—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
IT MIGHT BE
You wake from napping.
Was that a kiss on the cheek?
or the cat’s whiskers,
a stray lilt of the Coffee
Cantata from the other room,
or a spider searching for
soft spots to bite?
You’re too big to be spider-
bait but that doesn’t
lessen the itch
of daylight
waking to the old
world of kisses on the cheek
and anything else it might be.
You wake from napping.
Was that a kiss on the cheek?
or the cat’s whiskers,
a stray lilt of the Coffee
Cantata from the other room,
or a spider searching for
soft spots to bite?
You’re too big to be spider-
bait but that doesn’t
lessen the itch
of daylight
waking to the old
world of kisses on the cheek
and anything else it might be.
WIND GHAZAL
I’ve followed dark scents that glide on the wind,
trusting only this dog, my guide on the wind.
A lift of nose—she tries to fly, to catch those
elusive scents which subside on the wind.
Their honeymoon ended. My dog leads me
to this cliff-edge, chasing a bride on the wind.
A man left his life, took his pistol; walked
to this lonely place to hide on the wind.
To find a lost boy in the morning downdraft—
might my dog and I just slide on the wind?
A girl disappeared with no trace. My dog
took me to where something sighed on the wind.
If we shared the same language, my dog would
tell me such secrets that bide on the wind.
Dog Handler 6 is haunted by the ones
we didn’t find—ghosts that chide on the wind.
I’ve followed dark scents that glide on the wind,
trusting only this dog, my guide on the wind.
A lift of nose—she tries to fly, to catch those
elusive scents which subside on the wind.
Their honeymoon ended. My dog leads me
to this cliff-edge, chasing a bride on the wind.
A man left his life, took his pistol; walked
to this lonely place to hide on the wind.
To find a lost boy in the morning downdraft—
might my dog and I just slide on the wind?
A girl disappeared with no trace. My dog
took me to where something sighed on the wind.
If we shared the same language, my dog would
tell me such secrets that bide on the wind.
Dog Handler 6 is haunted by the ones
we didn’t find—ghosts that chide on the wind.
WHEN THE BEAR WANDERED THROUGH
The teachers had the children sit in circles
on classroom floor by the shadow of the bear.
They told bear stories and drew trees and tepees,
put themselves in tales: The Shadow of the Bear.
The teachers told them how lucky they all lived
close to trees and wild and shadow of the bear.
Who was interloper in their school, their town,
and who lived here first? the shadow of the bear.
Then the bear wandered off, and the children
went out to recess in shadow of the bear.
But the bear was gone away, leaving nothing
but drawings, stories, and shadow of a bear.
The teachers had the children sit in circles
on classroom floor by the shadow of the bear.
They told bear stories and drew trees and tepees,
put themselves in tales: The Shadow of the Bear.
The teachers told them how lucky they all lived
close to trees and wild and shadow of the bear.
Who was interloper in their school, their town,
and who lived here first? the shadow of the bear.
Then the bear wandered off, and the children
went out to recess in shadow of the bear.
But the bear was gone away, leaving nothing
but drawings, stories, and shadow of a bear.
RECLUSE
Spider weaving herself in slick of her net,
its filaments as sticky as my internet.
I wield my weed-eater as a machete,
knife, bludgeon, scalpel, flail, a bayonet.
On morning TV, nothing but bad news:
lost job, ID, life, air, home, planet.
Images of space before history, caught
like flies in a young girl’s sonnet.
Keep to yourself, they say, every sense
on trigger hi-alert before a dragnet.
This poet tangles words among woods,
breath drawn by the green magnet.
Spider weaving herself in slick of her net,
its filaments as sticky as my internet.
I wield my weed-eater as a machete,
knife, bludgeon, scalpel, flail, a bayonet.
On morning TV, nothing but bad news:
lost job, ID, life, air, home, planet.
Images of space before history, caught
like flies in a young girl’s sonnet.
Keep to yourself, they say, every sense
on trigger hi-alert before a dragnet.
This poet tangles words among woods,
breath drawn by the green magnet.
FINDING THE SPOT
A rock & rut road won’t survive a fire-fight.
It gets dozed so smooth, everyone can drive it.
Miles of charred mountain to the meadow…
Cars parked so tight, no room left for birdsong.
A grove of aspen, white bark written black,
the highest branches leafing out, living green.
Retrace our journey to an unremarkable spot,
mule’s ears, wild carrot, sulfur buckwheat.
No traffic sound. Scraggly young sequoia
and ancient juniper in silent council.
A poet’s prints in sand are soon swept clean.
