—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
WHAT’S IMPORTANT
It’s four in the morning. Does Rooster crow
on account of the full Sturgeon Moon
(though I heard him moonless crowing in June)
or maybe the year’s-best Perseid show?
Who knows the rooster-mind approaching dawn?
hoping for his corn and daylight right soon,
and night, and moon and meteors be gone?
It’s four in the morning. Does Rooster crow
on account of the full Sturgeon Moon
(though I heard him moonless crowing in June)
or maybe the year’s-best Perseid show?
Who knows the rooster-mind approaching dawn?
hoping for his corn and daylight right soon,
and night, and moon and meteors be gone?
GRANDDAUGHTER
She wants seashells, you have mountains.
How shall you spend a summer here
together? Digging for the past or wandering
in search of surfacings? Timing of tides,
upheavals of time. Shards and remnants
polished, textured by weather, transformed
for everyday uses of the living: pebble-
nests of plovers and layered sands-of-time
all-over. Her curiosity gives license
to yours. A game of discovery, evolution;
outgrowing our limits; the pure beauty
of joy; and you don’t mean to play the fossil.
She wants seashells, you have mountains.
How shall you spend a summer here
together? Digging for the past or wandering
in search of surfacings? Timing of tides,
upheavals of time. Shards and remnants
polished, textured by weather, transformed
for everyday uses of the living: pebble-
nests of plovers and layered sands-of-time
all-over. Her curiosity gives license
to yours. A game of discovery, evolution;
outgrowing our limits; the pure beauty
of joy; and you don’t mean to play the fossil.
NATURE GARDEN
In the August garden, sunflowers, daisies
and asters stand in skeleton bloom, lovely
as sea-shells emptying their lives. Hollyhock
seed-souls still locked in dry husk. Fernleaf yarrow’s
lapsed from bright yellow to old-lady homespun
brown. As if a florist spent hours making
the death of flowers so very beautiful.
In the August garden, sunflowers, daisies
and asters stand in skeleton bloom, lovely
as sea-shells emptying their lives. Hollyhock
seed-souls still locked in dry husk. Fernleaf yarrow’s
lapsed from bright yellow to old-lady homespun
brown. As if a florist spent hours making
the death of flowers so very beautiful.
AUGUST DRY
What to say about that walk
on the sunburnt land?
Not a bit of songbird talk
you could understand.
Berries shriveled on the vine,
stickers in the grass.
Dust is yours and dust is mine.
Summer minutes pass.
What to say about that walk
on the sunburnt land?
Not a bit of songbird talk
you could understand.
Berries shriveled on the vine,
stickers in the grass.
Dust is yours and dust is mine.
Summer minutes pass.
FRUIT OF THE TREE
Beneath the wide spreading branches under sky,
Under 5-fingered leaves turning autumn brown,
Chamber-haven for buck & doe, snake shedding skin,
Keystone of wild north corner, polished fruit of
Earth; mustn’t be eaten but held lovingly in the palm.
You tell me it’s not a fruit. Technically it is.
Eye of earth and tree, watching.
Beneath the wide spreading branches under sky,
Under 5-fingered leaves turning autumn brown,
Chamber-haven for buck & doe, snake shedding skin,
Keystone of wild north corner, polished fruit of
Earth; mustn’t be eaten but held lovingly in the palm.
You tell me it’s not a fruit. Technically it is.
Eye of earth and tree, watching.
CLASS REUNION
Another gathering is in the works.
So, should you go along this time, at last?
You, who were always noted for your quirks.
How long ago it was, so much has passed
and better now forgotten—so you think.
Your typewriter ribbon’s worn out of ink
and life has proved so many theses wrong.
Your old roomie would call it all “a blast!”
as if you shared her notions of the past.
And then she’d sing her favorite silly song
recalling simpler and more hopeful days.
You can’t go back again, you know. You won’t
go back, to heap those buried times with praise.
And are they buried? You say “Scat!” They don’t.
