Stephen Demonstrates the Arabesque
—Photo by Denise Kingsnorth
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Other Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
PARKINSON’S DANCE
Old body, poor co-ordinate,
the message, muscle, mind mucked up,
from sloven steps of frozen feet,
drag dance of disobedient.
But here is ballet, balance, brain,
to lift heel, toe, then stretch the leg,
patella groove in groovy move,
full fill the space with fling and fold.
My cushioned seat now studio,
wingbacks, hold bar, bold exercise
where plié, lift, positions held.
My fingers fly far front to find
some feature seen, far distant screen,
as toes behind in trailing lift.
An athlete, lone sole, trapeze wire,
that arabesque in living room,
taut ligaments taught loosen up,
my body brought to overcome.
Old body, poor co-ordinate,
the message, muscle, mind mucked up,
from sloven steps of frozen feet,
drag dance of disobedient.
But here is ballet, balance, brain,
to lift heel, toe, then stretch the leg,
patella groove in groovy move,
full fill the space with fling and fold.
My cushioned seat now studio,
wingbacks, hold bar, bold exercise
where plié, lift, positions held.
My fingers fly far front to find
some feature seen, far distant screen,
as toes behind in trailing lift.
An athlete, lone sole, trapeze wire,
that arabesque in living room,
taut ligaments taught loosen up,
my body brought to overcome.
WITHIN RANGE
It is in visible, the range,
between the infra, ultra waves,
though rays beyond the human eye,
radio, gamma, micro, X.
So what the light that I reflect—
what spectrum is it I exude,
illumination, candlepower,
lighthouse in spin, blink on and off?
I cannot cloak my Parkinson’s—
invisibility on tap—
determined terms that dominate,
unless some symptoms medicate—
the calmer quiver, further walk,
a better sleep, pills and a glass.
Few see exhausted energy,
insomnia of early hours,
the joints I roll—a vape puff helps—
slide scapula—sounds mafia—
sup tonic, quinine bubbles up.
They cheer, drag racing on the track,
as I play ball to bridge the gap,
both heel and toe, like synchromesh,
attempt, engage first gear at least.
Some give me stick that carry mine,
a tightrope walker balance pole—
feel ferule cat stuck up a tree—
as concentrate to keep in line,
stare pathway, sole on pilgrimage.
POOPER
They named me ‘Gramps’ but that’s turned ‘Grumps’,
pretending I’ve misheard the call.
I’m chomping at the bit for home,
as second cheese, ‘This time you smile’,
the pointed joke with others’ laugh,
complaint that I then bare my teeth.
I cast a shadow, enforced style,
no guile for subtle late at night,
but I hate parties, wine and cheese—
another grimace with a glass—
as if advert for dentistry.
I can’t see much, hear even less,
though neither miss when in a crowd,
but can’t hide bathroom all the time.
I note their pity in a glance,
but half a chance, I’ll make escape;
they’ve just decided, must include,
to draw me in, lay out the food,
hand me balloons to rub in palms,
then these old lungs, deep breath, slow blow,
the rubber, better taste than cheese.
Strain, every celebration brings.
They named me ‘Gramps’ but that’s turned ‘Grumps’,
pretending I’ve misheard the call.
I’m chomping at the bit for home,
as second cheese, ‘This time you smile’,
the pointed joke with others’ laugh,
complaint that I then bare my teeth.
I cast a shadow, enforced style,
no guile for subtle late at night,
but I hate parties, wine and cheese—
another grimace with a glass—
as if advert for dentistry.
I can’t see much, hear even less,
though neither miss when in a crowd,
but can’t hide bathroom all the time.
I note their pity in a glance,
but half a chance, I’ll make escape;
they’ve just decided, must include,
to draw me in, lay out the food,
hand me balloons to rub in palms,
then these old lungs, deep breath, slow blow,
the rubber, better taste than cheese.
Strain, every celebration brings.
RECURRING
They say it’s curvature of space,
event horizons, years of light,
but I just hear the tok, fixed state,
the slower move whenever watched.
I put him down,
it hurries by,
awake we’re back to dawdle hands,
if dandle,
catches up again,
when grouchy, hours elongate.
A crying sky takes mourning time,
a sunny smile,
we prance along,
then spoon-fed makes the candlestick,
takes butcher, baker, rhymer rule.
A mewl, a puke, I’m seventh age.
The clock has stopped, I’m overwound.
Mortality for both at hand.
GRACE NOTES
Where are the semitones I need,
the gentle climb, fall, steps of ease,
stave, cleft and bar, spread manuscript
saved by clear grace notes in the mix?
Expensive sound is diverse thought,
the grander vision, insight shared,
community, both living, dead,
the passing dreams, tomorrow’s hopes.
If all is hard, contrast distinct,
steer black and white, claimed obvious,
then life resists such ornaments,
poor harmony, stark melody.
Both scale and key is in our play,
not solo, but the orchestra;
what programme the photographer’s
notes, screening flashes on the stage?
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.
—James Michener
_____________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth today for his fine poems about his struggle on the long, tough tightrope that is Parkinson’s Disease.
Also: a reminder that, in addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis features Rooja Mohassessy and her new book, When Your Sky Runs Into Mine (John Natsoula Gallery), plus open mic, 7pm. 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.
And greetings from Punxutawney Phil! Will he see his shadow on this Groundhog Day?
_____________________
—Medusa
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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!
