t dance to this beat.
I can’t dance to this beat,
a troubadour technique
of refrains that repeat
with a sonic mystique.
I can’t dance to this beat,
the rules tangle my feet.
I can’t dance to this beat
not meant for folks to speak
in triple digit heat.
I can’t dance to this beat
they say is quite antique.
I can’t dance to this beat,
however it may pique
as nearly obsolete.
I can’t dance to this beat.
MIDDAY MUTE
Summer afternoon. Hot, silent sizzle-
gold like bees, buckeye turning harvest shades
of leaf. Undertone of gobble-gossip
from the pebble-deck. I check. Six turkeys
perched on iron railing. Six wild turkeys
in muffled conversation over tea—
heat-mirage, or my imagination.
Everything’s heat-mirage out of focus.
I click a pic. Turkey talk stops. Turkeys
don’t like eavesdropping—turkeys now fading
out of foreground, form, and color; out of
the quick iPad photo I snapped. Out of
sound and the summer afternoon. What’s left?
Wrought-iron railing and air. Hot, silent.
Summer afternoon. Hot, silent sizzle-
gold like bees, buckeye turning harvest shades
of leaf. Undertone of gobble-gossip
from the pebble-deck. I check. Six turkeys
perched on iron railing. Six wild turkeys
in muffled conversation over tea—
heat-mirage, or my imagination.
Everything’s heat-mirage out of focus.
I click a pic. Turkey talk stops. Turkeys
don’t like eavesdropping—turkeys now fading
out of foreground, form, and color; out of
the quick iPad photo I snapped. Out of
sound and the summer afternoon. What’s left?
Wrought-iron railing and air. Hot, silent.
Today’s LittleNip:
WILD TURKEY FEATHERS
—Taylor Graham
They’re scattered all over the grass
as shadows on dry-stubble pass,
turkeys scratching, searching enmasse
as acorns fall.
Oh, feathers iridescent-brass—
the large, the small.
_____________________
Friday brings us double treats: first, Taylor Graham’s fine poetry and photos—which include her forms, leading us into Form Fiddlers’ Friday. Today, Taylor sends us a Boolean [? see note below] (“XII: Disaster”); a Word-Can poem (“The Reaper”); Normative Syllabics (“Midday Mute”); a Balada (our latest Fiddlers’ Challenge: “Dansa Balada”); and a Burns stanza, AKA a Scottish stanza or standard Habbie (“Wild Turkey Feathers”).
Taylor’s note about the Boolean says it was “a recent Robert Lee Brewer (Writer's Digest) prompt [www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/boolean-poetic-forms]. Rules [were] a bit vague. It’s one of those crazy Oulipo inventions like the Prisoner’s Constraint. I googled it, hoping for clarity, and found more possibilities but no definite answer. So: I chose two short poems, cut them into separate words, shook them in a can, drew a handful and started making sentences till I was out of words; I added no words of my own. I don’t know if this is a Boolean. It might be, or maybe it’s a Bouillabaisse, or… The two poems I used were: ‘From Disaster’ by George Oppen and ‘XII (2011)’ by Wendell Berry.”
The term, “Oulipo”, may be pursued further at poets.org/text/brief-guide-oulipo OR www.nous.org.uk/oulipo.html OR en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oulipo/.
And now it’s time for:
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
WILD TURKEY FEATHERS
—Taylor Graham
They’re scattered all over the grass
as shadows on dry-stubble pass,
turkeys scratching, searching enmasse
as acorns fall.
Oh, feathers iridescent-brass—
the large, the small.
_____________________
Friday brings us double treats: first, Taylor Graham’s fine poetry and photos—which include her forms, leading us into Form Fiddlers’ Friday. Today, Taylor sends us a Boolean [? see note below] (“XII: Disaster”); a Word-Can poem (“The Reaper”); Normative Syllabics (“Midday Mute”); a Balada (our latest Fiddlers’ Challenge: “Dansa Balada”); and a Burns stanza, AKA a Scottish stanza or standard Habbie (“Wild Turkey Feathers”).
Taylor’s note about the Boolean says it was “a recent Robert Lee Brewer (Writer's Digest) prompt [www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/boolean-poetic-forms]. Rules [were] a bit vague. It’s one of those crazy Oulipo inventions like the Prisoner’s Constraint. I googled it, hoping for clarity, and found more possibilities but no definite answer. So: I chose two short poems, cut them into separate words, shook them in a can, drew a handful and started making sentences till I was out of words; I added no words of my own. I don’t know if this is a Boolean. It might be, or maybe it’s a Bouillabaisse, or… The two poems I used were: ‘From Disaster’ by George Oppen and ‘XII (2011)’ by Wendell Berry.”
The term, “Oulipo”, may be pursued further at poets.org/text/brief-guide-oulipo OR www.nous.org.uk/oulipo.html OR en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oulipo/.