Today’s LittleNip:
NEIGHBOR’S FIELD
—Taylor Graham
Aging horses frolic there,
heads high, their nostrils flare—
autumn’s in the chill of air.
Sorrel and red-paint—
old, of spirit faint?
This cool morn, they ain’t!
NEIGHBOR’S FIELD
—Taylor Graham
Aging horses frolic there,
heads high, their nostrils flare—
autumn’s in the chill of air.
Sorrel and red-paint—
old, of spirit faint?
This cool morn, they ain’t!
______________________
Good morning, and thanks to Taylor Graham for writing about how dry it is up here—and elsewhere, of course (for those of us not being deluged by rain…). Forms TG has sent us this week include Normative Syllabics (“Nature Garden”); an Acrostic (“Fruit of the Tree”); a Stefanile Triadic Sonnet, last week’s Triple-F Challenge (“Class Reunion”); a 7/5 Trochee, the other Triple-F Challenge (“August Dry”); a Sonnette (“What's Important”); and a Welsh Englyn Milwr (“Neighbor's Field”). The Englyn Milwr is partly a response to last week’s poem in that form by Joyce Odam.
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
About these two poems of his, Stephen Kingsnorth writes that they have “a hint of Elegy, & Rupert with my nostalgia for Cambridge days; and some chocolate-box realism thrown in for good measure!” We can always use a little chocolate-box realism around here! But are there any words more beautiful than “floribunda”? Maybe “grandiflora”? Hey—do you know what “nard” is (no fair Googling it)? Anyway, here are poems on the Ekphrastic photo by Stephen and by Nolcha Fox:
FLORIBUNDA AT GRANTCHESTER
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I can imagine, through decades,
how many Florries might have passed
the threshold of this cottage site,
herbaceous borders, mown lawn grassed.
Delight lies in its image, dressed
informal, yet so neatly creased;
the granny’s bonnets, Michaelmas
as daisies marking what is preached.
A colour chart of graded heights,
with standard, bush and climbing shrub,
a hybrid mix of self-indulged,
as grandiflora aims to snub.
But Florrie nurtures in the beds
more industry than worker bees,
the weary ploughman plodding home,
for tea, no doubt, a crust and cheese.
Will there be honey on the cloth,
where punts pass the old vicarage,
when heads dip slow as poles drop low,
those currents slide by under bridge.
It was a brook before the flow
took in The Backs, The Bridge of Sighs,
and Magdalene, high table draped
by hair, nard, tears, forgiven lies.
* * *
HARD CENTRE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Why chocolate box that so attracts—
the honeyed stone, a cottage thatch,
by packhorse bridge, pink pastel walls,
with hollyhocks, delphiniums,
the floribunda bower rose?
Is it wanting outside latrine,
ash to clear daily from the grate,
the damp patch creeping up the walls,
and gentle rot of window frames,
or candle store for frequent cuts?
The old forge bellows forgery,
steps chapel pulpit, dry-rot spread,
the pointing sucked by ivy creep,
a coven met behind the pub,
black magic circling village life.
The fondant creams and caramels,
pecan pralines and kirsch liqueurs,
all pictured in the flavour guide,
tucked under lid, tight cellophane,
tempting to taste what under wraps.
* * *
The air leaves the room
to follow you home,
to lift up the heels
of your shoes.
When you don't come back,
the chair cushions sink,
the clock turns its face to the wall.
The paint on the walls
turns to trails of tears,
puddles in blue on the floor.
Even in breeze,
lace curtains hang limp,
missing the touch of your hands.
The lock on the door
declines to stay closed,
hoping that you will return.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
FORGETFUL
—Nolcha Fox
I take the leash
to walk the dog,
but I forget the dog.
I go outside
to get the mail,
but I forget and water flowers.
I lock the door,
walk to the car,
but I forget my keys.
I stand in line
to pay for food,
but I forget my wallet.
I go to bed
to read a book,
but I forget my glasses.
I ask my friends
to check me in since
I forget how to get home.