Sagebrush and solitude, and one chickadee.
A rock & rut road won’t survive a fire-fight.
It gets dozed so smooth, everyone can drive it.
Miles of charred mountain to the meadow…
Cars parked so tight, no room left for birdsong.
A grove of aspen, white bark written black,
the highest branches leafing out, living green.
Retrace our journey to an unremarkable spot,
mule’s ears, wild carrot, sulfur buckwheat.
No traffic sound. Scraggly young sequoia
and ancient juniper in silent council.
A poet’s prints in sand are soon swept clean.
Sagebrush and solitude, and one chickadee.
STOPPING FOR ROADSIDE IN JULY
From there to somewhere
the two-lane asked, why stop here?
and, again, why not?
Patchwork of textures,
live & dead colors blooming
in bludgeoning sun.
All the shades of green:
grapevine, wild carrot, willow,
thistle, cocklebur.
You were mentioning
absence of mourning doves—Look!
a dozen take wing.
In my phone, photos to keep.
On my laces, cockleburs.
From there to somewhere
the two-lane asked, why stop here?
and, again, why not?
Patchwork of textures,
live & dead colors blooming
in bludgeoning sun.
All the shades of green:
grapevine, wild carrot, willow,
thistle, cocklebur.
You were mentioning
absence of mourning doves—Look!
a dozen take wing.
In my phone, photos to keep.
On my laces, cockleburs.
Today’s LittleNip:
EXTRASENSORY
—Taylor Graham
You met as two strangers on business. She
came from a place you once lived
and your heart never left.
Both of you masked, eyes reflecting a place
of oak woods calling you back
like wind’s kiss on the cheek.
_____________________
Four Ghazals from Taylor Graham today (last week’s Triple-F Challenge): “Wind Ghazal”; “When the Bear Wandered Through”; “Recluse”; and “Finding the Spot”), as well as a Haiku Sonnet (“Stopping for Roadside in July”) and a Kimo Chain (“Extrasensory”). She also sends us poems of kisses on the cheek, our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week. Many thanks, TG—one of the first poets ever to post in the Kitchen. Yes, it’s been that long…
TG had a birthday yesterday, and we wish her a belated one. She has been posting photos and poems from last Sunday’s Capturing Wakamatsu workshop on her Western Slope El Dorado poetry site on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Check it out! The next Wakamatsu workshop (with TG and Katy Brown) will take place on Oct. 2.
Speaking of Katy, she and fellow Davisite Allegra Silberstein will be reading tomorrow at Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co. in Diamond Springs. And tonight in Sacramento, T-Mo Entertainment presents Comedy and Poetry Show with Comedian Jammin’ Jay Lamont and Poet Terry Moore, plus singer Christa Grant. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
And now it’s time for . . .
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
EXTRASENSORY
—Taylor Graham
You met as two strangers on business. She
came from a place you once lived
and your heart never left.
Both of you masked, eyes reflecting a place
of oak woods calling you back
like wind’s kiss on the cheek.
_____________________
Four Ghazals from Taylor Graham today (last week’s Triple-F Challenge): “Wind Ghazal”; “When the Bear Wandered Through”; “Recluse”; and “Finding the Spot”), as well as a Haiku Sonnet (“Stopping for Roadside in July”) and a Kimo Chain (“Extrasensory”). She also sends us poems of kisses on the cheek, our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week. Many thanks, TG—one of the first poets ever to post in the Kitchen. Yes, it’s been that long…
TG had a birthday yesterday, and we wish her a belated one. She has been posting photos and poems from last Sunday’s Capturing Wakamatsu workshop on her Western Slope El Dorado poetry site on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Check it out! The next Wakamatsu workshop (with TG and Katy Brown) will take place on Oct. 2.
Speaking of Katy, she and fellow Davisite Allegra Silberstein will be reading tomorrow at Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co. in Diamond Springs. And tonight in Sacramento, T-Mo Entertainment presents Comedy and Poetry Show with Comedian Jammin’ Jay Lamont and Poet Terry Moore, plus singer Christa Grant. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
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
Two of our poets responded to last Friday’s Ekphrastic Challenge:
FIDDLER ON FIRE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
No one knew the stranger,
more battered than the fiddle
he lifted to his chin.
Everyone ignored him,
too busy with their lives.
“The Devil Went Down to Georgia”
was the tune that fiddle sang.
Red flames flickered in his hair,
soot flew from his bow.
Fire danced around him,
and spread throughout the town.
Soon the people were all cinders
spread around his feet.
They never had a chance to see
the stranger grin and sweep them
into his fiddle case.
