—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
SWADDLING
It was summer when she passed—
we knew come spring she would not last.
But as fresh buds broke from dead wood,
the tree stump bark cork cambium
erupted, unexpected growth,
we set our minds to recreate,
wrapped in those tie-dyes, student years,
free spirited, our crazy route—
wherever wheels led, patchwork quilt.
The golden beetle, sixties beat,
with petals painted engine end,
exhausted smoke, herbaceous mist,
above tired tyres, poor tarmac grip,
we blared our Massachusetts air.
Amongst pricked gorse of butter milk,
where heather bushed in purple rug,
and ling blushed swags for peewit wings,
we reminisced on heath surrounds
with lizard whips and butterflies.
We lay on turf, moss bed of peats,
shared sunbathe near an adder brood
and watched the glare drop from our earth
as cool pulled lower down the snake
in the question mark, our beading eyes,
saw what we knew dreamt, hoped and felt.
May we stay here in cling sarongs,
two folds, but one in chrysalis,
a swaddling band for pyre cloth,
await the dew on resting eyes,
a serene ending, all our days?
(prev. pub. by Runcible Spoon)
It was summer when she passed—
we knew come spring she would not last.
But as fresh buds broke from dead wood,
the tree stump bark cork cambium
erupted, unexpected growth,
we set our minds to recreate,
wrapped in those tie-dyes, student years,
free spirited, our crazy route—
wherever wheels led, patchwork quilt.
The golden beetle, sixties beat,
with petals painted engine end,
exhausted smoke, herbaceous mist,
above tired tyres, poor tarmac grip,
we blared our Massachusetts air.
Amongst pricked gorse of butter milk,
where heather bushed in purple rug,
and ling blushed swags for peewit wings,
we reminisced on heath surrounds
with lizard whips and butterflies.
We lay on turf, moss bed of peats,
shared sunbathe near an adder brood
and watched the glare drop from our earth
as cool pulled lower down the snake
in the question mark, our beading eyes,
saw what we knew dreamt, hoped and felt.
May we stay here in cling sarongs,
two folds, but one in chrysalis,
a swaddling band for pyre cloth,
await the dew on resting eyes,
a serene ending, all our days?
(prev. pub. by Runcible Spoon)
LENGTHS FOR WIDTH
It lies beneath her surface sheen,
the real disturbance of disease,
dementia spread, synapse collapse,
while outwardly she knows the rules—
the courtesies to strangers shown,
as even dares to hold her hand,
mutters sweet nothings to her lobe.
He daily comes from swimming baths,
stiff exercise for sinew strength,
some lengths of pool as butterfly,
prior to residence—not home—
the space where breast-stroke tackles width,
that gap between her mind and his;
from highest board, diving for love,
through water for the flower God,
his Lily, surface tension float.
Tomorrow it will seem the same,
unless more fumbles locked in brain,
meniscus broken, given way,
as lightest touch may break the skein.
Pale sunshine may give way to rain,
endearments whispered, leaning in,
cold shoulder proffered in return,
stare, a rejected sacrifice,
this diamond wedding alien.
(prev. pub. by Poetry Potion, 2020)
It lies beneath her surface sheen,
the real disturbance of disease,
dementia spread, synapse collapse,
while outwardly she knows the rules—
the courtesies to strangers shown,
as even dares to hold her hand,
mutters sweet nothings to her lobe.
He daily comes from swimming baths,
stiff exercise for sinew strength,
some lengths of pool as butterfly,
prior to residence—not home—
the space where breast-stroke tackles width,
that gap between her mind and his;
from highest board, diving for love,
through water for the flower God,
his Lily, surface tension float.
Tomorrow it will seem the same,
unless more fumbles locked in brain,
meniscus broken, given way,
as lightest touch may break the skein.
Pale sunshine may give way to rain,
endearments whispered, leaning in,
cold shoulder proffered in return,
stare, a rejected sacrifice,
this diamond wedding alien.
(prev. pub. by Poetry Potion, 2020)
BINGO
As if a lotto board engaged,
without cash prize or laughter raised.
Not a good fit, the present time,
the next, and the one after that;
ten minutes last, though check again,
submittable, unchanged its tune,
prospective journal, presses died.
Past promised publication date,
enjoyed your work, cut, paste again,
parenthesis, mind-reading games,
write any style (but not your own).
