—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!!
CAMP WITH ORGAN PIPES
We stopped under a flank of cinder cone,
desert sand wind-scraped for a two-night camp.
Two of us, and shells of an ancient sea;
lost to magnetic north, no connection
with the outer world. Our voices gave no
echo. Sky revolved its timeless colors
sunset and rise—flamingo, aubergine,
rose, amber, flame and wine. Organ pipe-birds
after the fading of uncounted stars.
We stopped under a flank of cinder cone,
desert sand wind-scraped for a two-night camp.
Two of us, and shells of an ancient sea;
lost to magnetic north, no connection
with the outer world. Our voices gave no
echo. Sky revolved its timeless colors
sunset and rise—flamingo, aubergine,
rose, amber, flame and wine. Organ pipe-birds
after the fading of uncounted stars.
THROUGH MOSQUITO NETTING
remembering Kroto Creek
No escape from bugs, boggy and buzzing
in a great land without fences,
under cloud-crown mountain; black-spruce
country split by Grizzly’s salmon stream.
And those mosquitos!
For decades it abides in bug-net dreams,
though the permafrost is melting
under fairy forests of lichens and moss,
and dogs who led us through alder thickets
are long dead, and we’re getting
too old to remember the snows of yesteryear.
WHAT’S GIVEN
On the counter, one
bowl of peeled potatoes. Gift
of this chill morning,
its prospects. Carry peelings
to the compost pile.
Look. Something sets blue shadows
running among oaks.
Bird or beast—a mystery
to unravel, or
for wondering long after
the peeled potatoes
are gone, peelings returning
to earth, realm of living green.
THE SHOT I DIDN’T GET
In a scene of fencepost verticals, one
moving S-curve. Observe the flattened
crest—no regal crown but worth a quest:
a photo. I aim through sliding door-
screen that proves which of us is inmate.
I sneak out, walk the backside of green hill.
Heron knows, before I’m in aiming-
sight. He flies—camera clicks on low-
hanging branches. I stoop, pick up dead-
fall—reward for ungraceful stalking.
On great free wings blue heron is gone.
In a scene of fencepost verticals, one
moving S-curve. Observe the flattened
crest—no regal crown but worth a quest:
a photo. I aim through sliding door-
screen that proves which of us is inmate.
I sneak out, walk the backside of green hill.
Heron knows, before I’m in aiming-
sight. He flies—camera clicks on low-
hanging branches. I stoop, pick up dead-
fall—reward for ungraceful stalking.
On great free wings blue heron is gone.
WAITING IN THE VESTIBULE
Sandro Miller’s portraits
in Crowns: My Hair, My Soul, My Freedom
Waiting at the library, I leaf through these portraits of women—the power of their faces, their amazing hair. Rainy cold outside. Hood pulled close against weather, a woman pushes through the outer door. Sudden widespread closed-lip smile as if sun could pry it open from within. How low the snow today, how high the smile as she presses under the security arch that has no choice but greet her.
I have no photo
but just this passing moment,
no choice but write her.
Sandro Miller’s portraits
in Crowns: My Hair, My Soul, My Freedom
Waiting at the library, I leaf through these portraits of women—the power of their faces, their amazing hair. Rainy cold outside. Hood pulled close against weather, a woman pushes through the outer door. Sudden widespread closed-lip smile as if sun could pry it open from within. How low the snow today, how high the smile as she presses under the security arch that has no choice but greet her.
I have no photo
but just this passing moment,
no choice but write her.
ELEGY FOR SAX
We poets mourn, this winter morn,
the Sax-a-Sillion cat
who stalked our words, instead of birds—
how wondersome is that?
A dapper tom, fit for a prom
or table centerpiece
while we’d recite, inspired or trite,
our poems without cease.
At last his beat, his feline feet
arrived at journey’s end.
He’ll not critique, though verse we speak
in memory of our friend.