* * *
ALLEGRO
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
A sorcerer, this journeyman,
apprentice to spell-binding fling.
Take static portrait, melody,
if ever bow strings zapped a song
in catgut burn from sizzle strings,
a fleck of hair flick, air unlocked;
key curl notes thrown cross concert room,
or leading jig from gipsy band,
a ceilidh from his native land.
A Riverdance in current streams,
without precision steps of stance,
trompe l’oeil allows smokescreen in wafts
as conjured muse sets flight alight.
Allegro, like the firebird flown,
tempo too quick for lines defined,
set fast as in a rite of spring.
Grey drain drawn strains let loose from bars,
dun flame hint crown to viol tip,
does some vibrato fill his head
to overflow in pyroclast?
* * *
POETIC LICENCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My name is not above the door,
but as a lad I fished from bank.
We owned a dog for many a year,
I paid the registrar when planned,
for marriage, date and place in hand;
now driving car and programmes watch.
Responsibility, play fair,
so needed licence, pay care share.
To serve the verse in measured glass,
or hook the words from angler's rod,
to lead some thought with collared phrase,
to voice life's vows through stanzas read,
to change the gear through rhythm shift,
or channel surf, ride verbal waves;
all need licence, permissive chit,
soldered truth, meanings redefined.
New boundaries now border style,
creative relish not a lie;
maintenance of norms, grammar's rules,
all give way, literary flair,
or mashing language, take the dare.
* * *
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us a Ghazal, though he bemoans the fact that different poets seem to stretch and strain the form, often ignoring the rules set forth by the various “authorities”. I shrugged (online) and said, well, that’s how it is sometimes in the poetry world, especially when forms are imported from one culture to another. To wit, see Stephen Kingsnorth’s poem above about the licenses we poets give ourselves (also note the British spelling of “licence”),
Here is Carl’s Ghazal:
CALL AND RESPONSE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
My calendar was clear today
so I started writing poetry
Refreshed my memory of certain words
and peered through clouds of shifting forms
Reminded that the “H” in Haiku stands for
all the ways to describe a Hot Dog
Don‘t forget the wiener
don’t forget the bun
Don’t forget the condiments
don’t forget to wash your hands
Find the nearest used CAR Lot
and indulge in some Hot Dogs
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
My calendar was clear today
so I started writing poetry
Refreshed my memory of certain words
and peered through clouds of shifting forms
Reminded that the “H” in Haiku stands for
all the ways to describe a Hot Dog
Don‘t forget the wiener
don’t forget the bun
Don’t forget the condiments
don’t forget to wash your hands
Find the nearest used CAR Lot
and indulge in some Hot Dogs
Continuing with Poetic License talk, Carl answered the call for a Kwansaba, though he eschewed the national pride slant. So we chatted about that, then I referred myself to Stephen’s poem, and so here we are, with Carl's zippy Kwansaba:
THE BAND
—Caschwa
swing band session was hot and heavy
a select group played at our wedding
alto sax danced with my eldest aunt
bari sax took some really nice photos
all the guests had a great time
since then thirty nine years have passed
we made some good music, sure did
* * *
And last but far from least, Claire Baker sent us a lovely poem; not only is it a Triolet, but it’s a response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Windsong”—a twofer:
THE BAND
—Caschwa
swing band session was hot and heavy
a select group played at our wedding
alto sax danced with my eldest aunt
bari sax took some really nice photos
all the guests had a great time
since then thirty nine years have passed
we made some good music, sure did
* * *
And last but far from least, Claire Baker sent us a lovely poem; not only is it a Triolet, but it’s a response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Windsong”—a twofer:
WINDSONG
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
The wind comes singing for us again
when we are paused to listen.
Up from valleys and through the glen
the wind comes whistling for us again
to crack our shells and open
as though our Time were christened.
The wind comes chorusing for us again
when silently we listen.
____________________
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.) Let’s go back to Sonnet forms. How about:
•••Petrarchan (Italian) Sonnet: poets.org/glossary/sonnet
AND/OR wrassle with this little Haiku variation:
•••Alphabet Haiku: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/alphabet-haiku
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo to which every poet can well relate…
•••Alphabet Haiku: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/alphabet-haiku
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo to which every poet can well relate…
And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Windsong”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Alphabet Haiku: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/alphabet-haiku
•••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
•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Kimo: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form AND/OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo
•••Kwansaba: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kwansaba-poetic-forms
•••Petrarchan (Italian) Sonnet: poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
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
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
—Medusa
Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
***
—Public Domain Photo
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.
Don’t throw them ALL away…