—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
GHOST DAWNING
By dimmest early-morning light: so bright!
white paw prints across deck, approaching
sliding-glass bedroom door where recently
I slept. Extreme bravery—some creature
rummaged the pan of diatomaceous
earth for ridding kitchen of ants. White prints
every-which-way, clotted with DE.
Hard to decipher: who walked here last night?
what was the intention of such a guest?
I must investigate. Tracks are clearer,
leading off the deck. No human. I check
my guidebook to ID who visited
without knocking. Just raccoon. No harm done.
a raccoon has no exoskeleton.
By dimmest early-morning light: so bright!
white paw prints across deck, approaching
sliding-glass bedroom door where recently
I slept. Extreme bravery—some creature
rummaged the pan of diatomaceous
earth for ridding kitchen of ants. White prints
every-which-way, clotted with DE.
Hard to decipher: who walked here last night?
what was the intention of such a guest?
I must investigate. Tracks are clearer,
leading off the deck. No human. I check
my guidebook to ID who visited
without knocking. Just raccoon. No harm done.
a raccoon has no exoskeleton.
SPECIES OF GHOST
In white bedsheets they tumble
in stiff breeze or sag with lull, in front
yards all over town. They’ll be gone
before the first hard frost past equinox.
That’s not the ghosts you’ve been
wondering about; nor like regular
healthy people giving off rafts of dead
skin cells in the natural course
of living. But actual ghosts—spirits
revisiting old haunts. The thought nags,
what’s unsaid—that shiver
you felt on the cellar steps, a voice
you weren’t sure you heard, still echoing.
In white bedsheets they tumble
in stiff breeze or sag with lull, in front
yards all over town. They’ll be gone
before the first hard frost past equinox.
That’s not the ghosts you’ve been
wondering about; nor like regular
healthy people giving off rafts of dead
skin cells in the natural course
of living. But actual ghosts—spirits
revisiting old haunts. The thought nags,
what’s unsaid—that shiver
you felt on the cellar steps, a voice
you weren’t sure you heard, still echoing.
SIERRA ART
arborglyphs in aspen
O Cougar, Frog, and disembodied head
I’m finding, each engraved into a tree
with bark still white, not stained a bloody red—
each aspen in this grove, a family
of smoothest parchment-skinned heredity.
Who scratched this art on such a surface, clear
as unwrit paper, wordless purity?
O Hummingbird with bill aimed like a spear—
you hover at a carven flower’s ear,
but where’s the sweet to feed a dainty bird?
What brought me walking among aspen here?
So many questions. It’s the wind I heard.
These wounds all healed, scabbed-over long ago—
I leave them to the coming winter’s snow.
arborglyphs in aspen
O Cougar, Frog, and disembodied head
I’m finding, each engraved into a tree
with bark still white, not stained a bloody red—
each aspen in this grove, a family
of smoothest parchment-skinned heredity.
Who scratched this art on such a surface, clear
as unwrit paper, wordless purity?
O Hummingbird with bill aimed like a spear—
you hover at a carven flower’s ear,
but where’s the sweet to feed a dainty bird?
What brought me walking among aspen here?
So many questions. It’s the wind I heard.
These wounds all healed, scabbed-over long ago—
I leave them to the coming winter’s snow.
DÍA DE LOS MUERTOS IN COVID MASK
November 2020, Placerville
Fado of longing blends with
mariachi of brave
joy. Marigolds, a framed photo.
Ofrendas bright as farmers-
market harvest—the dead alive as memories come and go.
A man lights incense, blesses
skull of a faithful dog,
carries it home, its inner glow.
Skeleton dancers—sun-
gold feathers fly at wrist
and ankle—breath and leavings flow.
November 2020, Placerville
Fado of longing blends with
mariachi of brave
joy. Marigolds, a framed photo.
Ofrendas bright as farmers-
market harvest—the dead alive as memories come and go.
A man lights incense, blesses
skull of a faithful dog,
carries it home, its inner glow.
Skeleton dancers—sun-
gold feathers fly at wrist
and ankle—breath and leavings flow.
Dog-Ofrenda
NOVEMBER RELICS
Ofrenda for those dogs who died
too young, companions at my side—
puppy stride, our walks at dawn—
photo reminders, and what’s left—
scraps of an orange tug-toy reft
by deft jaws—a pawprint—gone.