And now it’s time for:
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Claire Baker has sent us a Smith Sonnet, defined as “Twelve lines of Blank Verse; ending couplet in iambic pentameter, rhymed, equals 14 lines.” Lovely, Claire, so smooth, and thank you!
COMMON GROUND
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Though proudly born, most will not wear a crown
or dine near crystal chandeliers, servants
tending needs; we’ll take no horse-drawn carriage
rides to formal teas…Ours is common ground,
no fanfare heard! Yet how our feet will throb
for climbing higher, reaching mountain peaks,
to claim our royal wealth in wildflower gems,
in fine-etched veins on aspen leaves and stone…
On hands and knees, in jeans and garden shirts,
we plant and sow, nurturing common earth.
Next day we break new land and water well….
When flowers thrive, we give the blooms away.
We celebrate our unfenced, common ground—
where ample rain and songs of birds abound.
(prev. pub. in Benicia-Herald, July 11, 2021)
—Public Domain Artwork
Next is an interesting Oriental Octet from Carol Louise Moon! For more about that form, see www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/2008-form-unique-to-the-study-and-writing-of-poetry-american-women-poets-discuss/#anna (scroll down) OR tao-talk.com/2020/05/17/haikai-challenge-139-fragrant-breeze-kunpuu-springs-fragrant-array (scroll down, right-hand column).
—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
WARRIOR MAPLE
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
She says her Maple,
golden and gorgeous, wasn’t
always that way, found
In a bucket almost dead.
Through two seasons
her tree thrived
and grew to fullness—
strong as Viking warriors,
thus the name “Viking.”
_________________
Last Friday’s Fiddlers’ Challenge was the Balada, described on Poet’s Collective at poetscollective.org/poetryforms/balada/. Their description proved to be a bit confusing, so I looked around for another resource, and found a mention of the Balada on Sacramento poet/teacher Jan Haag’s The Desolation Poems: Poetic Forms Used in English (72.52.113.228/PODesIntro.html). This is her comprehensive list of poetry in all sorts of forms. Poet Carl Schwartz says he “put on my copycat hat and pirated the structure of Jan Haag’s #273 Balada to arrive at this offering. Here is my cheat chart that I drew up, based on Jan Haag’s Balada:”
a
b
A
B
AA
BB
A
B
AAA
BBB
AA
BB
AAA
BBB
AAAA
BBBB
AA
BB
AAAA
BBBB
a
b
AA
BB
And here is Carl's (Caschwa’s) Balada:
BETTER CHECK THAT AGAIN
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
remember that technical paperwork describing
what temperature range was appropriate
for all those electronic gadgets piling
up on every shelf and cabinet?
well this is California and we’re having
record heat, more than anyone has seen yet
for all those electronic gadgets piling
up on every shelf and cabinet
not to mention perishable groceries wilting
or prescription medicines for needs you haven’t met
well this is California and we’re having
record heat, more than anyone has seen yet
not to mention perishable groceries wilting
or prescription medicines for needs you haven’t met
hope you have lots of spare HVAC filters, God willing
heat waves don’t give a damn how much you’re in debt
well this is California and we’re having
record heat, more than anyone has seen yet
hope you have lots of spare HVAC filters, God willing
heat waves don’t give a damn how much you’re in debt
we may never see the end of where this is going
melting arctic glaciers are not a safety net
well this is California and we’re having
record heat, more than anyone has seen yet
—Public Domain Cartoon
Next, Carl says he “looked again at the Balada and came up with a poem that is 'lyrical and has a consistent refrain' [as per the Poets' Collective description]. I made no attempt to use a mote or the rhyme scheme offered by Poet’s Collective". For more about the mote, see www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1010-i-line-construction and scroll down to "mote":
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
—Caschwa
arrow pointing down then backwards
assumes everything is copasetic
spelling, grammar, punctuation
the peak of classical poetic
no, it’s not ready yet
maybe a little jazz infusion
spicy language on the tongue
hard of hearing? not anymore
that was back when I was young
no, I’m not ready yet
new day, new art, new world at last
oh, look here, a form proposed
to lighten up those broken hearts,
improve upon that dreary prose
nobody’s ready yet
maybe throw in a good, old mote
to balance out unsteady verse
pen in one hand, popcorn in the other
an exorcism to remove the curse
no, don’t hit that Enter button!!
I’m sorry that I posted a less-than-helpful reference, and I applaud Carl and Taylor (see her Balada above) for soldiering on, regardless.
