—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
STILL LIFE WITH GLASS SHARD
I’m navigating between August sun
and brittle dead grasses. This little canyon
resembles a desert but for the oaks.
Extreme drought prevails. I’m wandering
among boulder heaps I’ve known
for years. But here, a turquoise glint
I never saw before—the only bright spot
on leaf-fall ground: fragment of vessel,
a bottle broken at bottom and throat,
weathered where it lies. What’s its secret?
So many hidden matters. Scrub Jay
calls from an oak, strident in its proof of life.
I’m navigating between August sun
and brittle dead grasses. This little canyon
resembles a desert but for the oaks.
Extreme drought prevails. I’m wandering
among boulder heaps I’ve known
for years. But here, a turquoise glint
I never saw before—the only bright spot
on leaf-fall ground: fragment of vessel,
a bottle broken at bottom and throat,
weathered where it lies. What’s its secret?
So many hidden matters. Scrub Jay
calls from an oak, strident in its proof of life.
KICKING DUST
August, bone-brittle season of our thirst
and listlessness, and smoky skies that choke;
our lakes drying—will this year be the worst?
Or will cumulus build, heavy to burst
over the mountains darkened with a cloak
of summit-secrets; wind in the clouds’ girth.
And, down here, slightest whisper in the oak—
high twigs moving. Dare we wish rain to soak
the land? in August? This is drought and dearth.
But in the swale, a horse samples the air,
kicks up dust, whirls, dashes across dry earth
as if suddenly sky were giving birth
to a cooling breeze, transforming our where-
abouts—if just for now—to barefoot-rare.
August, bone-brittle season of our thirst
and listlessness, and smoky skies that choke;
our lakes drying—will this year be the worst?
Or will cumulus build, heavy to burst
over the mountains darkened with a cloak
of summit-secrets; wind in the clouds’ girth.
And, down here, slightest whisper in the oak—
high twigs moving. Dare we wish rain to soak
the land? in August? This is drought and dearth.
But in the swale, a horse samples the air,
kicks up dust, whirls, dashes across dry earth
as if suddenly sky were giving birth
to a cooling breeze, transforming our where-
abouts—if just for now—to barefoot-rare.
AGAIN, THIS MORNING
Walk out the door—what’s outside?
the same-old same-old
view, August-brittle, going
about its life. Check
the sky—it’s blue. Black Phoebe
darts after bugs. Dove
rises from dead grass. Might I
fly? Inhale—pure joy.
Walk out the door—what’s outside?
the same-old same-old
view, August-brittle, going
about its life. Check
the sky—it’s blue. Black Phoebe
darts after bugs. Dove
rises from dead grass. Might I
fly? Inhale—pure joy.
SECRET FLOWERS
No bouquet at your doorstep—
stems of dried flowers.
Asters, petals folded back
in sun-bleach pleats like
skirts of a fruitful center;
hollyhock seedpods
as if holding life’s secret.
Who left them here? Why?
No bouquet at your doorstep—
stems of dried flowers.
Asters, petals folded back
in sun-bleach pleats like
skirts of a fruitful center;
hollyhock seedpods
as if holding life’s secret.
Who left them here? Why?
DOLLAR STORE
That man ahead of me—does he lack
sense? sailing his cheap items onto the belt
not slovenly but awash, resigned,
making the clerk wait while he digs pennies
out of his pockets one cent
at a time—
but who am I to count? Who knows
what he’s been through this morning, this
week. Does he have a home?
Each of us a casualty, it seems,
at the reckoning of money and of time.
Just look at us in line.
That man ahead of me—does he lack
sense? sailing his cheap items onto the belt
not slovenly but awash, resigned,
making the clerk wait while he digs pennies
out of his pockets one cent
at a time—
but who am I to count? Who knows
what he’s been through this morning, this
week. Does he have a home?
Each of us a casualty, it seems,
at the reckoning of money and of time.
Just look at us in line.
SOMEWHERE IN GERMANY
A postcard from you, no return address.
You cite your penchant for cloister & church,
(pictured: Dürer in stone, in winter dress
with live raven on his head). Family stress
called you home, an uncomfortable perch
for a poet lost in homeland now, seeking
cobblestone alleys where bicycles lurch
for balance as you walk and walk in search
of castle ruins, currywurst, some thing
to anchor you. Your father recently dead
brings you back, but do cathedral bells ring
his presence? You keep on wandering.
Tschüss, ‘bye. What if I left your card unread
with no address? I’ll answer sky instead.