Ofrenda for those dogs who died
too young, companions at my side—
puppy stride, our walks at dawn—
photo reminders, and what’s left—
scraps of an orange tug-toy reft
by deft jaws—a pawprint—gone.
Loki and the Ghost Tree
UPCOUNTRY FINDS
My dog hunted meadow
while I hunted the grove.
I found owl, woodpecker,
fish, lizard carved in bark.
I hunted with my eyes;
she scented living life.
And that ghost in the trees?
My dog hunted meadow
while I hunted the grove.
I found owl, woodpecker,
fish, lizard carved in bark.
I hunted with my eyes;
she scented living life.
And that ghost in the trees?
Today’s LittleNip:
IN CHANGING LIGHT
—Taylor Graham
After your morning call,
daylight dimmed on bird-feeder
now swinging empty—
in a chill and sudden breeze
the day lost its way.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham today for her reminders of Día de los Muertos. Her “November Relics” struck a chord with me, grieving as I am for our wee Chibi, our little dog who passed away last weekend. I had forgotten what hard work it is to grieve…
Chibi Kieth, 2010-2022
(I think Katy Brown took this photo
many years ago in Sly Park)
(I think Katy Brown took this photo
many years ago in Sly Park)
So, Ofrendas for you, little guy. You were the best pal ever!
TG has brought us lots of ghosts (our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week), and forms, too: a Word-Can Poem (“Species of Ghost”); a Smith Sonnet (“Ghost Dawning”); a Tanka (“In Changing Light”); a 6x7 [or 7x6? Nonce Form] (“Upcountry Finds”); a Spenserian Sonnet, one of our Triple-F Challenges last week (“Sierra Art”); a Forbidden Desires, another challenge, this one by Carl Schwartz last week (“Día de los Muertos in Covid Mask”); and a Cywydd Llosgyrnog, our third challenge (“November Relics”).
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!
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge
Stephen Kingsnorth and Nolcha Fox responded to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge:
WHERE’S THE KEY?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
Smash and grab? No shattered shards,
the drain pipe slim—an incy climb—
but less the leggings of the jeans,
a ballet dance, failed plié stance,
in sill brick balance, knee thigh grip.
Were crampons set there in the wall?
Or maybe cramp that causes stall?
Was bowline knot round waist deployed,
or belay called, as abseiled down?
Does neighbour see this as a crime,
or is it she who’s in distress—
next door sees damsel in a mess?
And is this open window left,
first floor, above ground garden flat—
unless you count across the pond,
where ground is first and second, first,
another storey, foreign talk?
Which brings on thirst, me thinking loud—
where does he land, on cistern, sink,
or headfirst slide, spreadeagled bed?
If we were passing by the site,
could we see pallor of his arms;
would quality of footwear, pants,
act guide to genes, police or not?
As hear so much of crime these days,
where is the key to how we see?
* * *
A crazy idea
crawled through the window,
to take a quick shower
to smell fresh and clever
before it seduced me,
before I concluded
the crazy idea was insane.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
* * *
Nolcha has been rummaging around through Medusa's past Ekphrastic challenges, too, like this one about the flat tire of several weeks ago:
I miss you
every time you leave.
I’m a hubcap
without a wheel.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
She also made up her own prompt; this one is for her “Make the day like a bed”:
every time you leave.
I’m a hubcap
without a wheel.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
She also made up her own prompt; this one is for her “Make the day like a bed”:
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Make the day like a bed
Fold your hours neatly.
Stretch the daylight
coin-bounce tight.
Plump the dark clouds
fluffy white.
When you’re finished,
fall into the day.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
Here is an Ekphrastic poem by Stephen Kingsnorth, based on the wascally
wodent who appeared in the Kitchen recently:
Fold your hours neatly.
Stretch the daylight
coin-bounce tight.
Plump the dark clouds
fluffy white.
When you’re finished,
fall into the day.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
Here is an Ekphrastic poem by Stephen Kingsnorth, based on the wascally
wodent who appeared in the Kitchen recently:
TAIL AFLAME
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Fire rarely seen on British green—
extinguished, quenched, invading force
of bigger greys, whose dreys adrift
with twiggy spread, branch nests in sky.
Flame tails spread larger than their frame,
plain slaughtered, native redskin breed,
by so-called cousins from abroad,
through landgrab, persecution reigned.
Bred designated reserves now,
the word, to sterilise those grey,
laced food, for poison they present,
those bullies which assumed control.
* * *
Stephen also sent a Memoir poem:
ANNA
—Stephen Kingsnorth
You were my soulmate.