It is not luck that chooses House,
its furniture, the former guests,
to recognise rejection slips,
composed by writers, past ingrained;
the dread of midwife, news to share,
delivered, still-birth, motherhood.
Some shuttered image, open frame,
a patterned dress or sculpted shape,
as environs prints eroteme,
from sole debate what soul creates.
When site accepts, the tenth attempt—
assumed they must print anything—
or do I send them everything,
what means something, submit, though poor.
The treasure stored in box through years,
erupted into line and phrase,
unless the stranger finds a friend
on fallow ground, rotated crops.
(prev. pub. by Featured Poets, 2021)
As if a lotto board engaged,
without cash prize or laughter raised.
Not a good fit, the present time,
the next, and the one after that;
ten minutes last, though check again,
submittable, unchanged its tune,
prospective journal, presses died.
Past promised publication date,
enjoyed your work, cut, paste again,
parenthesis, mind-reading games,
write any style (but not your own).
It is not luck that chooses House,
its furniture, the former guests,
to recognise rejection slips,
composed by writers, past ingrained;
the dread of midwife, news to share,
delivered, still-birth, motherhood.
Some shuttered image, open frame,
a patterned dress or sculpted shape,
as environs prints eroteme,
from sole debate what soul creates.
When site accepts, the tenth attempt—
assumed they must print anything—
or do I send them everything,
what means something, submit, though poor.
The treasure stored in box through years,
erupted into line and phrase,
unless the stranger finds a friend
on fallow ground, rotated crops.
(prev. pub. by Featured Poets, 2021)
COEDPOETH
Esclusham Mountain, purple rolls,
arousing erica-hidden grouse,
while bubbled throats gargle scales
where ancient shafts which shifted lead
pit peaty ferns, brown-feathered ground.
These valley sides with charcoal glowed,
mines, kilns below, webbed bowel land.
Slack topsoil makes for lazy growth
amongst grey birches struggling through;
where hot wood burned through many lives,
I now face fireplace wall of stone.
Men dropped from moor to Clywedog,
down from The Wern, up Nant Mill Wood
and here they fed the chimney stack,
wives griddled cakes and blacked the grate.
Buzzards control the airspace here,
patrol perimeter land claim,
stretch their wheel, I hear their cries,
like scenting marks upon the sky;
bird conversations heard above
awoke those who this stairway trudged,
when to Minera tracks took trucks
laden with heavy plumbum gold
clawed from the earth of Pyllau Plwm.
As children trundled hoops with sticks
along this lane to Middle Road,
and dressed a clothes peg as a doll
outside this door amongst the slate,
or ran with string to launch red kites,
birds preying watched tin chapel roof
and butts beside the hill, World's End.
(prev. pub. by The Seventh Quarry, 2019)
HIVE
The ukulele, not best for Danny Boy,
means unaccompanied, we gravel to begin;
our chariot choir sings high and low,
though jointly note the middle range.
Despite harmonious melody,
the Dublin-born disputes the tune
is Londonderry Air, an Ulster name.
But with Guinness I have heard
plantation words alongside craic,
and Prot bars resound republican.
We warble words with the chorus girls,
a hurting leg, Jack's grunt refrain.
Out the door, politics; here we laugh
at wheelchair three-point turn or six
in this space, confined, it’s like
our repartee, the discourse of humanity,
Areopagus of fun.
Kim, the crochet girl, has brought a bag
of kitchenalia to identify.
This largely plastic crowded tray
whets few appetites today.
With glove stretchers, I had never need
of tongs to empty sauce sachets,
or the mango stone remover,
the sandwich cutter which prevents
squashed jam seeping from bread edges.
Yesterday sachets and mangoes
were not in the scullery,
or indeed between my teeth,
while butter or jam were choice,
and crustiness, grandpa's trait,
an ingredient of life.
Because the baby has been born
half-knit blue cardigan
has sleeves now turning pink;
desultory chair exercise
brings the needles overhead.
This group, hive christened,
and we its bees;
some come from ever-silent rooms
and travel here without sound,
broken-winged, as if the sting
already taken from our tale.
Once my thought-question
slipped from lips;
it might have searched opinions,
we could have shared spoken debate,
we might have made a meal of it.
But when the leader googles phone,
the answer served on a plate,
then beehive becomes an igloo still,
snake-charmer's basket on its head,
and honey comb cannot mature.
The yellow high-viz jacket wears
a button hole, woollen daffodil,
but insists it to be a crocus flower.