* * *
Taylor Graham sent a 7/5 Trochee (“August Dry”) in response to the Triple-F Challenge, and here is one from Carl Schwartz:
FLORIBUNDA AT GRANTCHESTER
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I can imagine, through decades,
how many Florries might have passed
the threshold of this cottage site,
herbaceous borders, mown lawn grassed.
Delight lies in its image, dressed
informal, yet so neatly creased;
the granny’s bonnets, Michaelmas
as daisies marking what is preached.
A colour chart of graded heights,
with standard, bush and climbing shrub,
a hybrid mix of self-indulged,
as grandiflora aims to snub.
But Florrie nurtures in the beds
more industry than worker bees,
the weary ploughman plodding home,
for tea, no doubt, a crust and cheese.
Will there be honey on the cloth,
where punts pass the old vicarage,
when heads dip slow as poles drop low,
those currents slide by under bridge.
It was a brook before the flow
took in The Backs, The Bridge of Sighs,
and Magdalene, high table draped
by hair, nard, tears, forgiven lies.
* * *
HARD CENTRE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Why chocolate box that so attracts—
the honeyed stone, a cottage thatch,
by packhorse bridge, pink pastel walls,
with hollyhocks, delphiniums,
the floribunda bower rose?
Is it wanting outside latrine,
ash to clear daily from the grate,
the damp patch creeping up the walls,
and gentle rot of window frames,
or candle store for frequent cuts?
The old forge bellows forgery,
steps chapel pulpit, dry-rot spread,
the pointing sucked by ivy creep,
a coven met behind the pub,
black magic circling village life.
The fondant creams and caramels,
pecan pralines and kirsch liqueurs,
all pictured in the flavour guide,
tucked under lid, tight cellophane,
tempting to taste what under wraps.
* * *
The air leaves the room
to follow you home,
to lift up the heels
of your shoes.
When you don't come back,
the chair cushions sink,
the clock turns its face to the wall.
The paint on the walls
turns to trails of tears,
puddles in blue on the floor.
Even in breeze,
lace curtains hang limp,
missing the touch of your hands.
The lock on the door
declines to stay closed,
hoping that you will return.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
FORGETFUL
—Nolcha Fox
I take the leash
to walk the dog,
but I forget the dog.
I go outside
to get the mail,
but I forget and water flowers.
I lock the door,
walk to the car,
but I forget my keys.
I stand in line
to pay for food,
but I forget my wallet.
I go to bed
to read a book,
but I forget my glasses.
I ask my friends
to check me in since
I forget how to get home.
* * *
Taylor Graham sent a 7/5 Trochee (“August Dry”) in response to the Triple-F Challenge, and here is one from Carl Schwartz:
ALMOST A DREAM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
used to read my child to sleep
he loved these tall tales
inquisitive bear would peep
over hills and dales
a hundred acres of fun
eyes close with a smile
this cabin must be the one
let’s stay here a while
* * *
And Carl also responded to last week’s other Triple-F challenge, the Stefanile Triadic Sonnet (as did Taylor Graham, with her “Class Reunion”):
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
used to read my child to sleep
he loved these tall tales
inquisitive bear would peep
over hills and dales
a hundred acres of fun
eyes close with a smile
this cabin must be the one
let’s stay here a while
* * *
And Carl also responded to last week’s other Triple-F challenge, the Stefanile Triadic Sonnet (as did Taylor Graham, with her “Class Reunion”):
JUVENILE IDIOTIC HAIRNET
—Caschwa
I wish the air would keep my hair in place
convertible with rag top stuck way down
the sky impacted harshly on my face
creative output scripted like a clown
oh why, oh why cannot I be just me?
the mirror’s flaws are all that I can see
we met, had sex, and yet there’s something else
that must occur to mitigate the frown
that soon appeared once free of wedding gown
a try to voice expression “whales” in Welsh?
there is no end to where this all will go
we got some help but that did not take hold
and all the while the sea will ebb and flow
so occupied are we with getting old.