A postcard from you, no return address.
You cite your penchant for cloister & church,
(pictured: Dürer in stone, in winter dress
with live raven on his head). Family stress
called you home, an uncomfortable perch
for a poet lost in homeland now, seeking
cobblestone alleys where bicycles lurch
for balance as you walk and walk in search
of castle ruins, currywurst, some thing
to anchor you. Your father recently dead
brings you back, but do cathedral bells ring
his presence? You keep on wandering.
Tschüss, ‘bye. What if I left your card unread
with no address? I’ll answer sky instead.
Today’s LittleNip:
BETWEEN FLIGHT & STALL
—Taylor Graham
Time
by the
clock never
lies (so you say)
except the moments
fly when you’re bursting with fun
and lag when bludgeoned by sun
in dog-days August
and suddenly
summer melts
into
ice.
____________________
Still dry as a bone up here, and Taylor Graham talks about it in today’s poetry. Our thanks to her for that and for the photos she sends to show us what’s going on—though her poetry also does that very effectively. Forms TG has sent us today include two Imagos (“Secret Flowers” and “Again, This Morning”); a reply to Medusa's Ekphrastic Challenge of last week (“Dollar Store”); two Bradford Sonnets, last week’s Triple-F Challenge (“Kicking Dust” and “Somewhere in Germany”); and an Arkquain (“Between Flight & Stall”), a nod to Caschwa’s Arkquain last week, “Big Secrets”.
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Poet Frank Andrick has passed away. In addition to his other contributions to our community, including hosting Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café for many years, Frank was the Editor of Rattlesnake Press’s quarterly “journalzine”, WTF, for the seven years it was in publication. Keep on writing, Frank, wherever you are. We’ll miss you.
Last Monday I posted that this weekend's Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading would be Saturday, but that's incorrect. It will be this Sunday, Aug. 28, in their new venue in Camino. And poets Terry Moore and Anna Marie will read tonight at the Jam On It Concert at The Original House of Soul in Old Sac. Check it all out on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
And now it’s time for…
Form Fiddler’s Friday!
BETWEEN FLIGHT & STALL
—Taylor Graham
Time
by the
clock never
lies (so you say)
except the moments
fly when you’re bursting with fun
and lag when bludgeoned by sun
in dog-days August
and suddenly
summer melts
into
ice.
____________________
Still dry as a bone up here, and Taylor Graham talks about it in today’s poetry. Our thanks to her for that and for the photos she sends to show us what’s going on—though her poetry also does that very effectively. Forms TG has sent us today include two Imagos (“Secret Flowers” and “Again, This Morning”); a reply to Medusa's Ekphrastic Challenge of last week (“Dollar Store”); two Bradford Sonnets, last week’s Triple-F Challenge (“Kicking Dust” and “Somewhere in Germany”); and an Arkquain (“Between Flight & Stall”), a nod to Caschwa’s Arkquain last week, “Big Secrets”.
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Poet Frank Andrick has passed away. In addition to his other contributions to our community, including hosting Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café for many years, Frank was the Editor of Rattlesnake Press’s quarterly “journalzine”, WTF, for the seven years it was in publication. Keep on writing, Frank, wherever you are. We’ll miss you.
Last Monday I posted that this weekend's Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading would be Saturday, but that's incorrect. It will be this Sunday, Aug. 28, in their new venue in Camino. And poets Terry Moore and Anna Marie will read tonight at the Jam On It Concert at The Original House of Soul in Old Sac. Check it all out on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
And now it’s time for…
Form Fiddler’s 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 some poems based on last week’s rather surreal ekphrastic challenge (that clock in water) including Claire Baker’s heartbreaking Ekphrastic/Triolet; Nolcha Fox’s three time-thoughts; Stephen Kingsnorth’s musings on clocks and the passage of time; and a poem of Caschwa’s (Carl Schwartz) that brings us up-to-date on what time means to a lot of folks these days. [See also Taylor Graham’s “Dollar Store” above.]
RUINED CLOCK IN WEEDS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
A dying soldier well may ask:
Mom, what time is it?
Soldiers do not wear a mask
and so, in dying, hint, don’t ask:
Am I done with this grim task
of murder, mayhem, grit?!
A dying soldier’s heard to ask:
Mom, what time is it?
* * *
When the tide
washes away
the sands of time,
does the world begin again?
Or does it end?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
Stop, dog, stop
racing through the house,
around the yard,
through the open doors!
