—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
MEDUSA: BEAUTY AND BEAST
This rocky horror picture show,
a comic book of Gothic gore—
think Byron shriek, Tussaud cruor,
pre-Raphaelite without the float.
The dream of herpetologist,
though mare, hairstylist combing locks,
writhe snider snakes, curl wreaths of whorls,
scene ready for forensic team.
The stone slab ready, gutters wipe,
turn destiny, glance blow, rock hard,
ooze droplet bloods, serpentine births,
spot lizard, spiders, scorpion.
A challenge to the craft of art—
unless parading painters’ skills,
in gruesome wake of Ovid’s tale,
a viral spread of victims, death.
With aegis sight, blade slayed, slice neck,
red fountain spurt from carotid;
did rapist quake, Poseidon storm,
horse word creator, trident, shake?
This fantasy, yet human myth,
a legend, spy on inner self—
attempt to shock complacency,
but dare to label, fiction, rape?
CLAUSTROPHOBIA
Claustrophobia my coffin box,
but couch tells me all inside,
if I wish to lift this from my life,
then stare it in the eyes.
Timidly I raise my arms
to glare the captive sides,
but when I face enclosure top,
my image just returns.
Feet spread, unbalanced fear,
frozen fingers will not clench,
G-forces take me upwards,
my stomach left on earth.
Glass circles round my orbits,
I fear I may be flung,
NASA launching this rocket,
I travel space in space.
If dare a glance at outside world
vast girders frame my rise,
I hope my pain is bullet proof,
I’ve suffered quite enough.
Module may be dressed by strip bulbs
to border late spring flowers,
but now I’m taken for a ride
on mocking fairground swing.
This therapy is crazy,
should have remained at home,
dressed in woolly jumpers,
airman leathers left alone.
My life must have its rhythms,
that give stability;
whilst others like their freedoms,
dark box my sanctuary.
FRAMED
Some herd to say,
let in the fresh,
though lace against insight or rush,
but now our breaths wheeze through fume gap,
as sash flays,
sashay for our lungs.
See how this pale net stirs the dust,
raised recall,
when glass wore the veil?
For mine drape captures dusk, nightfall,
mosquitoes stopped in squadron flight;
some, sherbet, trains of caravans,
Salome, seven in her dance,
the temple rent, as lore would have,
a subjugation,
bridal wear—
what billows, draughts,
ripple through length?
Is that job done,
ekphrastic prompt,
with verse accompaniment, sides,
to fathom, shaded in our site
what lies before, all erotemes?
When partial sight, or silhouette
suggests the unclear lies ahead,
which issues posed,
what question marks,
that masks required within, without?
Room with a view,
but urban scrub,
interior of tower block trap,
by gauze of gaze,
world inside out,
that lazy stretch,
unmeasured step?
We may protect more private world
by paying price of dimmer light,
as pupils’ training,
straining fight,
is this an early learning class?
For should we take those nets away,
dare passers by to stop and stare,
reveal what lies behind our masques,
stand contradiction,
our chez nous?
So pull the cover,
rôle the blind,
let eyes peer,
zygomatic arch,
for partly has not served us well,
and second touch may heal unwell?
CAPITAL
Can this be sandstone, name engraved,
the graveyard where geology
takes its toll before time wears,
where lichen clean means dust to dust,
eternal love but flakes away?
Whether a child or mother, spouse,
has long died under weather’s eye,
those storms erasing gone before,
a past that’s passed with curlicues.
Some died intestate, will unknown,
their t’s uncrossed nor dotted i’s,
but most had little to be left,
except that love they gave, received,
robbed now of name, relationship.
Building on sand in life, fruitless,
in death here slate wiped clean away—
mortality alone remains,
the record swept of age and span.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If a woman shows too often the Medusa’s head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s sharp poems and pix, as he plants some thoughts in us about the Beyond, whether it's Great or not… (and about Medusa, too!)
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.
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All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
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that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
