Voyages

   

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,   

Wrexham, Wales

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of 

Stephen Kingsnorth

BEDROOM LAMP

These sails let loose roaring forties,
enraged parents that I read;
then used the searchlight, undercover,
travel, four sheets to the wind.
Volumes filled pyjama rucksack,
ice picks, icepacks, first-aid kit,
dreaming crampons, leaping chasms,
I trekked wastes though poles apart.

Sheepshank, mutton, pressgang, weevils,
I crewed ships around the cape;
from the crow’s nest I saw wonders,
all from bulb, battery, torch.
Climbed the masthead, my log entry,
till the lines swam fuzzy eyes,
then, drifting beneath the surface,
waves and moon-tides took me down.

Reefers, reef knots, paddle steamers,
camel trains across the dunes;
tomes fill times preface to index,
world affairs from pillow case.
Journeys took me from dark attic,
global travels, sleeping bag—
I just needed, switch off boat-lamp,
before I heard the tread on stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

BIPOLAR

Trudge, black ink line, drudge snow sludge track,
slow single file, no slip-stream gain,
but heal and toe in follow-through
as focus on rucksack ahead,
no words to waste the precious air.
but trekking inwards, everywhere.

They’re false, those trails of travellers’ tales,
that silence of the tundra told,
for heaving breathing, billowed fog,
a wheezing with beat thud of boot,
this slog to keep their pace in place,
the vast nowhere beyond each berg.

But what the destination reached,
in mindful sights as climbing heights,
and did the front and rear sustain
momentum in the middle ranks,
or were there tears beyond seep eyes,
where crevices had torn the ice?

And did they find what they had sought,
in understanding of themselves,
bipolars bear their hidden fears;
or did the freeze defeat the day,
as icicles masked matted beards
and driving winds filled hooded heads?

 

 

 

 

 

A SCARLET WOMAN

Does she deserve an OS key,
so often junction point—
did we read ‘Up the Junction’—
found titillating bits?
As permanent as trig point,
outstanding, clear for steer,
anachronistic signpiece,
a clock without a chime.

Tardis, flight machine she’s not,
a unity, time, place, stage,
but she is reassuring,
our parents knew her place.
Perception of our mindset,
in fifty shades of grey,
but blazoned here like scarlet—
she wears post-office red.

But let’s be honest, do we post,
except by touching buttons,
and we’ll not hear, ‘How was your day?’
unless we ping on stop.
In first days of the penny post,
so stable during Wilding,
but queen matured and Machin clayed
so we now wait the outcome.

(OS=Ordinance Survey)

 

 

 

 

GOLD GILDED CLAY

It is as gold, this parchment stretch,
old fingers moulded into face,
an ingot, wisdom held in place,
as if her hands serve, buttress, struts,
while nose, the good eye making sense.

How many tales lie in the folds,
aged storied wrinkles as the page?

Her knuckles, knobbly, handiwork,
like putty built around god’s clay,
just as ancestors, statuesque,
her mother’s mother, and before.

 

 

 

 Model's Rest
—Jose Ferraz de Almeida Junior (Brazil), 1882

 

MUSE

Unlike this poor ekphrastic piece
I’m not allowed a second look;
Junior’s scene has taken hold,
eye’s glued (idiomatic phrase).

I’ve seen the films, a little read,
dinge garret, hand to mouth the meal.
Such gulf between that and my own—
a chosen route fulfilled, while loved.

But here the scene defies that slot,
romantic pigeon hole in loft;
a dozen features posed for me
before the overview is faced.

The languid, pause, worn melodies,
wall plates and coppers, cheeky face,
brass neck—please, magnifying glass—
first thought, the rug, a mattress raised.

So brushing by another pane,
where painters chose to decorate,
portray their muse, studio art,
their interest is private parts
of model’s break in working, weak
from concentrated, frozen peak—
enacting relaxed, careless dream—
was there a works contract framed?

I expect beard; like lazy smoke—
his eyes that feast on feat required,
and casual conversation shared—
but wish I knew what subjects dared.

Contrast the hat, warmth bald indoors
(doubt ceiling leaks above brocade),
the smooth, her flesh, bold, natural,
flow folds of gold seams, creased below,
as if exotic drapes reveal
a more exciting covered girl.

Disjoint from country boy made good,
plastic marked birthday, rose to gold,
till stabbed, a family affair;
what musings shine despite life’s span.

 

 

 

 

IT’S ALL THERE… WHERE?

Here’s skill, with fewest marks to paint
the sum required for children’s art!
Red untamed flop or curly black,
two dots for eyes, then squiggle nose,
that freckle spread with grill for teeth,
neck tassel scarf draped stripy top,
raised paw alert, communicate—
while side, a knapsack and the glass
to magnify adventure’s start.
Broad finger leaves, just one palm vein,
waved over lime sets jungle site.
Then bear, dramatic irony,
that looming threat with snout, mouth skewed,
a broad brush swipe, though chest entreat,
straight eyebrows and the lips curtailed,
first hint, with size of solid tan,
that’s neither wrap nor hair, stark, bare.
The second skill is pose, scene two—
must turn the page to find what’s true,
the purpose fired, imagine—you!
What heroes, frights or pity known,
stored terror, panic to resolve,
green, nature, wildlife in the frame,
the animal in own domain,
grave fears exposed yet hopes aroused?
Turn over a new leaf now… please.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

CALVES
—Stephen Kingsnorth

It is as when the children leave,
the focus of safe spaces shifts
from little ones on mothers’ milk
to youths who know escaped abuse,
now cannon fodder, range of guns,
used weapons in power playing gangs.
Momentum swings from playground place
where chains hang limp and seating slack,
the leather strap now laid to rest.
as swinging calves give way to bulls.

_______________________

Many thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth today, writing from Wales to comment on the Muse, among other things. Stephen likes to work with Ekphrastic photos and artwork, telling us what he sees in the subjects. For more of his work, come to the Kitchen on Form Fiddlers’ Fridays!

Tonight at 7pm, Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents Joshua McKinney and Matthew Chronister plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery, and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe takes place in Sacramento at 8pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “…tomes fill times preface to index…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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