The clock got so dizzy
watching you,
its hands spun wrong-ways,
turning back time.
Now, dinosaurs crush
the cars,
another ice age killed
the flowers.
Stop, dog, stop
before no life is left
on earth!
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
BAUBLES AND BUBBLES
—Nolcha Fox
She was spare change
wasted on shiny baubles,
spare time drowned
in bubble baths,
passing fancy food,
leaving nothing
but empty pockets,
a bathtub ring,
and indigestion.
* * *
RUINED CLOCK IN WEEDS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
A dying soldier well may ask:
Mom, what time is it?
Soldiers do not wear a mask
and so, in dying, hint, don’t ask:
Am I done with this grim task
of murder, mayhem, grit?!
A dying soldier’s heard to ask:
Mom, what time is it?
* * *
When the tide
washes away
the sands of time,
does the world begin again?
Or does it end?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
Stop, dog, stop
racing through the house,
around the yard,
through the open doors!
The clock got so dizzy
watching you,
its hands spun wrong-ways,
turning back time.
Now, dinosaurs crush
the cars,
another ice age killed
the flowers.
Stop, dog, stop
before no life is left
on earth!
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
BAUBLES AND BUBBLES
—Nolcha Fox
She was spare change
wasted on shiny baubles,
spare time drowned
in bubble baths,
passing fancy food,
leaving nothing
but empty pockets,
a bathtub ring,
and indigestion.
* * *
CLOCKED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
How can it be a singular,
should, as plural, double, in fact?
The clock I see causes alarm—
it rings a bell, but are there two?
How can we number undefined,
alarm as clang on tin, appeal?
I guess the call’s through swinging gong,
those domes are there to give response—
but one away means incomplete—
so go at it, hammer and bongs.
You may see pair but hear mere one,
as nee-naw, see-saw, complement.
We need our ears, for bleary eyes,
even when peering at the face,
we find less clear that Roman count,
with X and V or I, I’m lost.
But then the choice, we all have faced,
rising up, meet the grey of day,
or sink back to that wallow wave,
to swallow time in dozing daze.
I did it once, alone at home—
but missed day’s pay—never again.
* * *
* * *
About this next poem, Stephen writes: “I’m afraid [this poem] ‘Westminster’ is very British, especially regarding BBC Radio at midnight & 1am... Perhaps, like ‘nard’ [in his poem, ‘Floribunda at Grantchester’ last week], someone will pursue it!” He’s referring to my saying that I doubted we knew what nard was on this side of the planet, and no fair googling. Here is another “clock” poem from Stephen, this one evoking London, where he grew up:
WESTMINSTER
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Though drift to sleep with Bing at sea—
the shipping forecast, Sailing By,
before storm waves, gales, swell announced—
Big Ben at midnight, my sure ground—
that reassurance, all chimes clear,
as England, London, born and raised.
I see Westminster, black, white, grey,
in monochrome, Alvar Liddell
is heard though I, as yet, unborn,
as naïve innocence, post-war,
the grainy screen—my seed declared.
Why should such bell tones reassure—
the colours, politics at play—
some patriotic loyalty—
but that reverberating song from towe
r
engages, where my parents left.
Each jurisdiction sounds its call,
and that, for me, installs, defends,
as Wordsworth standing on the bridge,
composed and calm, at country’s heart.
* * *
* * *
THE DAILY COMMUTE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
seated, belted, mirrors adjusted
exiting garage, driveway,
entering street, freeway
more freeway
more traffic
delays happen, beyond any
probability, it is a statistical
certainty, so departure
time is a half-
hour earlier
on the hood is mounted the usual
bare-breasted figurehead
to calm city traffic
this one with a face
that tells time
the head of each and every
other motorist comprises
a lineup of suspects
in a criminal case
they all look guilty
(Happy Birthday, Charles!)