Your crackling laugh, thrown back head,
shaking natural curls and shrieking protest,
declaring as ridiculous some passing provocation thought that I suggested,
a demeanour as clumsy as was your being accused of being ladylike.
You were naturally
too honest, too clear-seeing, yet too naïve to bother with make-up,
to cover inadequacies with dressing up, with what you would regard as fripperies.
Take me as I am was how you were.
You and I, with others, spent teenage hours at The Bay,
toes amongst the trickling sand with backdrop stand of sandstone cliffs,
and camping with burning backs, through careless skin exposed to sun;
and gossip share, you amazed at latest pairings, pregnant fears.
Because you had no female wiles you were an attractive friend,
more concerned with soul than body;
we were joint pilgrims, together searching, thrown together
by our age, our schooling, our familial background,
our determined questioning, our journey, uncomplicated by
issues of expected relationship.
Then you were dead.
The overtaking car killing instantly.
You will love your new world.
* * *
And Claire Baker sent a smooth-but-sad Shakespearean Sonnet in anticipation of Veteran’s Day next week:
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Fire rarely seen on British green—
extinguished, quenched, invading force
of bigger greys, whose dreys adrift
with twiggy spread, branch nests in sky.
Flame tails spread larger than their frame,
plain slaughtered, native redskin breed,
by so-called cousins from abroad,
through landgrab, persecution reigned.
Bred designated reserves now,
the word, to sterilise those grey,
laced food, for poison they present,
those bullies which assumed control.
* * *
Stephen also sent a Memoir poem:
ANNA
—Stephen Kingsnorth
You were my soulmate.
Your crackling laugh, thrown back head,
shaking natural curls and shrieking protest,
declaring as ridiculous some passing provocation thought that I suggested,
a demeanour as clumsy as was your being accused of being ladylike.
You were naturally
too honest, too clear-seeing, yet too naïve to bother with make-up,
to cover inadequacies with dressing up, with what you would regard as fripperies.
Take me as I am was how you were.
You and I, with others, spent teenage hours at The Bay,
toes amongst the trickling sand with backdrop stand of sandstone cliffs,
and camping with burning backs, through careless skin exposed to sun;
and gossip share, you amazed at latest pairings, pregnant fears.
Because you had no female wiles you were an attractive friend,
more concerned with soul than body;
we were joint pilgrims, together searching, thrown together
by our age, our schooling, our familial background,
our determined questioning, our journey, uncomplicated by
issues of expected relationship.
Then you were dead.
The overtaking car killing instantly.
You will love your new world.
* * *
And Claire Baker sent a smooth-but-sad Shakespearean Sonnet in anticipation of Veteran’s Day next week:
NATIONAL CEMETERY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
They unload the trucks of newly numbered dead
who fight in wars that bring no end to war.
They plant them side by side and foot to head
these heroes for a nation to adore.
A country lad, too young, deserves a tree
above him, rare in graveyards needing space
where stone on stone on empty stone will be
granite symbols sun and wind will trace.
We walk the hallowed ground in search of one,
our own who died, And then we see them all
alive and healthy, shining in the sun,
a rock band sounding, not a bugle call.
Each day more trucks arrive, the dead have tears.
And all the ground is filled in these dread years.
(prev. pub. in Blue Unicorn)
___________________
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.) How about a Spenserian Sonnet:
•••Sonnet, Smith: 14 lines, 5-ft. (pentameter), unrhymed except for final couplet
AND/OR tackle another Welsh form:
•••Englyn Cyrch: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-cyrch-poetic-forms
AND/OR try one of Taylor Graham’s 6X7s, a Nonce Form she devised:
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
… or make up your own Nonce Form.
•••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 “Scrapbook”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Cywydd Llosgyrnog: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cywydd-llosgyrnog-poetic-form
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Englyn Cyrch: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-cyrch-poetic-forms
•••Forbidden Desires (Carl Schwarz): 4 stanzas of 3 tercets; syllables for each tercet 7, 6, 8; rhymes xxa, xxa, xxa, xxa
•••Memoir: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/memoir
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Sonnet, Shakespearian: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-shakespearean-sonnet-learn-about-shakespearean-sonnets-with-examples
•••Sonnet, Smith: 14 lines, 5-ft. (pentameter), unrhymed except for final couplet
•••Sonnet, Spenserian: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/spenserian-sonnet
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them.
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.)
***
—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.
