—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
RE-INCARNATION
Without my specs, I saw a cheese,
well-ripened, past its sell-by date,
hard cheddar mixed with herbal flakes,
goat gouda stuffed with fenugreek—
but study clarified the stitch
in plastic, not a leather seat.
That sets the age—assume not staged,
conglomerate, synthetic mulch,
but stratified, a grating rind,
absorbent tissue for the moss,
wherever dip or needle hole.
Unpromising to propagate,
like buddleia in bomb site crack,
yet here it is on moulded shape,
a host for green and creeping things.
Though saddle-sore, I don’t think staged—
it takes me back to Cambridge days,
drop handlebars—no sturmey gears—
just pedal power and lecture notes,
in woven basket strapped to rear,
and padlocked to a college rail
or thrown, if late, tutorial.
Indeed, here framed, it might be mine,
bike lost, occasion such as this,
poor time-keeping, that machine thrust
to ground for theft outside the school—
that session, thief in paradise;
the life expectancy of wheels
a resurrection bicycle,
in tandem, saprophytic style?
Without my specs, I saw a cheese,
well-ripened, past its sell-by date,
hard cheddar mixed with herbal flakes,
goat gouda stuffed with fenugreek—
but study clarified the stitch
in plastic, not a leather seat.
That sets the age—assume not staged,
conglomerate, synthetic mulch,
but stratified, a grating rind,
absorbent tissue for the moss,
wherever dip or needle hole.
Unpromising to propagate,
like buddleia in bomb site crack,
yet here it is on moulded shape,
a host for green and creeping things.
Though saddle-sore, I don’t think staged—
it takes me back to Cambridge days,
drop handlebars—no sturmey gears—
just pedal power and lecture notes,
in woven basket strapped to rear,
and padlocked to a college rail
or thrown, if late, tutorial.
Indeed, here framed, it might be mine,
bike lost, occasion such as this,
poor time-keeping, that machine thrust
to ground for theft outside the school—
that session, thief in paradise;
the life expectancy of wheels
a resurrection bicycle,
in tandem, saprophytic style?
WESTERN GHATS
Protesting, strain motor engines scream,
bearing torque, outside of bends
edge-fenced by cliff-hang fall
outstripping unbroken unspaced trucks in line.
Not losing face, or screen, but hooting lean,
as calling on the dashboards’ garland gods,
to slip them back in pack again
the drivers vent, exhaust their fumes.
Bravado's wrecks raze valley floor,
reek, with jasmine hint, the strangest fuel.
Silver years on, road rites comply,
so first-time travellers adopt
hooded view, climbing Western Ghats
to Pune from Mumbai, stale breathing with
grocer's paper bag encasing head,
custom in follow weeks suspend.
Protesting, strain motor engines scream,
bearing torque, outside of bends
edge-fenced by cliff-hang fall
outstripping unbroken unspaced trucks in line.
Not losing face, or screen, but hooting lean,
as calling on the dashboards’ garland gods,
to slip them back in pack again
the drivers vent, exhaust their fumes.
Bravado's wrecks raze valley floor,
reek, with jasmine hint, the strangest fuel.
Silver years on, road rites comply,
so first-time travellers adopt
hooded view, climbing Western Ghats
to Pune from Mumbai, stale breathing with
grocer's paper bag encasing head,
custom in follow weeks suspend.
Modern City 2
—Painting by Alexey Kondakov
—Painting by Alexey Kondakov
TRIGGER?
A classic bridge, maybe of sighs—
the morning after night before—
but what a gap for art to span,
and what if ladies flesh not paint—
another niche assigned I think.
A fare stage for thespians’ play—
a comic strip, programme perhaps—
would someone call, emergency,
even if not public transport—
though public transport’s what achieved
if hanging, walls of gallery—
a tram for tramps, assumed today.
I’m not alert to origin,
the first art framed, atelier;
now upper deck, with shiny seats,
would this not wear a trigger sign—
though TV, deemed reality?
A classic bridge, maybe of sighs—
the morning after night before—
but what a gap for art to span,
and what if ladies flesh not paint—
another niche assigned I think.
A fare stage for thespians’ play—
a comic strip, programme perhaps—
would someone call, emergency,
even if not public transport—
though public transport’s what achieved
if hanging, walls of gallery—
a tram for tramps, assumed today.
