RATIONED
I’m hungry for those former days
when life made sense, friends’ names were known;
I recognised my family then,
now introduce themselves again.
I find my bed, black tiles on pink,
blank corridors, dust free, pristine,
cleared well meant, old directing junk;
my appetite, Dad’s frame, askew.
I’m starved of words that sprang to sound,
play hide and seek, but rarely found,
on tongue tip where taste buds declined,
now buried, lexigrave of mind.
I sit for pudding, porridge served,
bring breakfast when dessert arrives,
and salad now my cocoa mug,
rash napkin whetted, terry style.
Then read incunabula, tracts
now tablets swallowed, infections,
and soaps, hers lilac, mine coal tar,
soak from their airing, cupboard screen.
I hear the music, early spheres,
the dance hall, disco, swinging years,
those Sunday tunes when singing hymns,
whose rhythms breathe, pull heartfelt strings.
ADOLESCENT KITCHENALIA
The angst, new tallboy, filling space,
about vague layout, breakfast noon,
drift toaster smoke that fills all rooms
and suits those drifter refit dreams.
With pot plant weeds and lowered blinds,
rolled joints to brighten Sunday lunch,
spice rack, all rave and wavy type,
here bottled sauce on all-day mat,
though all-night service, meal on tap.
Old pressure cooker on the stove,
where steam released before explodes,
the only rôle now, constant meals,
between the jams, coarse-cut preserve.
A chip-bored chalk board, lanky string,
things cool, slow turn extractor fan,
range lotions, sprays past sell-by date,
though sinking feeling, iFood App.
This canteen needs a polish, scrub,
vim with Eucryl—enamel stains;
the macerator unrequired—
blancmange, mangetout, they’re all the same,
junk food, but not the junket kind?
A sister, kitchenette you know,
is more refined, less appetite,
her Ascot, geyser, not a hat.
This greasy spoon yet licensee,
pass condiments on to the chef,
a complement for cooking bee.
CONDENSED
Thrust kitchen sink to salon wall,
this craft an art of heart and mind,
academy that shares the best,
knows lingua franca of the streets,
the unities of human space
that match with those of time and place?
This frame to can a sign of pop—
a lunchtime bowl throughout his life—
engage alert, stir appetite,
is inspiration, ruach drawn,
to break, unsubtle, outworn norms?
For that’s condensed, to whet, to woo,
enticing titbit for the eye,
for queues waiting their soup-run turn,
a ration, not a belly full—
relief of concentration camp
where rich, for starved, a deadly brew.
A waft, the tingle under tongue,
release of enzyme known as spit,
a reader’s digest starting point,
direction swerve, a culture shock,
for those who thought they knew their art,
at lower orders, upturned nose.
Now should it lead along the path,
or simply pose the question mark,
teach (not preach) by asking us—
best, artist’s own bewilderment?
The label, can, may eye defy—
take it with water, warning shot,
and not just bubble rush and burp—
tomato, red, blood fruit supply,
what’s said on tin, can do or dye,
and leave stain mark, may lead us on,
thrust salon wall to kitchen sink?
NEED NOT GREED
The bike laid down by gingham, cod,
a casual cloth, cool baby milk,
the menu depends appetite
or toddle by, just curious.
So spot the dress, doze, headscarf, face,
discarded ball, newspaper waste,
quick drag, a cuddle, baby hug,
slow swig from bottle, dummies, clasp.
The stove for meths, pump paraffin—
why not a thermos, all this fuss—
our kettle, tea cups, where is brewed
a mixed community at large.
Fish from the Lakeside chippy, wrapt
as heard the word declared on sward,
started as food-share little lad,
scraps from wee scrap who offered catch.
Miracle hunger, battered, but
it took one son to break the fast;
he risked his all, his mother’s ire,
a simple kindness multiplied.
Is that a nappy on the grass,
diaper maybe, foreign grass,
or maybe, if today, a mask,
what is uncovered in the son?
This hear, is not magician’s trick,
nor a white bunny from top hat;
small portions from the global store,
need not greed the steer achieved.
Companions, eating chips on hill,
food, friendship, altered, open air,
for be, belong, believe if will—
that’s what this picnic brings to us.
RANGE FREE
What’s the craic, as Irish say,
gossip round the table leg,
breakfast lay, four-minute job—
tension when the chop is due.
Some with spoon bowl mash the top,
peel the shell, its clinging skin,
leave that Poirot skull exposed—
change that image, appetite!
Soldiers, fingers, toast in rows,
ready dipping, tip submerged,
too far, brimstone yolk at brim,
tempera, meniscus blown?
Like the putter, practise swing,
that’s how I address this ball,
blade at height, avoid a spill,
wasted yellow, drained away.
So much here of surgeon’s skill,
digits, cranium detailed,
all for embryonic hen—
eggcup chick, stillborn consumed.
This no nut, sledge hammer raised—
who needs that power when battery,
its mother caged, soon chlorinate,
pot-broiler for the writer’s wage.
All things said, it may be nut,
wields such weight, poor, feeble, thump;
that’s the universal style,
victims of the warlords’ fight.
Questions laid before us, posed,
powerful, weak in juxta set?
Line egg, longitude, try squeeze,
polar inbuilt strength revealed.
Mighty word against the sword,
lengthwise soul, eternity,
which came first, the evil, good,
hardboiled world, true gold, deserved?
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE COURSE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Paella told me where I was,
bowl mielie where the porridge served,
Peking before duck wonton spoke,
till High Street flooded by the world.
Explorers gave to tourist trade—
all travellers must find a plate—
and global appetite for more
moved table d’hôte to à la carte.
United nations, table spread,
companions sharing bread of earth,
all pilgrims searching from their roots,
utensils ready, stay the course.
____________________
Good morning, and good poetry from Stephen Kingsnorth over there in Wales! He speaks to us in what, on the face of it, seems to be our shared language, but which is sprinkled, of course, with British spellings and terms (do you know what a “chippy” is?). Stephen uses his mother tongue so smoothly that we never knew what hit us!
•••Today (Thurs., 12/9), 5:30pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Literary Lectures presents Alison Joseph speaking on Publishing Poetry on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Info: www.facebook.com/LiteraryLectures/.
•••Coming this Sat. (12/11), 7:30-10pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance's Inaugural Release of its new poetry journal, Sutterville Review, from editor Penny Kline and her Land Park Press. Reading will feature music, poetry, art and food with artists/musicians Jennifer and Mike Pickering and Dave Shapiro. 1169 Perkins Way, Sacramento. Info: go to www.facebook.com/LiteraryLectures and scroll down.
____________________
—Medusa, thanking Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry, and for finding photos to accompany!
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
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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!