In stitches
he offers me its curling bloom to smell;
we are back to buzzing
and that perfume claims the room.
(prev. pub. by Eunoia Review, 2019)
The ukulele, not best for Danny Boy,
means unaccompanied, we gravel to begin;
our chariot choir sings high and low,
though jointly note the middle range.
Despite harmonious melody,
the Dublin-born disputes the tune
is Londonderry Air, an Ulster name.
But with Guinness I have heard
plantation words alongside craic,
and Prot bars resound republican.
We warble words with the chorus girls,
a hurting leg, Jack's grunt refrain.
Out the door, politics; here we laugh
at wheelchair three-point turn or six
in this space, confined, it’s like
our repartee, the discourse of humanity,
Areopagus of fun.
Kim, the crochet girl, has brought a bag
of kitchenalia to identify.
This largely plastic crowded tray
whets few appetites today.
With glove stretchers, I had never need
of tongs to empty sauce sachets,
or the mango stone remover,
the sandwich cutter which prevents
squashed jam seeping from bread edges.
Yesterday sachets and mangoes
were not in the scullery,
or indeed between my teeth,
while butter or jam were choice,
and crustiness, grandpa's trait,
an ingredient of life.
Because the baby has been born
half-knit blue cardigan
has sleeves now turning pink;
desultory chair exercise
brings the needles overhead.
This group, hive christened,
and we its bees;
some come from ever-silent rooms
and travel here without sound,
broken-winged, as if the sting
already taken from our tale.
Once my thought-question
slipped from lips;
it might have searched opinions,
we could have shared spoken debate,
we might have made a meal of it.
But when the leader googles phone,
the answer served on a plate,
then beehive becomes an igloo still,
snake-charmer's basket on its head,
and honey comb cannot mature.
The yellow high-viz jacket wears
a button hole, woollen daffodil,
but insists it to be a crocus flower.
In stitches
he offers me its curling bloom to smell;
we are back to buzzing
and that perfume claims the room.
(prev. pub. by Eunoia Review, 2019)
SHAYNE
Shayne, lost Tryfan, Ogwen Valley, Snowdonia, Wales,
Shayne, lost Tryfan, Ogwen Valley, Snowdonia, Wales,
4th August 2012
We met moor-top one sunny day,
three of us raised and with
sufficient experience and people-interest
to relate beyond silence,
gruff acknowledgement, platitude
into conversation.
So we concede beyond polite fascination,
the courtesy finds connections,
and unspoken, unconfessed,
the sensitive awareness
of intellectual compatibility,
water finding its own level
and finding, as it were,
two vessels joined.
Was that why he asked
if he could walk with us,
we think to his benefit, maybe ours?
The loneliness was chosen.
He walks without
map or compass or even plan;
was this so the gods could chose companion,
rain, sun, heather, grouse, people?
And why as several coalesced
at scenic viewpoint did he speak with us,
when all knew the common vista enjoyment
and its fuzzed horizon, rubbed graphite,
seeped, too bruised to rely on divided line?
We walked and talked,
smiled knowingly, admired
competency, the linguistic polymath
overseas parental-pleasing and expected
drive, yet a ghostly wanderlust.
Short-term psychiatry appointments.
Was that want of wider experience,
or simple impatience, or an unsatisfied search?
We shall never know.
We shared his meagre ration,
at his insistence.
At ours he returned with us for soup
which was not to his taste
but of course feigned sufficiency.
He signed our visitors book,
took a card and said goodbye.
The police rang some months later:
Shayne missing in the mountains,
found the card at home.
Our tale fitted the present circumstance.
Six years on his death declared,
presumed victim of Adam and Eve
on Tryfan, beyond Ogwen
where darers leap between the rocks,
though body never found.
His namesake, nightmare novelist
writes 'the void of nothingness',
as my stranger's alter ego.
I wonder if this multi-lingual
doctor of the mind, lone wanderer,
open to the guiding wind
was some kind angel in disguise,
missed in mountain mist.
Entertaining strangers unawares.
(prev. pub., Academy of the Heart and Mind)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
POETRY WAVES
—Joseph Nolan
Poetry waves
Float over mountains,
Drift across seas,
Available for download
Into meaning,
Like radio waves
Below the stratosphere,
Converted into music and news,
Through instruments called radios,
Poetry waves use
Poets
To write
Words and lines
They set in rhyme,
Expressing both bliss and blues,
Since each, in its own way, is true.