I’m not alert to origin,
the first art framed, atelier;
now upper deck, with shiny seats,
would this not wear a trigger sign—
though TV, deemed reality?
BOX CAMERA
You see the black and white, though grey,
these clothes that give the date away,
the leisure space, despite bow tie,
a family on holiday?
The Kodak box of sibling snap
above a clifftop overlook—
it’s inside knowledge knows I’m right,
my focus others’ oversight.
This open space a closed-down place,
as I, at end, grasp plastic bag,
the day that hobby gripped the boy,
collecting my phillumeny.
A proper noun for matchboxes,
the first from Kentish brewery,
which prompted guests of B&B
to search their pockets and their rooms.
Within few hours, expanded bag,
my treasure held close in my lap;
that’s why your grey is not my sight,
excited boy set on a quest.
It’s not of swallows, amazons—
yet lucifers brightened my life,
and fifty-on still feel the thrill,
that child’s delight in seeing things.
You see the black and white, though grey,
these clothes that give the date away,
the leisure space, despite bow tie,
a family on holiday?
The Kodak box of sibling snap
above a clifftop overlook—
it’s inside knowledge knows I’m right,
my focus others’ oversight.
This open space a closed-down place,
as I, at end, grasp plastic bag,
the day that hobby gripped the boy,
collecting my phillumeny.
A proper noun for matchboxes,
the first from Kentish brewery,
which prompted guests of B&B
to search their pockets and their rooms.
Within few hours, expanded bag,
my treasure held close in my lap;
that’s why your grey is not my sight,
excited boy set on a quest.
It’s not of swallows, amazons—
yet lucifers brightened my life,
and fifty-on still feel the thrill,
that child’s delight in seeing things.
WILDING
Patina melting into wood,
hydrangea sapped, skeletal drop—
was cottage pink or iron blue?
Fond fountain pen, Quink laid to rest,
long superseded, Wilding stamp,
fear Machin corner, older crown.
Tuppence to Chagford, in her thatch,
from Newton Abbott, 59;
warm beer at Ring of Bells, chime lost,
ramrod, her cycle to the church
for Mrs Goodale, Dartmoor edge,
the children paddling, River Teign.
Two decades past her days were wild,
her middle age mixed WAAFs around,
moved Harrogate to Buckingham,
Spitfires and Park, enigma found;
but Bletchley changed to Milton Keynes,
new town, moved world, though tors remain.
And so retreat, hall corner chest,
her past ingrained, bees wax as seal,
the floriography of age;
before class slowed her envelopes,
the rich in castle, poor at gate,
when all was bright and beautiful.
Patina melting into wood,
hydrangea sapped, skeletal drop—
was cottage pink or iron blue?
Fond fountain pen, Quink laid to rest,
long superseded, Wilding stamp,
fear Machin corner, older crown.
Tuppence to Chagford, in her thatch,
from Newton Abbott, 59;
warm beer at Ring of Bells, chime lost,
ramrod, her cycle to the church
for Mrs Goodale, Dartmoor edge,
the children paddling, River Teign.
Two decades past her days were wild,
her middle age mixed WAAFs around,
moved Harrogate to Buckingham,
Spitfires and Park, enigma found;
but Bletchley changed to Milton Keynes,
new town, moved world, though tors remain.
And so retreat, hall corner chest,
her past ingrained, bees wax as seal,
the floriography of age;
before class slowed her envelopes,
the rich in castle, poor at gate,
when all was bright and beautiful.
JOURNEYMAN
I need a map or lexicon
to know where ‘here’ to be;
though gazetteer is limited—
theology, a peer?
Context referral, global spin,
truism tasting words?
Even abbreviated space
too much, illumined waste.
The doorway rise, if that presumed
to be the sight for found,
is there a wheelchair ramp around,
or step inside too high?
So if I should pass by this way,
then that is what I would;
for those certain that others lost,
themselves need find their way.
My guiding light, disciple tread,
gives freedom, choice and grace;
no need to label from on high
that street-side portal saves.
Perhaps this is the tourist board—
on path, mistake their terms;
I am, simply, a journeyman
still watching for the signs.
I need a map or lexicon
to know where ‘here’ to be;
though gazetteer is limited—
theology, a peer?
Context referral, global spin,
truism tasting words?