* * *
Here is an Arquain from Carl, a simple form that’s easy to remember. This one is based on our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, Secrets:
—Caschwa
I wish the air would keep my hair in place
convertible with rag top stuck way down
the sky impacted harshly on my face
creative output scripted like a clown
oh why, oh why cannot I be just me?
the mirror’s flaws are all that I can see
we met, had sex, and yet there’s something else
that must occur to mitigate the frown
that soon appeared once free of wedding gown
a try to voice expression “whales” in Welsh?
there is no end to where this all will go
we got some help but that did not take hold
and all the while the sea will ebb and flow
so occupied are we with getting old.
* * *
Here is an Arquain from Carl, a simple form that’s easy to remember. This one is based on our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, Secrets:
BIG SECRETS
—Caschwa
sit
right down
and I will
reveal to you
some very hush, hush
highly confidential stuff
that’s all, you’ve heard quite enough
I can’t tell you more
rules to follow
protocol
keep it
mum
* * *
Joyce Odam has sent us another Sonnet form, the Bradford Sonnet (abaabcbb cdcc dd), Here is her (rather unsettling) Bradford Sonnet, based on our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, Seashells:
—Caschwa
sit
right down
and I will
reveal to you
some very hush, hush
highly confidential stuff
that’s all, you’ve heard quite enough
I can’t tell you more
rules to follow
protocol
keep it
mum
* * *
Joyce Odam has sent us another Sonnet form, the Bradford Sonnet (abaabcbb cdcc dd), Here is her (rather unsettling) Bradford Sonnet, based on our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, Seashells:
THE SEVENTH WAVE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
I should have drowned that summer with the sea
enticing me to depths beyond my skill—
I couldn’t swim—but rode the waves to be
part of the ocean’s rhythm—buoyant—free,
toe-touching, armpit-high, safe in the thrill,
buffered by the waves I’d float into,
letting small breakers carry me—until—
that time—drifted too far—I could not feel
my feet touch bottom—immensity of blue
surrounded me in blend of sea and sky—
in outward pull—I thrashed a bit, then knew
to count the waves—the seventh wave was due;
I’d let it
take me in.
It did.
I lifted high
and broke upon the shore
with a shattered cry.
* * *
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
I should have drowned that summer with the sea
enticing me to depths beyond my skill—
I couldn’t swim—but rode the waves to be
part of the ocean’s rhythm—buoyant—free,
toe-touching, armpit-high, safe in the thrill,
buffered by the waves I’d float into,
letting small breakers carry me—until—
that time—drifted too far—I could not feel
my feet touch bottom—immensity of blue
surrounded me in blend of sea and sky—
in outward pull—I thrashed a bit, then knew
to count the waves—the seventh wave was due;
I’d let it
take me in.
It did.
I lifted high
and broke upon the shore
with a shattered cry.
* * *
Joyce has also sent a Sestina!—a particular form of brain-floss will keep you on your toes, fingers—whatever you need to be kept onto… Joyce says a Sestina is “a poem of six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet. Each stanza repeats the same last word in all six stanzas in a fixed pattern. All six words appear in the closing three-line Envoi (also known as a Tornada) bringing together all the end words: each line contains two of them—one in the middle and one at the end. (There are often variations on how the six words recur in the final tercet, such as 2 – 5, 4 – 3, 6 – 1 .)” Here is Joyce’s clever Sestina:
A SESTINA ON THE SESTINA
—Joyce Odam
The poem gives me six words.
Says, ‘sestina’. Says ‘emulate’.
I complain,
“I’m not of a mind
to follow complex rules,
and I don’t want to be led by the nose.”
—Joyce Odam
The poem gives me six words.
Says, ‘sestina’. Says ‘emulate’.
I complain,
“I’m not of a mind
to follow complex rules,
and I don’t want to be led by the nose.”
But the sestina already knows
about resistance——about matching words,
touts the value of rules——
the skill it takes to emulate
the disciplines of the mind——
that it is useless to complain.
But I explain/complain
how I always follow my nose
in the education of the mind——
that it is prudent to complain.
