—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddler's Friday!!
SMARTPHONE
It accompanies me on the land—weed-
eating up & down hill. I’m not waiting
for a call. The phone’s to catch wildflowers
in bloom; for recording birdsong. My phone
is smart, ignores barking dogs & roosters,
traffic on the 2-lane, the growl of my
motor-trimmer. It shows me only birds
with name and image. Red-winged Blackbird,
tho I can’t see or hear him. Black Phoebe.
But Eurasian Collared-Dove? Here in our
foothills? Could it be, my smartphone isn’t
so smart? Uh-oh. I google it and learn
the bird has invaded California.
It accompanies me on the land—weed-
eating up & down hill. I’m not waiting
for a call. The phone’s to catch wildflowers
in bloom; for recording birdsong. My phone
is smart, ignores barking dogs & roosters,
traffic on the 2-lane, the growl of my
motor-trimmer. It shows me only birds
with name and image. Red-winged Blackbird,
tho I can’t see or hear him. Black Phoebe.
But Eurasian Collared-Dove? Here in our
foothills? Could it be, my smartphone isn’t
so smart? Uh-oh. I google it and learn
the bird has invaded California.
LIVE FAST AND DIE YOUNG
“Climate change may make trees
live fast and die young”
—Adam Vaughn in Environment
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of town—
go north, young ponderosa pine, young oak,
or learn to fly your seed like thistledown.
Climate change moves too fast for rooted folk.
The ancient trees are falling as we speak,
so now we plant saplings from way down south.
Can they adapt to jetlag, learn to eek
out brief life-cycles from disaster’s mouth?
PG&E cut down our mountain pine
young, graceful, aspiring to stately form,
for fear the tree might fall across their line
sparking conflagration—our new-found norm.
What is a world without our breathing trees,
sweet birdsong boughs in a green leafy breeze?
“Climate change may make trees
live fast and die young”
—Adam Vaughn in Environment
If you can’t stand the heat, get out of town—
go north, young ponderosa pine, young oak,
or learn to fly your seed like thistledown.
Climate change moves too fast for rooted folk.
The ancient trees are falling as we speak,
so now we plant saplings from way down south.
Can they adapt to jetlag, learn to eek
out brief life-cycles from disaster’s mouth?
PG&E cut down our mountain pine
young, graceful, aspiring to stately form,
for fear the tree might fall across their line
sparking conflagration—our new-found norm.
What is a world without our breathing trees,
sweet birdsong boughs in a green leafy breeze?
(prev. pub. in Freshwater)
FATHER CLIME NURSERY RHYMES
1. Mow Mow Mow Your Field
Mow mow mow my field
cut the weeds no slack.
Daring deed—
they’d go to seed.
I’m on the attack!
2. Hay Diddle Diddle
Hay diddle diddle
our governments fiddle
while Tahoe is scorching the moon.
The climate is wacky,
the freeway’s gone tacky,
our tires will be melting real soon.
3. Far-from-London Ridges
When will rain be falling down
falling down, falling down?
All the leaves are falling brown,
my fair country-o.
With the Red Flag we must go,
we must go, we must go
when there’s nothing left to mow,
my fair country-o.
1. Mow Mow Mow Your Field
Mow mow mow my field
cut the weeds no slack.
Daring deed—
they’d go to seed.
I’m on the attack!
2. Hay Diddle Diddle
Hay diddle diddle
our governments fiddle
while Tahoe is scorching the moon.
The climate is wacky,
the freeway’s gone tacky,
our tires will be melting real soon.
3. Far-from-London Ridges
When will rain be falling down
falling down, falling down?
All the leaves are falling brown,
my fair country-o.
With the Red Flag we must go,
we must go, we must go
when there’s nothing left to mow,
my fair country-o.
DOG DANCE MAGIC
Yes I loved you, the one I called my prince.
But did I really know you for yourself?
Long-legged dancer leaving only prints
over fields where dwell gopher or elf
never detected by my human nose,
my half-deaf ears and humdrum-deadened eyes.
A dog’s attuned to glimpse and whiff—all those
tiny clues in plain, everyday disguise.
Just like your impromptu artichoke dance—
I never learned to join you in that joy.
You wielded the old choke frond like a lance;
frolicking, whirling, my magician boy.
I aimed and snapped some photos of your leaps—
so blurred, they’re what I have of you for keeps.
