—Poetry by Caschwa, Sayani Mukherjee,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Fizza Abbas,
Joe Nolan, Michael Ceraolo, Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
and Joe Nolan
TRACK ONE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the feel of a freight train coming
was more apparent than the sound,
like the stand-up bass in a jazz band
the disturbance of birds taking flight
might just be the biggest clue Nature has
to share that seasons are changing
the finality that you are now gone
and I am still here pondering you,
cannot be quantified in a laboratory
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the feel of a freight train coming
was more apparent than the sound,
like the stand-up bass in a jazz band
the disturbance of birds taking flight
might just be the biggest clue Nature has
to share that seasons are changing
the finality that you are now gone
and I am still here pondering you,
cannot be quantified in a laboratory
KISS MY ASCLEPIUS
—Caschwa
this poem is as original
as an orgasm
but you probably won’t
feel what I am feeling
there will be no link to
past memories
no epiphany explosion
no cigarette clichés
our hot threesome
Rod of Caduceus
got limp, one fell off,
now Rod of Asclepius
and so what is all this talk,
if not the mere silhouette
of colloquoy, Dopey, Happy,
Grumpy, Sleepy, Sneezy?
Robot Grafitti
BORDERS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Tasting is bitter
A universal truth per se—
All along bemused
with cloves of whiskey wind
And an orchid peach,
The soft linings
That makes a play worthwhile.
Life's carnival is today's show
A carnal race, sour in each breath.
A single span of high time
Following footsteps of
Men before men—
A rusty carpet in succession.
Carts held outside the border walls
Draping the earth
In pearls of sweat
A survival through memories
Ending in a void of
Unfulfilled thirst—
Then the awakening
Is chasing
A christening balm
The little butterflies
Underneath
Carving a new road
Of
A Heart-shaped whirlwind—
A cat's paw,
A heuristic summit
Ever expansive with waters beneath
To wet the feet
With something to hold
At the back
Ending in a
War within generations
A perched-up junction
A soothing fountain head
And a garland knitted with
Little butterflies.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Tasting is bitter
A universal truth per se—
All along bemused
with cloves of whiskey wind
And an orchid peach,
The soft linings
That makes a play worthwhile.
Life's carnival is today's show
A carnal race, sour in each breath.
A single span of high time
Following footsteps of
Men before men—
A rusty carpet in succession.
Carts held outside the border walls
Draping the earth
In pearls of sweat
A survival through memories
Ending in a void of
Unfulfilled thirst—
Then the awakening
Is chasing
A christening balm
The little butterflies
Underneath
Carving a new road
Of
A Heart-shaped whirlwind—
A cat's paw,
A heuristic summit
Ever expansive with waters beneath
To wet the feet
With something to hold
At the back
Ending in a
War within generations
A perched-up junction
A soothing fountain head
And a garland knitted with
Little butterflies.
NARROW ESCAPES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
My mind contorts the obvious,
prefers a broader lateral flow—
though not that test for covid show—
but most terms, codes leave wriggle room;
not blandishments of politics,
but swordplay, search, stray synonyms.
A sweep, child labour, tells it all,
the many dying from the flue,
sent to clear soot, chimney stack,
smothered, stuck, from age of four,
the crooked route, abusive trail,
only escape, narrow brick road.
I have been too, trapped, though by gates,
our canal barge against the oak,
as turnkey failed, lock keeper flailed,
the narrow boat swept clear by force.
The bow dipped low, the stern roar heard,
its craft that kept longboat afloat.
I walked hedged in, school uniform,
face front, two privet edge, alone,
caged in, the strain for flight not fight,
steadfast unaltered gaze and pace,
followed someone, too long for run,
that snicket path, where dawdled fast.
My nightmare, shafted pyramids,
or caving, lost deep underground,
the scout, head bubble, water rise,
told brutal, see your Mum again,
you must dive, funnel though mousehole,
to breathe again above the ground.
So, far from narrow, field is wide,
where escapology applied;
from catching flue, gate-crashing do,
evading bullies on school run,
to pothole speleology.
To each their own, fear, laughter, tears.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
My mind contorts the obvious,
prefers a broader lateral flow—
though not that test for covid show—
but most terms, codes leave wriggle room;
not blandishments of politics,
but swordplay, search, stray synonyms.
A sweep, child labour, tells it all,
the many dying from the flue,
sent to clear soot, chimney stack,
smothered, stuck, from age of four,
the crooked route, abusive trail,
only escape, narrow brick road.
I have been too, trapped, though by gates,
our canal barge against the oak,
as turnkey failed, lock keeper flailed,
the narrow boat swept clear by force.
The bow dipped low, the stern roar heard,
its craft that kept longboat afloat.
I walked hedged in, school uniform,
face front, two privet edge, alone,
caged in, the strain for flight not fight,
steadfast unaltered gaze and pace,
followed someone, too long for run,
that snicket path, where dawdled fast.