A dictionary of words would have me emulate
them all——all bound to rules.
And in this squabble of rules
the sestina begins to complain
how hard it is to emulate
pig-headedness. It already knows
that I am a connoisseur of words,
but I will have to change my mind.
So——never mind——
about your rules——
your scattering of six words.
I’m tired of hearing you complain
how slow I am to emulate.
My nose knows what it knows.
It knows
the workings of the mind
trying not to emulate
the endless rules
how it will complain
that it will not match six bossy words.
But capitulation knows how the mind
will eventually emulate the logic of the rules
and not complain about the order of the words.
* * *
Joe Nolan has sent us an Ars Poetica, plus cartoon. Of COURSE someone out there is reading this—more than you would think for this little hometown-local gal blog. “So many memories…like sandy beaches…”
IS ANYBODY READING?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Blotches of ink,
Fallen from my pen,
Scramble across white paper
Trying to say
What happened when....
So many memories!
Like sandy beaches
Along the seas,
From yester-year,
Let go,
Nothing anyone
Would need to know,
Unless they had the time
To follow fine description,
From line to line,
In rhyme,
Fulfilling a need to write.
Is anybody reading?
* * *
And we shall close with this sound-ful Triolet from Claire Baker (“clinks the stars to wink.”) Thanks, Claire!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Blotches of ink,
Fallen from my pen,
Scramble across white paper
Trying to say
What happened when....
So many memories!
Like sandy beaches
Along the seas,
From yester-year,
Let go,
Nothing anyone
Would need to know,
Unless they had the time
To follow fine description,
From line to line,
In rhyme,
Fulfilling a need to write.
Is anybody reading?
* * *
And we shall close with this sound-ful Triolet from Claire Baker (“clinks the stars to wink.”) Thanks, Claire!
AFTER ELDA LEPAK’S POEM*
WATCHING THE NIGHT SKY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Ah, it’s atmospheric scintillation
that nudges stars to wink!
Whether in lower or lofty station
it’s an atmospheric scintillation,
a shy variation on vibration,
birthing sparkles, knowing blinks?
So here’s to atmospheric scintillation
that clinks the stars to wink.
*Appeared in Song of the San Joaquin,
Summer, 2022
____________________
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!
WATCHING THE NIGHT SKY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Ah, it’s atmospheric scintillation
that nudges stars to wink!
Whether in lower or lofty station
it’s an atmospheric scintillation,
a shy variation on vibration,
birthing sparkles, knowing blinks?
So here’s to atmospheric scintillation
that clinks the stars to wink.
*Appeared in Song of the San Joaquin,
Summer, 2022
____________________
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.) Here’s another Sonnet form from Joyce Odam. I couldn’t find it on Google, but you don’t really need a reference; it’s pretty straightforward. But if you can’t find a form on Google, does that mean it doesn’t exist, like the tree falling in the forest? Has Google become that much of an authority on our lives? Anyway, I declare that the Bradford Sonnet does TOO exist—Joyce says so—so let’s all have at one:
•••Sonnet, Bradford: abaabcbb cdcc dd, iambic pentameter
There are plenty of Google references for Sestinas, if you’ve got the time and energy to try one. Some poets see the achievement of a Sestina as somewhat of a rite of passage (along with the Sonnet family, of course), but don’t let it make you crazy:
•••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 “Secrets”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Acrostic: literarydevices.net/acrostic
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Englyn Milwr: Welsh form: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-milwr-poetic-forms
•••Envoy (Envoi, Tornada): www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/envoi AND/OR pennyspoetry.fandom.com/wiki/Envoi
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Seven/Five Trochee: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/75trochee.html
•••Sonnet, Bradford: abaabcbb cdcc dd
•••Sonnette (abbacbc, half-sonnet): poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sonnette
•••Stefanile Triadic Sonnet: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/tag/octave
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
For more about meter, see:
•••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.)
[Don’t let the surrealism of this photo
put you off—it’s packed full of
metaphors, so pick one and go with it.]
***
—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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