Like Taylor Graham, Caschwa answered the Triple-F Challenge last week, which was the Bradford Sonnet:
SOME BOYS LOST THEIR TOYS
—Caschwa
they only had to know to do one thing
make everything a game that would be fun
there were no rules, no teeth, no bite, no sting
with guns, and gals, and slaves, a boy could sing
the joy that life could bring each lucky one
to spend his time aspiring to be God
one’s beck and call would get the workday done
all out and open in the noonday sun
from time to time new toys would get the nod
no tears were shed for ones that couldn’t stay
old toys were traded sometimes for a wad
or maybe kept for practice, cut and sawed
these boys grew up to be adults some day
they had no rules, no debts to ever pay
* * *
And here are a few Quatrains from Carl, with what he calls “a simple rhyme scheme”:
DO IT LIKE A PRO
—Caschwa
a smidgeon of this
a little more of that
less touching with your fingers
more sensing like a bat
size is just a feeling
you keep under your hat
once you bring me a rock
you will have it down pat
it won’t be at your front door
sitting right on your mat
in a square, business package
resting under your cat
it’s more of an impression of
the concavity where you sat,
than taking a precise measure
of the marbling of fat
go ahead, test it out
quid pro quo, tit for tat
ample accomplished altruism
will soon fill an empty vat
Joyce Odam sent us another Welsh form today, the Englyn Penfyr:
Syl:
(10) x x x x x x (a) x x (b)
( 7 ) (?(b b) x x x (a)
( 7 ) x x x x x x (a)
Syl:
(10) x x x x x x (a) x x (b)
( 7 ) (?(b b) x x x (a)
( 7 ) x x x x x x (a)
Here is Joyce’s example:
TRANSGRESSIONS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Now that I am very old—without tears—
in these years I cannot hold
are secrets I have not told.
Though some memories burn deep and still flare,
I wear them like scars, and keep
those secrets—sowings I reap.
Joyce also sent a form of her own devising, saying she “used metric count and line repetition”:
Line: (1st) (2nd) (3rd) (4th) (5th)
# Feet: 4-ft, 4-ft, 5-ft, 4-ft, 2-ft
We shall call it the LittleJoyce, since it’s short and sweet, like her. Here is the first-ever LittleJoyce:
THE ATTRACTION
—Joyce Odam
There is more to this than love, they claim:
there is the intrigue, what they use
to solve each other, let each other in
where all the dark secrets lurk—the dark
afraid of the light.
To solve each other, let each other in
where all the dark secrets lurk—the dark
afraid of the light—
there is more to this than love, they claim:
there is the intrigue—what they use.
After “Everything Changes” by Bertolt Brecht
(www.ayearofbeinghere.com/2014/01/bertolt-brecht-everything-changes.html/)
* * *
Finally, Stephen Kingsnorth sent us an Ars Poetica that is also an Ekphrastic response to an art piece which I posted last Sunday:
—Public Domain Photo
GLYPH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
This font, clipped clear, not pencil work,
flow printer’s ink, not graphite led—
a stick required to keep in line,
to discipline this jumble cloud.
Sans serif fails handwriting test—
but fewer writers hold the pen
as finger tips dance laptop keys—
is this now type of writing verse?
I see the stops, not erotemes,
but punctuation, needed, sense,
unless impressionistic verse—
release, or heart arrhythmia?
These squiggles as mosquito swarm,
or starlings, murmuration bound,
dyslexic me, but set 3D,
speech-bubble bursting energy?
Superimposed or interlaced,
both capitals and lower case,
a jostle, vowel and consonants,
without a base, rhythm or rhyme.
It might as well be cuneiform,
this formless gathering of codes,
as if a smashed Rosetta Stone,
awaiting secrets to unfold.
Joined-up letters, copperplate,
our fathers’ script, calligraphy,
unless crossed t’s and dotted i’s,
too much demand, who’s sign a cross.
When pressed, how sharp the impact made,
what angle will the writer take—
will acute scribe spread obtuse thought,
this fag-end stub, yet fine design?
I think its start before the tip—
explained if grey delineates
a mark laid down, not poet poised,
with shadow stretched across the page?
So can this alphabetti soup
be managed like a scrabble board,
to make some points, score melody?
A title page, anthology?
____________________
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 CHALLENGES!
•••Englyn Penfyr: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-penfyr-poetic-forms
Or you could try Joyce Odam’s
•••LittleJoyce: 4-ft/4-ft/5-ft/4-ft/2-ft
And nobody has sent in a Sestina yet, so it’s still on the table:
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo.
And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Impossible”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Arkquain, Arkquain String, Arkquain Swirl: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/example-index (scroll down)
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Englyn Penfyr: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-penfyr-poetic-forms
•••Imago: eight lines in alternating syllables, 7 5 7 5 7 5 7 5
•••LittleJoyce (Joyce Odam): 4-ft/4-ft/5-ft/4-ft/2-ft
•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Sonnet, Bradford: abaabcbb cdcc dd
•••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.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter
____________________
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter
____________________
—Medusa
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
***
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
