—Poetry by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
OCTOBER GHOST OF DAWN
First-light will come diminishing, late.
The owl has called through the last of dark,
the bats return to their eaves. Still air.
The sun will hobble to climb the hill,
but it keeps its age-old blinding stare,
no matter the chill without, within.
My weed-eater hangs, at last, quite still.
What can it do, through winter, but wait?
Silence broken, a questioning bark.
Leftover moon with an awkward grin.
First-light will come diminishing, late.
The owl has called through the last of dark,
the bats return to their eaves. Still air.
The sun will hobble to climb the hill,
but it keeps its age-old blinding stare,
no matter the chill without, within.
My weed-eater hangs, at last, quite still.
What can it do, through winter, but wait?
Silence broken, a questioning bark.
Leftover moon with an awkward grin.
TUESDAY 5:00 A.M.
This
hour could
go either
way. It’s still dark,
the dark of stillness.
Not even horned owl calls.
Here, inside, the morning news
has begun and still goes on. How
many homes burned, how many acres.
Discussions of breath and smoke. Take nothing
for granted. I breathe in as you breathe
out. Dawn’s balance point approaches
from east over the mountain.
The black cat in your lap,
No-longer young pup
at my feet. Breathe
in, breathe out.
Praise the
day.
THERE BE DRAGONS
That last outpost, brief shelter of some sort—who knows? Maybe cloister or research station tuned to the unknown. You took refuge there, a motley bunch of you, begging safekeeping for your books, binders thick with writing. A shed open to weather. What if it rains? wildfire? Time to press on, leaving everything behind. Passing by the high window, you caught a quick secret smile cross the superior’s lips. A storm gathering. Could this outpost stand steady, or break into disorder? Oh and what about your papers?
Dark the way ahead
guiding on unwritten hopes,
blank, unmapped unknown.
That last outpost, brief shelter of some sort—who knows? Maybe cloister or research station tuned to the unknown. You took refuge there, a motley bunch of you, begging safekeeping for your books, binders thick with writing. A shed open to weather. What if it rains? wildfire? Time to press on, leaving everything behind. Passing by the high window, you caught a quick secret smile cross the superior’s lips. A storm gathering. Could this outpost stand steady, or break into disorder? Oh and what about your papers?
Dark the way ahead
guiding on unwritten hopes,
blank, unmapped unknown.
NO SKATEBOARDING
In plaster he stands on ancestral ground
(though paved with sidewalk west).
Arms crossed and vigilant, he might be found
night and noon on his quest.
No skateboarding, no rollerblading, and
where is a watchful silence on the land?
In plaster he stands on ancestral ground
(though paved with sidewalk west).
Arms crossed and vigilant, he might be found
night and noon on his quest.
No skateboarding, no rollerblading, and
where is a watchful silence on the land?
PELICAN IN MAIN ST SHOP
He’s had
enough of this
too-cramped for-sale display
he dreams to pulverize plate-glass
escape.
He’s had
enough of this
too-cramped for-sale display
he dreams to pulverize plate-glass
escape.
Cowboy, TG in her hat, Loki
WANDER SONG FOR MY HAT
Cinch the chin-strap down tight! Wind in my face
off the summit, Caples Lake capped in white.
If wind takes my hat, lift me to go
along on its flight!
Thunder booms distant but bright! now my hat
points west, scree-slope down from the height.
Hat lifts me head-up to go
for homebound flight.
Juniper’s rooted for coming storm, mules-ears bend
with the flow. Raven takes off, sails from sight.
If wind takes my hat, lift me to go
along on its flight!
Cinch the chin-strap down tight! Wind in my face
off the summit, Caples Lake capped in white.
If wind takes my hat, lift me to go
along on its flight!
Thunder booms distant but bright! now my hat
points west, scree-slope down from the height.
Hat lifts me head-up to go
for homebound flight.
Juniper’s rooted for coming storm, mules-ears bend
with the flow. Raven takes off, sails from sight.