My nightmare, shafted pyramids,
or caving, lost deep underground,
the scout, head bubble, water rise,
told brutal, see your Mum again,
you must dive, funnel though mousehole,
to breathe again above the ground.
So, far from narrow, field is wide,
where escapology applied;
from catching flue, gate-crashing do,
evading bullies on school run,
to pothole speleology.
To each their own, fear, laughter, tears.
CANVAS SCORE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My discipline, though poor declared,
is words, the symbol sound and sight
which paints the picture in the head,
and sings a song in body parts.
And if compartments are kept clean
then music, art is language keen.
Tell me more of both, for I need
lexicon to describe, maintain
an understanding to enhance
appreciation of what I
see and hear, without the paddles
awarding examination
marks. Bleeding, ebauche, gesso,
mahlstick rest, pochade and scumble;
I want beyond the vanishing
point, past phrased notation to see;
stave and clef, ambitus, flebile,
flat and sharp, medley lilt.
Each has its own vocabulary
but I just want to stare or hear
and value language, sight and sound.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My discipline, though poor declared,
is words, the symbol sound and sight
which paints the picture in the head,
and sings a song in body parts.
And if compartments are kept clean
then music, art is language keen.
Tell me more of both, for I need
lexicon to describe, maintain
an understanding to enhance
appreciation of what I
see and hear, without the paddles
awarding examination
marks. Bleeding, ebauche, gesso,
mahlstick rest, pochade and scumble;
I want beyond the vanishing
point, past phrased notation to see;
stave and clef, ambitus, flebile,
flat and sharp, medley lilt.
Each has its own vocabulary
but I just want to stare or hear
and value language, sight and sound.
I FEEL LIKE THE LOST CITY OF HERACLEION
—Fizza Abbas, Karachi, Pakistan
A blotting paper
marked with a criss-cross of inks:
turquoise blue, algae green and kingfisher red;
our old Egyptian Venice, a sanctuary to many
went down into the depths of the sea
long forgotten, erasures of excess ink.
divers discovered the bibulous paper
dug under shiny gold coins, mechanical animals made from watches
a tiny offering for god Amun-Gereb.
—Fizza Abbas, Karachi, Pakistan
A blotting paper
marked with a criss-cross of inks:
turquoise blue, algae green and kingfisher red;
our old Egyptian Venice, a sanctuary to many
went down into the depths of the sea
long forgotten, erasures of excess ink.
divers discovered the bibulous paper
dug under shiny gold coins, mechanical animals made from watches
a tiny offering for god Amun-Gereb.
WHY WALK WHEN YOU CAN RUN?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Why walk
When you can run?
How could you ever
Stand still?
Why run
When you’d rather fly?
I would like to try.
Give me some waves by the ocean,
A wet-sand beach
And light, drifting foam,
A sunny, bright afternoon
And time to try to fly.
I will take off my shoes
And set off down the shoreline
On the fresh-wet, firm,
Fresh-washed sand,
Releasing all of my memories
Onto a boundless horizon
That runs all the way to Japan.
And as I while
Away the miles
My face will bear its smiles,
As gleefully,
I run along,
Releasing an inner song.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Why walk
When you can run?
How could you ever
Stand still?
Why run
When you’d rather fly?
I would like to try.
Give me some waves by the ocean,
A wet-sand beach
And light, drifting foam,
A sunny, bright afternoon
And time to try to fly.
I will take off my shoes
And set off down the shoreline
On the fresh-wet, firm,
Fresh-washed sand,
Releasing all of my memories
Onto a boundless horizon
That runs all the way to Japan.
And as I while
Away the miles
My face will bear its smiles,
As gleefully,
I run along,
Releasing an inner song.
ROOTS THAT CRACK CONCRETE
—Joe Nolan
The roots
Of a mis-planted tree
Were strong enough
To crack-up concrete,
On sidewalks
Lining a street.
Isn’t it neat?
How organic
Is stronger than stone?
Like when a karate chop
Breaks a lot of bricks
All-at-once,
Or bones!
While roots
Destroy concrete
Slowly, over time.
They’re in no hurry.
Trees don’t go nowhere
And they got nothin’ else to do.
—Joe Nolan
The roots
Of a mis-planted tree
Were strong enough
To crack-up concrete,
On sidewalks
Lining a street.
Isn’t it neat?
How organic
Is stronger than stone?
Like when a karate chop
Breaks a lot of bricks
All-at-once,
Or bones!
While roots
Destroy concrete
Slowly, over time.
They’re in no hurry.
Trees don’t go nowhere
And they got nothin’ else to do.
THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Will Harridge
I didn't really like baseball,
but because I was good at scheduling
Ban Johnson hired me as his secretary,
and after twenty years in the job
I became league president
I couldn't be another Ban:
I didn't have the personality,
and the Commissioner was now czar,
what Ban in effect had been most of his tenure
I was content to discipline players
and hire and fire umpires
* * *
Ernie Stewart
The end came quickly
In July 1845 Commissioner Chandler
approached me in Washington,
saying he wanted to improve the umpires' lot,
and asked me to write a letter to the other umpires
to find out what they thought of his ideas for doing so
I did, and Mr. Harridge found out about it,
said I was disloyal to my fellow umpires,
and suspended me
Commissioner Chandler supported me,
but he didn't have the power to make Harridge
back down from forcing me to resign,
and I was gone by mid-August
I was bitter about the way Harridge treated me
and never spoke to him again,
but it was a blessing in disguise:
I saved my marriage,
and made much more money
than I ever would have umpiring
* * *
Emmett Ashford
I was in my early thirties,
ten years into my career at the Post Office,
and not yet umpiring in organized baseball,
but when I read of Jackie signing with the Dodgers
I vowed I'd be the first black umpire in the majors
It was five years before I was hired in the low minors,
but when the offer came I quit the Post Office
to pursue my dream
It took only a few years for me
to move up to the Coast League,
where my dream seemed to stall:
I saw guys I had trained
going to the majors ahead of me
But finally, after a dozen years,
Joe Cronin hired me for the American League
There were some who, because of my color,
didn't like my style, calling me clown or hot dog,
but matters of style aren't moral issues
And more emphatic calls are fun for umpires
and don't detract from the game at all
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Will Harridge
I didn't really like baseball,
but because I was good at scheduling
Ban Johnson hired me as his secretary,
and after twenty years in the job
I became league president
I couldn't be another Ban:
I didn't have the personality,
and the Commissioner was now czar,
what Ban in effect had been most of his tenure
I was content to discipline players
and hire and fire umpires
* * *
Ernie Stewart
The end came quickly
In July 1845 Commissioner Chandler
approached me in Washington,
saying he wanted to improve the umpires' lot,
and asked me to write a letter to the other umpires
to find out what they thought of his ideas for doing so
I did, and Mr. Harridge found out about it,
said I was disloyal to my fellow umpires,
and suspended me
Commissioner Chandler supported me,
but he didn't have the power to make Harridge
back down from forcing me to resign,
and I was gone by mid-August
I was bitter about the way Harridge treated me
and never spoke to him again,
but it was a blessing in disguise:
I saved my marriage,
and made much more money
than I ever would have umpiring
* * *
Emmett Ashford
I was in my early thirties,
ten years into my career at the Post Office,
and not yet umpiring in organized baseball,
but when I read of Jackie signing with the Dodgers
I vowed I'd be the first black umpire in the majors
It was five years before I was hired in the low minors,
but when the offer came I quit the Post Office
to pursue my dream
It took only a few years for me
to move up to the Coast League,
where my dream seemed to stall:
I saw guys I had trained
going to the majors ahead of me
But finally, after a dozen years,
Joe Cronin hired me for the American League
There were some who, because of my color,
didn't like my style, calling me clown or hot dog,
but matters of style aren't moral issues
And more emphatic calls are fun for umpires
and don't detract from the game at all
NARROW ESCAPES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, KY
Some call
me thin,
I call me
narrow
enough
to climb
down the
escape
ladder
without
bruising
my hips.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, KY
Some call
me thin,
I call me
narrow
enough
to climb
down the
escape
ladder
without
bruising
my hips.
CHEWING GUM AND AIRPLANES
—Nolcha Fox
Chewing gum is an airplane
when you spit a wad that flies
through the air, and
it sticks to the back
of the guy who jumps
out of airplanes, nonchalant
while chewing gum,
and you wish the chewing
gum on his back
was an airplane to
fly him away,
because he reeks
of fear and booze.
Today’s LittleNip:
UNRAVELED
—Nolcha Fox
You pounce,
a kitten
on yarn.
You tangle,
you twist
life into
submission.
I am
unraveled,
and roll
out the door.
UNRAVELED
—Nolcha Fox
You pounce,
a kitten
on yarn.
You tangle,
you twist
life into
submission.
I am
unraveled,
and roll
out the door.
________________________
We in the Kitchen are hoping that you’re having a somewhat peaceful and thoughtful Memorial Day. Today’s poets have whipped up a batch of poems, some of which have to do with our Seed of the Week: Narrow Escapes. We also have a new visitor: Fizza Abbas is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She says she is fond of poetry and music. Her work has appeared in more than 90 journals, both online and in print, and has been nominated for Best of The Net and shortlisted for Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition 2021. She has also authored two books: Ool Jalool (Fahmidan Publishing) and Bakho (Ethel Press). Aside from writing, she runs a YouTube channel where she interviews poets and zine editors. She tweets @fizzawrites. Welcome to the Kitchen, Fizza, and don’t be a stranger!
For upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page. There will be TWO poetry meals to share this week: Sacramento Poetry Alliance presents Poets & Writers Hump Day Lunch in Davis on Wednesday at noon; and Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Poetry Picnic in the Park takes place on Sunday starting at noon at McKinley Park in Sacramento. See UPCOMING for details and for more poetry events taking place this week.
Thinking of self-publishing? BookBaby is a wonderful resource about that and about all sorts of things! See blog.bookbaby.com/category/how-to-self-publish/. And check out this fun resource for kids: Kids’ Poetry Club (www.kidspoetryclub.com). Every Monday, meet Little Dazzy Donuts and the Club characters in a 15-minute podcast episode filled with rhymes and fun, as well as the chance to listen to kids reading their own poetry.
Yes, I’ve been prowling the Internet. Here’s another one: The (online) Ekphrastic Review has a biweekly ekphrastic writing challenge (and other stuff, too) at www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges?fbclid=IwAR0_0QzlvYKSIZJsWtfsXyc4bBKY5edsU0PdcQty8tVkfTqK1WzPbjVhD8E/. But don’t forget Medusa’s challenges on Form Fiddlers’ Fridays, and the Seed of the Week every Tuesday.
To see the poetic responses to Placerville’s “Firehouse Sessions” (the Ekphrastic workshop held at the Confidence Gallery last May 12), go to artsandcultureeldorado.org/fhs-ba/. These poems were inspired by artwork from the gallery’s current exhibit, Bad Apples: Skateboarding and the Misfit Culture of EDC.
And congratulations to El Dorado County poet Tim Fulton for the publication of his poem, “Drawing Water”, as the Poem of the Month in the Mountain Democrat last Friday! (See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-drawing-water/.)
By the way, yesterday was the 17th anniversary of Medusa’s Kitchen. Here’s to 17 more—at least! Many thanks to all of you who have kept the old gal cookin' these 17 years; please keep on sending your wonderful work! And it's so good to have our recent influx of international poets—three today, and more on the horizon~
________________________
—Medusa
We in the Kitchen are hoping that you’re having a somewhat peaceful and thoughtful Memorial Day. Today’s poets have whipped up a batch of poems, some of which have to do with our Seed of the Week: Narrow Escapes. We also have a new visitor: Fizza Abbas is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She says she is fond of poetry and music. Her work has appeared in more than 90 journals, both online and in print, and has been nominated for Best of The Net and shortlisted for Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition 2021. She has also authored two books: Ool Jalool (Fahmidan Publishing) and Bakho (Ethel Press). Aside from writing, she runs a YouTube channel where she interviews poets and zine editors. She tweets @fizzawrites. Welcome to the Kitchen, Fizza, and don’t be a stranger!
For upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page. There will be TWO poetry meals to share this week: Sacramento Poetry Alliance presents Poets & Writers Hump Day Lunch in Davis on Wednesday at noon; and Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Poetry Picnic in the Park takes place on Sunday starting at noon at McKinley Park in Sacramento. See UPCOMING for details and for more poetry events taking place this week.
Thinking of self-publishing? BookBaby is a wonderful resource about that and about all sorts of things! See blog.bookbaby.com/category/how-to-self-publish/. And check out this fun resource for kids: Kids’ Poetry Club (www.kidspoetryclub.com). Every Monday, meet Little Dazzy Donuts and the Club characters in a 15-minute podcast episode filled with rhymes and fun, as well as the chance to listen to kids reading their own poetry.
Yes, I’ve been prowling the Internet. Here’s another one: The (online) Ekphrastic Review has a biweekly ekphrastic writing challenge (and other stuff, too) at www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges?fbclid=IwAR0_0QzlvYKSIZJsWtfsXyc4bBKY5edsU0PdcQty8tVkfTqK1WzPbjVhD8E/. But don’t forget Medusa’s challenges on Form Fiddlers’ Fridays, and the Seed of the Week every Tuesday.
To see the poetic responses to Placerville’s “Firehouse Sessions” (the Ekphrastic workshop held at the Confidence Gallery last May 12), go to artsandcultureeldorado.org/fhs-ba/. These poems were inspired by artwork from the gallery’s current exhibit, Bad Apples: Skateboarding and the Misfit Culture of EDC.
And congratulations to El Dorado County poet Tim Fulton for the publication of his poem, “Drawing Water”, as the Poem of the Month in the Mountain Democrat last Friday! (See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-drawing-water/.)
By the way, yesterday was the 17th anniversary of Medusa’s Kitchen. Here’s to 17 more—at least! Many thanks to all of you who have kept the old gal cookin' these 17 years; please keep on sending your wonderful work! And it's so good to have our recent influx of international poets—three today, and more on the horizon~
________________________
—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—
and collaborations are welcome.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