Yes I loved you, the one I called my prince.
But did I really know you for yourself?
Long-legged dancer leaving only prints
over fields where dwell gopher or elf
never detected by my human nose,
my half-deaf ears and humdrum-deadened eyes.
A dog’s attuned to glimpse and whiff—all those
tiny clues in plain, everyday disguise.
Just like your impromptu artichoke dance—
I never learned to join you in that joy.
You wielded the old choke frond like a lance;
frolicking, whirling, my magician boy.
I aimed and snapped some photos of your leaps—
so blurred, they’re what I have of you for keeps.
THE GREAT EXHIBITION, 1851
Crystal Palace, London
In this old photo, men in top hats bend
to gaze down from the balcony—at Peace
and Labor—artisans from every end
of the globe come together in surcease
of trade wars, secrets, petty rivalries.
Commerce shall be common, a brotherhood
of languages conversing family-ease.
The man who clicked the shutter understood.
But that was almost 15 decades past.
We’ve trade embargos, tariffs, petrol-war.
Photography can’t make a vision last
and give the lie to all that’s gone before.
The promise of that crystal palace fled,
and all those men in top hats, dead.
TO A FREE STATE
for the Monroes and Burgesses of Coloma
Some of them came here as slaves,
as runaway from masters to this land
of rough tumble Gold Rush. Some came
as free men hoping to find gold
to free a family back home. Here
they lived free, became miners, smiths, farmers.
Praise their free harvest, our land’s bounty.
for the Monroes and Burgesses of Coloma
Some of them came here as slaves,
as runaway from masters to this land
of rough tumble Gold Rush. Some came
as free men hoping to find gold
to free a family back home. Here
they lived free, became miners, smiths, farmers.
Praise their free harvest, our land’s bounty.
Today’s LittleNip:
BEING THERE
—Taylor Graham
High noon silent among aspen
not quivering—no sound of birds—
yet leaves and wind conspire
to make sweeter than song.
____________________
Taylor Graham has brought us some Shakespearean Sonnets today—our Triple-F Challenge of last week—as well as talk of her smartphone (last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week) and some other issues that prey on our minds day by day, and we thank her for these. She and Katy Brown will be facilitating a Capturing Wakamatsu workshop at the Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville this Sunday; click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
Taylor’s forms today include three Shakespearean Sonnets (“The Great Exhibition, 1851”; “Live Fast and Die Young”; “Dog Dance Magician”); some Adult Nursery Rhymes (“Father Clime Nursery Rhymes”); some Blank Verse (“Smartphone”); a Kwansaba (“To a Free State”); and a Ryūka (“Being There”).
And now it’s time for . . .
BEING THERE
—Taylor Graham
High noon silent among aspen
not quivering—no sound of birds—
yet leaves and wind conspire
to make sweeter than song.
____________________
Taylor Graham has brought us some Shakespearean Sonnets today—our Triple-F Challenge of last week—as well as talk of her smartphone (last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week) and some other issues that prey on our minds day by day, and we thank her for these. She and Katy Brown will be facilitating a Capturing Wakamatsu workshop at the Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville this Sunday; click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
Taylor’s forms today include three Shakespearean Sonnets (“The Great Exhibition, 1851”; “Live Fast and Die Young”; “Dog Dance Magician”); some Adult Nursery Rhymes (“Father Clime Nursery Rhymes”); some Blank Verse (“Smartphone”); a Kwansaba (“To a Free State”); and a Ryūka (“Being There”).
And now it’s time for . . .
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
There’s also a newly dusted-off page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!
Last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge
Here are the responses to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge:
My shovel
turned blue
from digging a hole
in the sky.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
IN SPADES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
When is the shovel not quite so?
Like last ekphrastic, shoveler duck—
just as one would when swung at head.
A curve-edged cut that counts as spade—
like lifted corner, cheating whist—
that shoving cousin makes less point.
Or is it so, anatomy—
a dig at what a scoop can be,
in street scene with a partner broom?
The sole rest shoulder, digging deep
for soul space, musing on the soil,
allotment time to stand and stare
at green, and shave some blues away.
To get a handle on its name—
the shaft to lever tough terrain—
so turn the sods that smother earth
and lift the clods to furrow brow—
an open welcome, seeding time.
A garden shed with pristine tools,
or working model, stains and strain—
what is the rôle that we should play,
hand partnership, machinery.