If wind takes my hat, lift me to go
along on its flight!
Today’s LittleNip:
TODAY’S POETRY PROMPT
—Taylor Graham
The rough signpost points
a way—uncharted country,
dragons?—who knows where.
______________________
Here be dragons, indeed, as Taylor Graham sends us dragon-sized poetry and photos for this, our first Friday in October. Here be forms from TG: a Cyhydedd Naw Ban, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges (“October Ghost of Dawn”); a Double Etheree (“Tuesday 5:00 A.M.”); a Haibun (“There Be Dragons”); a Cinquain (“Pelican in Main St Shop”); a Haiku (“Today's Poetry Prompt”); and a Veltanelle, the other Triple-F Challenge last week (“No Skateboarding”). Again, my apologies for the mis-information perpetrated in last week’s MK; Poets’ Collective had the Veltanelle form wrong, a glitch that Carl Schwartz ferreted out, sending us one that is correct: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle/. Sorry about that, Velta Myrtle!
TG reminds us that read-arounds have returned to Placerville, now on the second and third Mondays of each month, starting this coming Monday (10/10) with Poetic License at 10:30am, and continuing with Poetry in Motion the following Monday (10/17), also at 10:30am. Both will meet at the Placerville Sr. Center, 937 Spring St.
Check out Western Slope El Dorado for some of the poetry generated during last Sunday’s Capturing Wakamatsu workshop: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.
And now it’s time for . . .
Form Fiddlers' Friday!
TODAY’S POETRY PROMPT
—Taylor Graham
The rough signpost points
a way—uncharted country,
dragons?—who knows where.
______________________
Here be dragons, indeed, as Taylor Graham sends us dragon-sized poetry and photos for this, our first Friday in October. Here be forms from TG: a Cyhydedd Naw Ban, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges (“October Ghost of Dawn”); a Double Etheree (“Tuesday 5:00 A.M.”); a Haibun (“There Be Dragons”); a Cinquain (“Pelican in Main St Shop”); a Haiku (“Today's Poetry Prompt”); and a Veltanelle, the other Triple-F Challenge last week (“No Skateboarding”). Again, my apologies for the mis-information perpetrated in last week’s MK; Poets’ Collective had the Veltanelle form wrong, a glitch that Carl Schwartz ferreted out, sending us one that is correct: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle/. Sorry about that, Velta Myrtle!
TG reminds us that read-arounds have returned to Placerville, now on the second and third Mondays of each month, starting this coming Monday (10/10) with Poetic License at 10:30am, and continuing with Poetry in Motion the following Monday (10/17), also at 10:30am. Both will meet at the Placerville Sr. Center, 937 Spring St.
Check out Western Slope El Dorado for some of the poetry generated during last Sunday’s Capturing Wakamatsu workshop: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.
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!
This poem was inspired by Joe’s recent hit-and-run accident as well as the Ekphrastic Challenge. Real life joins with keyboard:
FLAT TIRE ON BENT RIM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Flat tire on bent rim—
The thought of further motion,
Just a whim.
Bent twice,
Not nice.
One wonders how
These things happen?
Is it one more
SAAB story
Or just another episode
In revolving Volvo-tales?
A perfect reminder
How protected we are by air
That keeps us all
Suspended
Above the jarring impacts
That come from
Rolling over rocks
When we’re deflated.
Ooooh,
Remember this!
When you let loose
Your flying balloon
That loses air too soon.
* * *
Here is Nolcha Fox’s Ekphrastic response:
A swerve
around a bug-eyed doe,
I crash into the guardrail.
The tire is flat, the rim is bent.
I don’t think first to call for help.
I recall the cake I baked.
It looked just like that tire.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
Stephen Kingsnorth’s British spelling of “tyre” adds a certain spice to his response:
DEFLATED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
Why choose the patent, passing by,
that tyred old term, a cliché, worn?
But is deflated the main scene?
