Why Candelabra Die

 

Light On The Wall

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

—This Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

SIGHT VISITS SONNET

In space, clock turn, a trinity describes      
my timeshare, equilateral, long days,          
acute, three angles mental health prescribes—    
screen box, fin swim aquarium, chair laze.
           
With channel surf, current affairs, wave high,         
not hot top, red head, scandal banner views,           
more updates seen, repeats, same scene rely—          
distraction step, a balanced stance, fade blues.   
       
That flutter tank where flatter guppies prance,           
demands I rise, childcare, hour feed the breed,
amongst the plants, flit dance attracts, entrance,      
while fry, with net escapees trapped, need freed.  
 
Then throne, where laptop cursor blink awaits        
the fingertip, tried tremor word translates.  

 

 

 

Long Hall, Darling House, Santa Cruz, CA
—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

JUDE

My title, Jude, you understand?
If but a hardy soul, you should.
Perhaps my verse is not your space
but yours the access—trace my mind.
Why can you not hear what I voice
and, taken plunge, still get it wrong?
I’ll write, gazing in crystal ball—
if yet unseen, your wiring’s poor.
I’ll use the info learned at school—
for poetry found learnèd brains.
Perhaps I’ll translate, common state,
and then you’ll celebrate as found?
Now what I share is something known
or else the poem’s not owned, mine,
but common knowledge, commonwealth,
and recognition not my deal—
the common touch still calls for breadth—
but as I’ve finished, up to you.                                       .

“But, friend, we seek a commonplace,
that least you write, available,
not easy grace for trampling swine
but observation, chiming bells.
So, application to the task,
my answer only if both work,
and then the page that typist typed
has archetypal emphasis.
So, come together, pilgrim road,
discover what’s new in our world,
inherent posers, if we ask—
an entry point, art comprehend.
If bounded, wedded, stewardship
it might be both, best understand.”

 

 

 

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

FISHER KING

Where ash and bullfinch,
kicking the curl dust-desiccated floor
bedding conkers, to collect,
and learn why candelabra die,
the seasons passing, marking dance?

Tell the mistle from the song,
know more than robin’s easy blush,
the finches beak from starling stab,
enjoy the dripping on the crust
before we shared the fatty stub;
now thistles gone, greyed decking sum,
concrete for rims, wheel mowing lines.

Bruised reeds, unbroken, layabout,
minnows, a jam jar, string around,
tadpoles, toads and newts nearby,
seen thread or clump, we gathered spawn
to grail the jellied specks with awe.
We early reckoned death with us,
fashioned cross where goldfish earthed,
more celebrated brought to birth.

That’s what early learning meant,
reading lines thought heaven sent,
dandled, dawdling, driven less,
halcyon, raft calming seas.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

HOOPS

In vest, short shorts, quick reflex points,
our up and over, chain-link fence,
we traded jokes, paraded skills,
especially under watch of girls,
as learnt to make a better pass,
slow-climbed team pecking order, cheeked,
our early learning underway.
Lithe limbed, grown pecs, less heaving chests,
we argued, competition rules,
but knew that friendship surpassed wins;
we found that bruising brought out best,
concern, take care, strip bandages,
best treatment, algebra of bones.
We cursed at dogs which mucked about,
grass scraped together, rubbed along,
and rolled our joints to reach our dreams.
Short bounce, tall slide, taut words and terms,
vocabulary of the court,
and when were caught, swore under breath,
the oaths we’d take another place.
While palms were crossed, high five for some,
as sentence passed, no spin at all.    
And now this frame is old, grey, tired,
waste band that sags, hangs out below,
with knots, sad bag, though ties still hold,
wee lads that made it to the man.
I guess this now a sunset cause,
the last post calling, rusty links,
as green tufts breaking through the tar,
our baby stubs, where we first puffed.
Buddleia blooms, flit butterflies
now hover where we stood our ground;
but soon I’ll lie and rest awhile,
those sods around the plot I chose—
a final hoop, then down to land.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

GOLD

Twelve sides, portcullis brass,
so looked threepenny bit.
A sterling eightieth,
not mighty spending power.
I kept a special piece;
its value highly prized.

The train was peopled close,
and no remaining seats,
I gave my place to age,
as trained from early years.

My station platform due,
the blazer buttons home,
emblazoned brass in place,
door handling to alight,
into my hand is pressed,
my protest waved aside,
the threepence coin piece,
nugget of living gold.

What can be bought is nought:
what represents is all.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PSALM OLIVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Some read future in the palm,
life-line prosper or cut short;
shade from warming of the earth,
warning, dawning, bitter days.

Palms once cut, hand waved, way paved,
table laid, cup passed, dismayed;
too long delayed, prayed that cup
pass over dawn, bitter day.   

Fronds, as friends, see rising sun,
risen son to offer hope,
oil and date of Olivet,
grinding wheel, stone rolled away.

_______________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s sonorous collection of poems, and to Katy Brown for her equally sonorous photos!

 

 

 

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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“So, come together, pilgrim road,
discover what’s new in our world . . .”