—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
LIMINAL
What was the moment you arrived,
when you, the child, could be shown off,
and they seemed proud to name you theirs?
That liminal, transition point,
when you know more than they, for sure,
and they know that, with awe, inside,
not adolescent in pretence;
for it’s your ground, they visitors,
not entertainers, entertained.
It took no craft, but punt and pole,
a bridge of sighs to navigate,
a competence few strangers find,
and shirt, bought Delhi, on my back.
What was the moment you arrived,
when you, the child, could be shown off,
and they seemed proud to name you theirs?
That liminal, transition point,
when you know more than they, for sure,
and they know that, with awe, inside,
not adolescent in pretence;
for it’s your ground, they visitors,
not entertainers, entertained.
It took no craft, but punt and pole,
a bridge of sighs to navigate,
a competence few strangers find,
and shirt, bought Delhi, on my back.
HOODWINK
No nudge or wink is needed, dear—
we know this suspect from the news;
dark passage, poorly lit, night hawk,
no site for self-respecting soul.
With silhouette identikit
unknown if coming, going, here,
blank face or hair behind black mask;
he’ll not be caught, face punishment,
have bars to limit where he walks,
no jail, nor walk the plank, just bail—
assume this hoodywinking male—
so typical of youth today.
A threat to our suburbia—
an enemy of state, that’s clear.
This river pier with tidal reach,
by current waves, sad moods awash,
grim space where jumpers soon conclude,
has light, illuminating route.
As volunteer, despite her Dad—
who left do-gooding well alone—
she was returning from the club,
Down’s syndrome hour on Friday nights.
A chilly evening, homeward found—
why the warm hoody round her ears.
Had it been a fur collar turned,
a college scarf about her mouth
or covid mask tied round her ears,
the label would not be applied.
SHADOWLANDS
With sunset on some silver, see,
clear shadow lines across the way,
sharp bars confine and would restrict,
prevention, falls, the common plea,
‘we want to keep you safe my dear’,
for patient bed would cost too dear.
Is there a strand of sand beneath,
calm ripples of receding tide,
waves’ gentle lapping on the shore—
but surely there was space for more?
I think her face, expectant, raised,
the last of warmth from dying sun,
a wistful stare from wispy hair,
but his is down, contemplative.
Here unities of time and space,
their daily pace suspended, hear.
This stretch of land, brief marked, their prints,
that blanche a whiter shade of pale—
yet far beyond the vanish point,
perspective dreams horizon sight.
It is all screened in black and white,
palette retired to monochrome,
for those who know life’s not like that;
but soon they’ll go where they don’t want,
be taken where their place is wheeled.
With blanket wrapped around her thighs,
eyes as important as the stance,
but what the glance, or even stare
beyond the bar which others passed?
And like the couple by the lee,
their way hemmed in, what might have been,
prevailing anorak and lap.
They ponder crossing of that bar,
when wraiths are wreathed, not smiles but flowers,
their silhouettes translate as shades.
ORANGES AND CHERRIES
The daily privilege of choice
was known by me when moving house.
Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish,
but evening drab, dirt fog the murk,
vast unattractive sea scape spread.
I chose the black-framed Dudley print
cherry basket, vase, oranges.
No cash value attached at all,
but print hangs from the wall at home.
Behind us, sixty years ago,
I trace the bookshelves—upstairs now—
tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell,
and from the twenties picture rail
hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom,
but family tradition grew.
In snaps, black and white, first colour,
the fruit seemed always edible.
I wonder who acquired and when;
did they find the peel, pips and pith
so realistic, palate won.
I look at artist's other work,
the still-life items re-arranged,
pot boilers, but each richly juiced.
The daily privilege of choice
was known by me when moving house.
Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish,
but evening drab, dirt fog the murk,
vast unattractive sea scape spread.
I chose the black-framed Dudley print
cherry basket, vase, oranges.
No cash value attached at all,
but print hangs from the wall at home.
Behind us, sixty years ago,
I trace the bookshelves—upstairs now—
tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell,
and from the twenties picture rail
hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom,
but family tradition grew.
In snaps, black and white, first colour,
the fruit seemed always edible.
I wonder who acquired and when;
did they find the peel, pips and pith
so realistic, palate won.
I look at artist's other work,
the still-life items re-arranged,
pot boilers, but each richly juiced.
THE MINOR MOOD
(on viewing Autumn Thoughts by Arnold Böcklin, 1886)
Was it some Etruscan vase that held the word
after the potter spun his wheel,
or maybe feallan-death the way?
The minor movements,
come and go,
bridge blaze and freeze, the major moods.
Her sun has been, the moon must be,
she knows that heat will know it cold.
While poets scribed season’s fall to spring,
autumn gained on harvest’s call,
despite the patient, ready, waiting fruit—
but lacking Latin’s follow vowel,
it ends in silence, as will she.
When food is drawn back into tree,
the greens leave first, the carrot last,
remaining stems are waterproofed,
then hormone cuts the leaves away.
Must she accept that it is best,
with pollards, slivers, some hanging on,
the green, the amber, the red too,
the future fed, protective guard, free auxin break,
so leaf is turned.
Slow water floats must pool away,
sad fading leads fresh buds again.
So she will wait.
(on viewing Autumn Thoughts by Arnold Böcklin, 1886)
Was it some Etruscan vase that held the word
after the potter spun his wheel,
or maybe feallan-death the way?
The minor movements,
come and go,
bridge blaze and freeze, the major moods.
Her sun has been, the moon must be,
she knows that heat will know it cold.
While poets scribed season’s fall to spring,
autumn gained on harvest’s call,
despite the patient, ready, waiting fruit—
but lacking Latin’s follow vowel,
it ends in silence, as will she.
When food is drawn back into tree,
the greens leave first, the carrot last,
remaining stems are waterproofed,
then hormone cuts the leaves away.
Must she accept that it is best,
with pollards, slivers, some hanging on,
the green, the amber, the red too,
the future fed, protective guard, free auxin break,
so leaf is turned.
Slow water floats must pool away,
sad fading leads fresh buds again.
So she will wait.
Image by Dominique Dève
THE COMPLEXION OF EYES
Is wispy hair or neatly stroked—
that coiffeur draped or curlicue,
few hairs on lip or cream trimmed clean,
and bristle curl from lobe, in nose;
are fissures granite, rippled care,
cynic or bitter, fascinate?
Escape and capture, palette knife,
what does she think, or even he,
unless you know the subject’s name
I’d rather think this Everyman,
a type, regardless of the sex,
in gender balance, Gran or Dad.
Through globules, dribbles, squiggle form,
this question mark in dun and fawn,
I wonder what they wonder now,
so supple, knowledge fear or hope,
as though it all recalled, on show,
yes, universal soldier type.
The oeuvre stock, wide ranging strokes,
broad brush, the bill poster with glue,
will face break free, work through the block,
old, torn, broad masking tape, their world,
these pilgrims, worn, bright hope, with thought?
From subtle shades, but life not ghosts,
unwinding mystery evolves;
I’d live, this loved one on my wall—
till daily join me, sofa foil,
through conversation, learn of more.
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
Fruition—
Think of writing as a harvest.
You till the ground.
Plant.
Water.
Wait.
Apple trees take years to bear fruit.
Harvest.
Clean.
Process.
Then you have apple pie.
—Keelie Breanna
______________________
—Medusa, with our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth today for his Ekphrastic poems, each addressing its photo in his smooth rhythms.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
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!