The rubber ring a biproduct,
perhaps for swimming pool back home,
while here, best dining, Michelin,
the rag and bone of scrap now king,
as junk yard welcomes what’s above,
not layby helpless, stare appeal.
When my tyre flat, the wheel stuck firm,
dementia mother, banked on grass,
with me her guard from wander off,
an Irish giant, Sumo style,
from cranked-up car, enveloped whole,
and wrenched offender, bearing hold.
So solved hub crisis in a whirl—
‘for my Ma so afflicted too’;
a Gaelic brogue this, angel host.
* * *
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has written an Ekphrastic Poem that is also an Ars Poetica:
WATCHING THE MENORAH
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
all candles lit and
flaming brightly
until one just
burns out
dies
like
one tire
blowing out
gone forever
while all the others
look just fine, thank you
like a memory that started
out as one thread of a
wonderful image on
quilted fabric that
somehow got
pulled out
unseen
one
seed
for poetic
expression
that took off
like a frightened
bird, gone in an instant
* * *
Carl also sent a Cyhydedd Naw Ban, the Welsh form that was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week:
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
all candles lit and
flaming brightly
until one just
burns out
dies
like
one tire
blowing out
gone forever
while all the others
look just fine, thank you
like a memory that started
out as one thread of a
wonderful image on
quilted fabric that
somehow got
pulled out
unseen
one
seed
for poetic
expression
that took off
like a frightened
bird, gone in an instant
* * *
Carl also sent a Cyhydedd Naw Ban, the Welsh form that was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week:
WHAT IS THAT WORD
—Caschwa
that by itself has 9 syllables?
it also rhymes with some other word
maybe our dreams will tell us these things
Internet sites are way too absurd
and it’s hard to tell truth from fables
stop the presses! a little bird sings
* * *
Here is Carl’s Veltanelle (X 2), written after he found the correct formula:
—Caschwa
that by itself has 9 syllables?
it also rhymes with some other word
maybe our dreams will tell us these things
Internet sites are way too absurd
and it’s hard to tell truth from fables
stop the presses! a little bird sings
* * *
Here is Carl’s Veltanelle (X 2), written after he found the correct formula:
REACHING BACK
—Caschwa
I used to have a room in my folks’ house
that had a sliding door
it creaked and groaned and squeaked like a poor mouse
then it would work no more
Dad said I must have treated it poorly
his argument lacked any facts, sorely
* * *
doctor, doctor, I have too many pains!
hold still, I’ll check you out
it appears you have more than 3 sixains
one extra’s bad, no doubt
you will need immediate surgery
we’ll get a specialist in augury
* * *
Here is a Haibun from Carl, as he contemplates global affairs:
—Caschwa
I used to have a room in my folks’ house
that had a sliding door
it creaked and groaned and squeaked like a poor mouse
then it would work no more
Dad said I must have treated it poorly
his argument lacked any facts, sorely
* * *
doctor, doctor, I have too many pains!
hold still, I’ll check you out
it appears you have more than 3 sixains
one extra’s bad, no doubt
you will need immediate surgery
we’ll get a specialist in augury
* * *
Here is a Haibun from Carl, as he contemplates global affairs:
THE CLOCK IS TICKING
—Caschwa
we have circled the globe
landed on the moon
packed our bags for Mars
tapped an asteroid on the
shoulder and asked it to dance
how many more centuries
upon centuries need to
s l o w l y c r e e p b y
before we
finally give blacks all the rights
and privileges the Constitution
says they are supposed to have?
finally upgrade women to first
class citizens in all respects?
finally expand the 911 response
system to include sending people
with compassion, when waving a
gun to demand compliance is likely
to make a bad situation worse
finally take money out of politics
and recognize that our whole
wham-bam Revolution counts for
nothing at all, as long as the super-
rich always get the final word
because they own more property
billionaires, my ass!