Today’s LittleNip:
PHOTO
—Taylor Graham
golden blur is bee
in mid-winter aiming for
sweet blue rosemary
______________________
Welcome and thanks to Taylor Graham today for her daffodil and for her graceful, form-full poems and photos! About the Seed of the Week in Medusa’s Kitchen (Wrath), she writes, “No wrath here. But forms: Blank Verse (“Camp with Organ Pipes”); an Ekphrastic Haibun (“Waiting in the Vestibule”); a Word-Can Poem (“Through Mosquito Netting”); a Choka (“What's Given”); a Haiku (“Photo”); Normative Syllabics (“The Shot I Didn't Get”); and a Triquatrain [one of our Fiddler’s Challenges for last week] (“Elegy for Sax”).”
And now it’s time for…
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
PHOTO
—Taylor Graham
golden blur is bee
in mid-winter aiming for
sweet blue rosemary
______________________
Welcome and thanks to Taylor Graham today for her daffodil and for her graceful, form-full poems and photos! About the Seed of the Week in Medusa’s Kitchen (Wrath), she writes, “No wrath here. But forms: Blank Verse (“Camp with Organ Pipes”); an Ekphrastic Haibun (“Waiting in the Vestibule”); a Word-Can Poem (“Through Mosquito Netting”); a Choka (“What's Given”); a Haiku (“Photo”); Normative Syllabics (“The Shot I Didn't Get”); and a Triquatrain [one of our Fiddler’s Challenges for last week] (“Elegy for Sax”).”
And now it’s time for…
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Last Friday’s Ekphrastic Challenge was this huge pile of money (probably my tax bill), and we received some responses to it, including this one from Stephen Kingsnorth:
Last week's Ekphrastic Challenge
FRANKLY GREEN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
It’s more than a fistful laid out; there’s a spread.
Here do you know the notes, loud sounding through the air,
whose theme is like a ballad, where our love’s laid bare,
songs, where our heart lies, the nations duly snared?
It’s not worth slavery, drugs not bought to heel,
what of welfare, child abuse, those bad habits fed?
When real alms are needed, what use those cheques for arms?
Does it peak interest, money under bed?
It’s clear we see part, a story episode,
serial, consecutive, numbers onward flow,
but hint of hinterland that brought the cache just so,
armaments, shipped before, reward for this lode.
A barrow load required, in thirties Berlin,
just to buy a single matchbox, so strike a light.
For chilling bills, price piling up, thrills’ cost not cheap,
yet sterling work leaves a little, exchange rate.
We know layout not normal—unless prize pic.
Can this be a T.V. show, the envy of dreams—
see bright-eyed crowd by the screen, gather round the Bens,
but maybe, frankly, there’s too much, where to spend?
Our standards once defined in gold, awe for ore,
As jingle bell rings, bulls and bears set great store by
sum market rise or crypto fall, suits, turn-up braced,
but now refined—have you watched the trading floor?
With eco-managed stocks, shared stewards, or death,
on creation banking, the treasury, earth’s wealth,
that currency of politics, investment where,
Green-backed future makes demands, more dollars dealt?
Here is another response, this one from Joe Nolan:
RANDOM STACKS OF MONEY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
God bless the random
Stacks of money
That arrive on pallets
To grease the wheels
Of black-market commerce
In conquered countries,
Where necessities of life
Require money to obtain.
Like manna from Heaven—
It feeds the chosen ones
Who kill and maim
In America’s name.
(Does it really grow on trees?)
One of our Fiddlers’ Challenges for last week was the Triquatrain, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) whipped up an example, as did Taylor Graham (see above for hers). Carl’s poem is also an Ekphrastic poem about that dandy pile of money:
JUST A LITTLE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
trim a little off the top, at the local barber shop
didn’t want to stay too long
they handed me a mirror, to evaluate the shear
WTF, they got it wrong!
wanted it cut thick to thin, not to look like Ben Franklin
now it shows more scalp than hair
I like hundred-dollar bills, all stacked up in little hills
you can see whatever’s there
now I’ll have to wait more years, suffer chiding by my peers
will it ever grow back right?