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
—Caschwa
arrow pointing down then backwards
assumes everything is copasetic
spelling, grammar, punctuation
the peak of classical poetic
no, it’s not ready yet
maybe a little jazz infusion
spicy language on the tongue
hard of hearing? not anymore
that was back when I was young
no, I’m not ready yet
new day, new art, new world at last
oh, look here, a form proposed
to lighten up those broken hearts,
improve upon that dreary prose
nobody’s ready yet
maybe throw in a good, old mote
to balance out unsteady verse
pen in one hand, popcorn in the other
an exorcism to remove the curse
no, don’t hit that Enter button!!
I’m sorry that I posted a less-than-helpful reference, and I applaud Carl and Taylor (see her Balada above) for soldiering on, regardless.
Chica
—Photo by Carl Schwartz
We are sad to report that Carl’s little Chihuahua, Chica, passed away this week. We’re sorry for your loss, Carl. He sent this poem about her, which I am calling a Eulogy:
IT WASN’T SUDDEN
—Caschwa
Thirteen years ago my wife and I
adopted a three-year-old Chihuahua
named Chica. At that time we lived
in a pet friendly apartment alongside
Arcade Creek, and it was a daily ritual
for pet owners to walk their dogs and
cats together, in total peace and harmony.
Then we bought a house, and the
fenced back yard became Chica’s own,
private dominion. In the front yard she
and neighboring kitty cats would gently
touch noses, but in the back yard the
occasional wandering cat, squirrel, chicken,
possum, or whatever would be chased
off by the one and only ruler of the yard.
Although she wasn’t at all adverse to
playing in fallen hail, if Chica saw or
smelled rain water, she would refuse to go
outside. Likewise, thunder and fireworks
caused her to retreat under the bed.
Over the years, her health declined little by
little, until at a the ripe, old, doggy year age
of 112, she had problems eating even her
favorite foods, and would lay flat on the floor
until picked up by a human who needed to
walk across that very space.
Since we lacked the clinical tools or experience
to analyze Chica’s exact state of health, we
contacted her vet, who was booked far ahead,
so we then scheduled a drop off, to at least get
her diagnosed if not treated. On the morning of
the drop off, I got up by the alarm and checked
on Chica. She was no longer moving, her life had
finally left her. My wife and I trust that her last
memories were of the love we had for her.
__________________
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:
Lai: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/lai.htm
__________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Balada: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/balada
•••Boolean: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/boolean-poetic-forms
•••Burns stanza, Habbie, Scottish stanza: poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/burns-stanza/#:~:text=
•••Eulogy: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/eulogy
•••Lai: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/lai.htm
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Oriental Octet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/2008-form-unique-to-the-study-and-writing-of-poetry-american-women-poets-discuss/#anna OR tao-talk.com/2020/05/17/haikai-challenge-139-fragrant-breeze-kunpuu-springs-fragrant-array
•••Prisoner’s Constraint/Restriction/Multiple Lipogram: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lipogram
IT WASN’T SUDDEN
—Caschwa
Thirteen years ago my wife and I
adopted a three-year-old Chihuahua
named Chica. At that time we lived
in a pet friendly apartment alongside
Arcade Creek, and it was a daily ritual
for pet owners to walk their dogs and
cats together, in total peace and harmony.
Then we bought a house, and the
fenced back yard became Chica’s own,
private dominion. In the front yard she
and neighboring kitty cats would gently
touch noses, but in the back yard the
occasional wandering cat, squirrel, chicken,
possum, or whatever would be chased
off by the one and only ruler of the yard.
Although she wasn’t at all adverse to
playing in fallen hail, if Chica saw or
smelled rain water, she would refuse to go
outside. Likewise, thunder and fireworks
caused her to retreat under the bed.
Over the years, her health declined little by
little, until at a the ripe, old, doggy year age
of 112, she had problems eating even her
favorite foods, and would lay flat on the floor
until picked up by a human who needed to
walk across that very space.
Since we lacked the clinical tools or experience
to analyze Chica’s exact state of health, we
contacted her vet, who was booked far ahead,
so we then scheduled a drop off, to at least get
her diagnosed if not treated. On the morning of
the drop off, I got up by the alarm and checked
on Chica. She was no longer moving, her life had
finally left her. My wife and I trust that her last
memories were of the love we had for her.
__________________
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:
Lai: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/lai.htm
__________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Balada: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/balada
•••Boolean: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/boolean-poetic-forms
•••Burns stanza, Habbie, Scottish stanza: poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/burns-stanza/#:~:text=
•••Eulogy: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/eulogy
•••Lai: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/lai.htm
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Oriental Octet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/2008-form-unique-to-the-study-and-writing-of-poetry-american-women-poets-discuss/#anna OR tao-talk.com/2020/05/17/haikai-challenge-139-fragrant-breeze-kunpuu-springs-fragrant-array
•••Prisoner’s Constraint/Restriction/Multiple Lipogram: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lipogram
•••Smith Sonnet: 14 lines, 5-ft. (pentameter), unrhymed except for final couplet
•••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
•••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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