_____________________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is visiting the Kitchen again today, and we’re all the better for it! Thanks, Stephen, for poetry from over the pond, complete with British spellings and idioms.
And thanks to Joseph Nolan for sending fall photos, and we’ve included a poem of Joseph’s which speaks of “poetry waves” drifting to us from around the world. The poem seems appropriate on this day when we have a guest from across the sea…
We met moor-top one sunny day,
three of us raised and with
sufficient experience and people-interest
to relate beyond silence,
gruff acknowledgement, platitude
into conversation.
So we concede beyond polite fascination,
the courtesy finds connections,
and unspoken, unconfessed,
the sensitive awareness
of intellectual compatibility,
water finding its own level
and finding, as it were,
two vessels joined.
Was that why he asked
if he could walk with us,
we think to his benefit, maybe ours?
The loneliness was chosen.
He walks without
map or compass or even plan;
was this so the gods could chose companion,
rain, sun, heather, grouse, people?
And why as several coalesced
at scenic viewpoint did he speak with us,
when all knew the common vista enjoyment
and its fuzzed horizon, rubbed graphite,
seeped, too bruised to rely on divided line?
We walked and talked,
smiled knowingly, admired
competency, the linguistic polymath
overseas parental-pleasing and expected
drive, yet a ghostly wanderlust.
Short-term psychiatry appointments.
Was that want of wider experience,
or simple impatience, or an unsatisfied search?
We shall never know.
We shared his meagre ration,
at his insistence.
At ours he returned with us for soup
which was not to his taste
but of course feigned sufficiency.
He signed our visitors book,
took a card and said goodbye.
The police rang some months later:
Shayne missing in the mountains,
found the card at home.
Our tale fitted the present circumstance.
Six years on his death declared,
presumed victim of Adam and Eve
on Tryfan, beyond Ogwen
where darers leap between the rocks,
though body never found.
His namesake, nightmare novelist
writes 'the void of nothingness',
as my stranger's alter ego.
I wonder if this multi-lingual
doctor of the mind, lone wanderer,
open to the guiding wind
was some kind angel in disguise,
missed in mountain mist.
Entertaining strangers unawares.
(prev. pub., Academy of the Heart and Mind)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
POETRY WAVES
—Joseph Nolan
Poetry waves
Float over mountains,
Drift across seas,
Available for download
Into meaning,
Like radio waves
Below the stratosphere,
Converted into music and news,
Through instruments called radios,
Poetry waves use
Poets
To write
Words and lines
They set in rhyme,
Expressing both bliss and blues,
Since each, in its own way, is true.
_____________________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is visiting the Kitchen again today, and we’re all the better for it! Thanks, Stephen, for poetry from over the pond, complete with British spellings and idioms.
And thanks to Joseph Nolan for sending fall photos, and we’ve included a poem of Joseph’s which speaks of “poetry waves” drifting to us from around the world. The poem seems appropriate on this day when we have a guest from across the sea…
•••Tonight (Sat., 11/13), 4-7pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Second Saturday returns with Elder Gideon: Equal Arms Art Opening. Live music and performance art. SPC, 25th & R Sts., Sac.
•••Also tonight (Sat., 11/13), 7pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Dave Boles with Ben Hiatt’s School of Okie Surrealism, 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. Host: Tim Kahl. Please bring a mask if you are not vaccinated. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/1591813414494376/?acontext={"event_action_history"%3A[{"extra_data"%3A""%2C"mechanism"%3A"surface"%2C"surface"%3A"home"}%2C{"extra_data"%3A""%2C"mechanism"%3A"surface"%2C"surface"%3A"create_dialog"}]%2C"ref_notif_type"%3Anull}/.
__________________
—Medusa
•••Also tonight (Sat., 11/13), 7pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Dave Boles with Ben Hiatt’s School of Okie Surrealism, 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. Host: Tim Kahl. Please bring a mask if you are not vaccinated. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/1591813414494376/?acontext={"event_action_history"%3A[{"extra_data"%3A""%2C"mechanism"%3A"surface"%2C"surface"%3A"home"}%2C{"extra_data"%3A""%2C"mechanism"%3A"surface"%2C"surface"%3A"create_dialog"}]%2C"ref_notif_type"%3Anull}/.
__________________
—Medusa
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
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—
for poetry, of course!
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
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—
for poetry, of course!