they lack enough shares to share
but pretend they care
* * *
Joyce Odam sent us an ethereal Pirouette this week. Talk of dragons (our Tuesday Seed of the Week) spurs talk of dragonflies:
—Caschwa
we have circled the globe
landed on the moon
packed our bags for Mars
tapped an asteroid on the
shoulder and asked it to dance
how many more centuries
upon centuries need to
s l o w l y c r e e p b y
before we
finally give blacks all the rights
and privileges the Constitution
says they are supposed to have?
finally upgrade women to first
class citizens in all respects?
finally expand the 911 response
system to include sending people
with compassion, when waving a
gun to demand compliance is likely
to make a bad situation worse
finally take money out of politics
and recognize that our whole
wham-bam Revolution counts for
nothing at all, as long as the super-
rich always get the final word
because they own more property
billionaires, my ass!
they lack enough shares to share
but pretend they care
* * *
Joyce Odam sent us an ethereal Pirouette this week. Talk of dragons (our Tuesday Seed of the Week) spurs talk of dragonflies:
FOR BROKEN THINGS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Something as joyful as
a sheer-winged dragonfly,
a butterfly, a moth—
a humming bird in flight . . .
all these can still the heart.
All these can still the heart
which grieves the smallest loss :
the damage that befalls,
the happenstance of death—
all life too swift for love.
* * *
And speaking of dragonflies, Joyce also sent a Dragonfly, a form invented by Edna St. Vincent Millay that rhymes a b b a b a | c d d c d c, with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza:
SWEET INNOCENCE
—Joyce Odam
When I was a cynic, young and sad and longing,
swearing all future loves I would disdain—
and you were a hero—no one to attain—
not even someone I could blame for wronging
my sweet innocence. Love was thought of then
as something which would always be a longing.
Love was a movie. I would be its actress—
all I could gauge by—played out on a screen
larger than life—and I an awe-struck teen.
For secret hours I would pose and practice
romantic conquests so it could be seen
how you would love me, once I was an actress.
* * *
Claire Baker has invented a form that she calls “Stepping Stones”, with syllables going 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Her own Stepping Stones poem is magical:
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Something as joyful as
a sheer-winged dragonfly,
a butterfly, a moth—
a humming bird in flight . . .
all these can still the heart.
All these can still the heart
which grieves the smallest loss :
the damage that befalls,
the happenstance of death—
all life too swift for love.
* * *
And speaking of dragonflies, Joyce also sent a Dragonfly, a form invented by Edna St. Vincent Millay that rhymes a b b a b a | c d d c d c, with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza:
SWEET INNOCENCE
—Joyce Odam
When I was a cynic, young and sad and longing,
swearing all future loves I would disdain—
and you were a hero—no one to attain—
not even someone I could blame for wronging
my sweet innocence. Love was thought of then
as something which would always be a longing.
Love was a movie. I would be its actress—
all I could gauge by—played out on a screen
larger than life—and I an awe-struck teen.
For secret hours I would pose and practice
romantic conquests so it could be seen
how you would love me, once I was an actress.
* * *
Claire Baker has invented a form that she calls “Stepping Stones”, with syllables going 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Her own Stepping Stones poem is magical:
SEED PODS
--Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
She
rescues
seed pods from
a spider’s web
relieved as each lifts
away as a beige star.
* * *
And we shall close with Stephen Kingsnorth’s stately Ode, this one an homage to books:
--Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
She
rescues
seed pods from
a spider’s web
relieved as each lifts
away as a beige star.
* * *
And we shall close with Stephen Kingsnorth’s stately Ode, this one an homage to books:
ALL THOSE BOOKS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
They’ve not been shelved, despite their space,
though most unread, a collage built
through time and place in unity,
each tome a tale from memory.
They tell me, prize choice when a lad,
explain, thought swot by working, class,
the extract read when led the form,
those faces blank, my zeal alight.
I learnt the worth, poetic words,
found ‘Michael’, as first poem spoke
to sixteen-mind, as I look back,
a strange hook, adolescent teen.
No poem’s made by shipping list—
but Porlock man and Kubla Khan
held sway, deep caverns in my mind—
childhood, scout camp, Cambridge exam.