Even abbreviated space
too much, illumined waste.
The doorway rise, if that presumed
to be the sight for found,
is there a wheelchair ramp around,
or step inside too high?
So if I should pass by this way,
then that is what I would;
for those certain that others lost,
themselves need find their way.
My guiding light, disciple tread,
gives freedom, choice and grace;
no need to label from on high
that street-side portal saves.
Perhaps this is the tourist board—
on path, mistake their terms;
I am, simply, a journeyman
still watching for the signs.
THE BAR
This strand of sand, brief marked, our prints
that blanche a whiter shade of pale—
yet far beyond the vanish point,
perspective dreams horizon might...
Time healer, historicity,
now understood as victor’s tale;
posed statues stand as timely pride—
but chronos flows, finds kairos moved.
So how sustain subjunctive mood,
laid tense against prevailing proofs,
without resort to bottles’ tide—
denial there’s a problem here?
A decking chair of teak effect—
the cards were stacked, the play unfair—
a wistful stare from wispy hair,
while mind wrack like Sargasso sea.
Here unities of time and place,
their daily pace suspended, hear
waves’ gentle lapping on the shore—
but surely there was space for more?
And like the old man by the lee,
This strand of sand, brief marked, our prints
that blanche a whiter shade of pale—
yet far beyond the vanish point,
perspective dreams horizon might...
Time healer, historicity,
now understood as victor’s tale;
posed statues stand as timely pride—
but chronos flows, finds kairos moved.
So how sustain subjunctive mood,
laid tense against prevailing proofs,
without resort to bottles’ tide—
denial there’s a problem here?
A decking chair of teak effect—
the cards were stacked, the play unfair—
a wistful stare from wispy hair,
while mind wrack like Sargasso sea.
Here unities of time and place,
their daily pace suspended, hear
waves’ gentle lapping on the shore—
but surely there was space for more?
And like the old man by the lee,
his way hemmed by what might have been,
prevailing leather and the cap—
we'll ponder crossing of the bar.
SNAPPERS
To pad where others trod before—
it is the human nature walk—
but tread tenderfoot, less the claw
awaits to pounce at lintel door.
The mind-set of our history,
inheritance to curse the globe,
leads green world to a blooded tree,
bequest maintained till we break free.
This carefree, little prancing girl
is unconcerned, no danger sensed.
The sun draws on through scattered swirl,
what prospect better, dancing lass?
Far harmony, do pipe scales play?
Does cheated magpie steal still more?
Are rats more easy prey to slay?
What magic flute can lure this child?
Is wisdom more than proving score—
achieve the stride, a target hit?
If skip, why plant in other’s paw,
when print unmatched with our own sole?
Today that youth learns carefulness,
more savvy than her fathers were;
inscribed on tiles, beneath her steps,
the groundwork runes to contemplate.
So what beyond safe corridor?
The simplest clues that logic reads,
strand spread of sand along the floor,
tells snapper both in front, behind.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
—Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s poems and photos, and a note that his “Trigger?” was inspired by the Kondokov work which was posted in the Kitchen last Tuesday—itself having been found by Joyce Odam, who also based a poem on it. Got that?
To pad where others trod before—
it is the human nature walk—
but tread tenderfoot, less the claw
awaits to pounce at lintel door.
The mind-set of our history,
inheritance to curse the globe,
leads green world to a blooded tree,
bequest maintained till we break free.
This carefree, little prancing girl
is unconcerned, no danger sensed.
The sun draws on through scattered swirl,
what prospect better, dancing lass?
Far harmony, do pipe scales play?
Does cheated magpie steal still more?
Are rats more easy prey to slay?
What magic flute can lure this child?
Is wisdom more than proving score—
achieve the stride, a target hit?
If skip, why plant in other’s paw,
when print unmatched with our own sole?
Today that youth learns carefulness,
more savvy than her fathers were;
inscribed on tiles, beneath her steps,
the groundwork runes to contemplate.
So what beyond safe corridor?
The simplest clues that logic reads,
strand spread of sand along the floor,
tells snapper both in front, behind.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
—Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s poems and photos, and a note that his “Trigger?” was inspired by the Kondokov work which was posted in the Kitchen last Tuesday—itself having been found by Joyce Odam, who also based a poem on it. Got that?
—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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
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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!