Along with fork tines, scythe, hoe down
steep to clear, tap rooted weeds,
this is the field, with wet sweat tears—
as leaving clover for the bees—
we may set harvest for the year.
* * *
THE FOREST AND THE FACTORY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
they worked all day and night to make a tool,
used wooden frames to safely mine the ore
old urban buildings begged for their renewal
long shifts left workers always tired and sore
the shortcut of explosives had been tried
got two thumbs down for elevated risk
it came to using shovels side by side
one digs and then the other comes to whisk
from dawn to dusk and through the night they toiled
there was no pay for any ore they missed
their faces dark from every kind of soil
confound it, man, we can’t go on like this!
(they saw their women paint their face a lot)
repaint the town! I guess it’s worth a shot…
Joyce Odam sent several Ghazals for her post last Tuesday (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/07/time-you-old-ghost.html). I mentioned that to Taylor Graham, and she wrote back:“I like ghazals. The stand-alone couplets help me get out of mythis-therefore-that/such-and-so-resulted-in.... rut. I can skip aroundtimewise & change characters and situations every couplet!” We’ll talk about the Ghazal more later. Meanwhile, here is a lovely one that Joyce sent us:
MORNING GHAZAL
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Somehow the dream does not hold past the dreamer.
Her relinquished sleep is in shreds.
Morning is acute with gray light through which
a dark invisible bird is somehow singing.
The trees quiver apart and shadows flutter out . . .
nothing is as certain as such astonishment.
A black cat walks across the pavement,
avoiding the lines. Perhaps it is a superstitious cat.
The dogs from next door begin their tedious barking;
there are no more roosters in the neighborhood.
In the kitchen, the windowsill figurines
begin their daily routine of watching her.
A telephone rings from so far away
it takes one ring too few for her to reach it.
MORNING GHAZAL
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Somehow the dream does not hold past the dreamer.
Her relinquished sleep is in shreds.
Morning is acute with gray light through which
a dark invisible bird is somehow singing.
The trees quiver apart and shadows flutter out . . .
nothing is as certain as such astonishment.
A black cat walks across the pavement,
avoiding the lines. Perhaps it is a superstitious cat.
The dogs from next door begin their tedious barking;
there are no more roosters in the neighborhood.
In the kitchen, the windowsill figurines
begin their daily routine of watching her.
A telephone rings from so far away
it takes one ring too few for her to reach it.
Here is an Acrostic poem from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), using the first letter of each line
to make a word:
WRONG PATH
—Caschwa
Coat
Hanger
Option
Is
Crudely
Evil
____________________
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!
____________________
TRIPLE-F CHALLENGE!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Using Joyce’s Ghazals for a guideline, let’s write some more Ghazals! Yes, I know we did them before
[medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2020/10/skeletons-headless-roses.html], but that was a long time ago...
WRONG PATH
—Caschwa
Coat
Hanger
Option
Is
Crudely
Evil
____________________
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!
____________________
TRIPLE-F CHALLENGE!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Using Joyce’s Ghazals for a guideline, let’s write some more Ghazals! Yes, I know we did them before
[medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2020/10/skeletons-headless-roses.html], but that was a long time ago...
AND/OR:
Don’t forget that on Monday, July 25, Genoa Barrow will be reading at Sac. Poetry Center (online). She has asked us to bring Kwansabas, poems of praise that celebrate family and African-American culture (a form devised in 1995 by Eugene B. Redmond, Sac. State poet/professor). Give it a shot, whether you can make the reading or not—49 words, seven lines, seven words per line, and no word exceeds seven letters. It’s still not too late for your celebratory set of lucky sevens:
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Poem.
And don’t forget every Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “A Kiss on the Cheek”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••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
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal AND/OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal AND/OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html •••Kwansaba: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kwansaba-poetic-forms
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Sonnet, Shakespearian: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-shakespearean-sonnet-learn-about-shakespearean-sonnets-with-examples
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html •••Kwansaba: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kwansaba-poetic-forms
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Sonnet, Shakespearian: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-shakespearean-sonnet-learn-about-shakespearean-sonnets-with-examples
For more about meter, see:
•••www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-iambic-pentameter-definition-literature
•••www.pandorapost.com/2021/05/examples-of-iambic-pentameter-tetrameter-and-trimeter-in-poetry.html
____________________
—Medusa
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
***
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