Those rhythms, I find poetry,
like turning leaves, my library,
thin pages, gold leaf edges, Donne,
great Grandma’s flyleaf signature.
The presentation befits text,
as jewel resting in its nest,
a Mohs scale of fragility,
through typeset, printed, press released.
For everyman and woman guests,
novel celebrities in set,
though Alexandria was razed,
a phoenix risen from the ash.
They’re cover when I’ve lost the plot,
my Shakespeare’s not love’s labour’s lost;
had I not been ordained, young man,
no better road than Charing Cross.
To sort the books at eighty-four
a paradise from roof to floor;
some spineless, past their sell-by date—
too tough to dump roughed written page.
Slide penguins, age changed livery,
for there it was, long journey looms,
the price of books extortionate,
thought the key, Allen, cheaper reads.
And so it saw the Penguin born,
by Exeter, St David’s track—
my hometown, where these pupils trained—
as steamer rolled in, clackety.
Clack, hissed to halt, like Adlestrop,
but barren, needing tanner book,
though ticket clerk without a clue
of revolution, platform two.
____________________
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!
—Stephen Kingsnorth
They’ve not been shelved, despite their space,
though most unread, a collage built
through time and place in unity,
each tome a tale from memory.
They tell me, prize choice when a lad,
explain, thought swot by working, class,
the extract read when led the form,
those faces blank, my zeal alight.
I learnt the worth, poetic words,
found ‘Michael’, as first poem spoke
to sixteen-mind, as I look back,
a strange hook, adolescent teen.
No poem’s made by shipping list—
but Porlock man and Kubla Khan
held sway, deep caverns in my mind—
childhood, scout camp, Cambridge exam.
Those rhythms, I find poetry,
like turning leaves, my library,
thin pages, gold leaf edges, Donne,
great Grandma’s flyleaf signature.
The presentation befits text,
as jewel resting in its nest,
a Mohs scale of fragility,
through typeset, printed, press released.
For everyman and woman guests,
novel celebrities in set,
though Alexandria was razed,
a phoenix risen from the ash.
They’re cover when I’ve lost the plot,
my Shakespeare’s not love’s labour’s lost;
had I not been ordained, young man,
no better road than Charing Cross.
To sort the books at eighty-four
a paradise from roof to floor;
some spineless, past their sell-by date—
too tough to dump roughed written page.
Slide penguins, age changed livery,
for there it was, long journey looms,
the price of books extortionate,
thought the key, Allen, cheaper reads.
And so it saw the Penguin born,
by Exeter, St David’s track—
my hometown, where these pupils trained—
as steamer rolled in, clackety.
Clack, hissed to halt, like Adlestrop,
but barren, needing tanner book,
though ticket clerk without a clue
of revolution, platform two.
____________________
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!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Here is an off-the-beaten-path form sent to us by Joyce Odam:
•••Dragonfly (Edna St. Vincent Millay): rhymes a b b a b a | c d d c d c with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza
And/or you could try the form that Claire Baker invented, called Stepping Stones:
•••Stepping Stones (Claire J. Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Or how about yet another Welsh form:
•••Hir a Thoddaid: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hir-thoddaid-poetic-form (watch out for them sneaky-b’s!)
•••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 “Confusion”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain./ See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Cyhydedd Fer: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-fer-poetic-forms
•••Cyhydedd Naw Ban: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-naw-ban-poetic-forms
•••Dragonfly (Edna St. Vincent Millay): rhymes a b b a b a | c d d c d c with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Etheree: www.thepoetsgarret.com/2008Challenge/form22.html
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Hir a Thoddaid: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hir-thoddaid-poetic-form
•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Pirouette: poetryforms.blogspot.com/2013/04/pirouette-10-line-poem-with-6-syllables.html
•••Stepping Stones (Claire J. Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
•••Veltanelle (Velta Myrtle Allen Sanford): www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
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
____________________
—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
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.
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.