I know I can wear a hat, damned if it has come to that
how did I deserve this plight?
get me out of this darned place, hostile foe to human race
never can’t come soon enough
harken back to good old days, haircuts cheap, merit praise
getting trimmed was not so rough
JUST A LITTLE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
trim a little off the top, at the local barber shop
didn’t want to stay too long
they handed me a mirror, to evaluate the shear
WTF, they got it wrong!
wanted it cut thick to thin, not to look like Ben Franklin
now it shows more scalp than hair
I like hundred-dollar bills, all stacked up in little hills
you can see whatever’s there
now I’ll have to wait more years, suffer chiding by my peers
will it ever grow back right?
I know I can wear a hat, damned if it has come to that
how did I deserve this plight?
get me out of this darned place, hostile foe to human race
never can’t come soon enough
harken back to good old days, haircuts cheap, merit praise
getting trimmed was not so rough
* * *
Carl also sent a response to our other Fiddlers’ Challenge for last week, the Alliterisen:
THEY WERE GOOD
—Caschwa
ever savor something too cheap to keep?
praise yesterday’s rich orbit of exorbitant
(one stick won’t get you sick, but twelve, help!)
lonesome chewing gum cries out for allies to
perpetuate and consummate
the tongue orgasm, taste bud smorgasbord
now spit them out, olive pits, all of them
* * *
Another poem from Carl this week is in the form of Concrete Poetry. He says it mimics both a dune and a dunce cap:
IRRELEVANT
—Caschwa
four
vowels,
and some
consonants
to get doubled
or not, for dozens of
opportunities to misspell
the word; no, do not picture
me standing center stage in a
spelling bee reciting all the letters
in perfect order, winning some kind
of medal, when in fact I merely put my
fingers on the keyboard and started typing
something that would be close to correct, and
then, don’t ‘ya know, the brains of the computer
interceded, intervened, and gave me a nice preview
of all the proper letters in the proper order, so I’ll have to
trade the medal for a dunce cap and go sit in the dark corner
—Caschwa
four
vowels,
and some
consonants
to get doubled
or not, for dozens of
opportunities to misspell
the word; no, do not picture
me standing center stage in a
spelling bee reciting all the letters
in perfect order, winning some kind
of medal, when in fact I merely put my
fingers on the keyboard and started typing
something that would be close to correct, and
then, don’t ‘ya know, the brains of the computer
interceded, intervened, and gave me a nice preview
of all the proper letters in the proper order, so I’ll have to
trade the medal for a dunce cap and go sit in the dark corner
* * *
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
In the Kitchen, there are no deadlines. Who knows when the Muse will show up and hand over a poem? Or paperwork will get confused and hide one under the bed for a while? Several weeks ago, the Seed of the Week in Medusa’s Kitchen was “Always Chasing Buses”. Here is Stephen Kingsnorth’s response:
‘A THIN PLACE’
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Some chase the dragon, in a den,
some chase choice silver, repoussé,
for others, cut to, paper, tails,
but what of wild goose, wasting time?
See here, Iona, Scottish isle,
revival of lost Celtic charm,
that bird its symbol, Spirit’s flight,
in counterpoint, Book fruitful Hours.
That’s where rainbows, crocks, promised, gold,
have been uncovered, pilgrim soles;
and still today they travel far,
by train, ship, ferry, island’s bus.
Stepping stones hop The Hebrides,
hidden toe tip, west of Mull,
with all dependent on that coach—
they held the ferry, when broke down.
Achieve connections, travel plan,
discipline, disciple route,
I chased that bus to reach the quay,
journey onward, underway.
First abbey built of heavy rock
of ages, era, thousand years,
raised silhouette in thinnest place,
of weighting, resting, never chase.
____________________
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’ CHALLENGES!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:
•••The Monchielle (moan-SHELL): www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monchielle.html
And/Or…
… tackle the Concrete poem, like Carl’s above (poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/concrete-poem)
And see the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one!
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Alliterisen: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/alliterisen.html
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka AND/OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Concrete Poetry: poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/concrete-poem
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••The Monchielle (moan-SHELL): www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monchielle.html
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Triquatrain: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/triquatrain.html
•••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
—Public Domain Photo
* * *
See what you can make of the above
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
