—Poetry by Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE PANEGYRICAL DELIGHT
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
My pen is restless and relentless
For sprucing up linguistic mess.
The encomiastic pleasure showers upon me
If I open the mind’s eye of readers with lexical key.
The dream of becoming The New York Times columnist
May come true, if I become an intellectual opportunist.
I’m aggressively pursuing my dream by writing
But not egotistically fighting.
The panegyrical delight
Will hoist me onto the reputational height.
The words are the attires of my fame of hall.
Therefore, they are stored in my mind’s mall.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
My pen is restless and relentless
For sprucing up linguistic mess.
The encomiastic pleasure showers upon me
If I open the mind’s eye of readers with lexical key.
The dream of becoming The New York Times columnist
May come true, if I become an intellectual opportunist.
I’m aggressively pursuing my dream by writing
But not egotistically fighting.
The panegyrical delight
Will hoist me onto the reputational height.
The words are the attires of my fame of hall.
Therefore, they are stored in my mind’s mall.
WHEN KITES, A-FLYING, HAVE WEPT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Artists have too much imagination.
It’s why they
Need to fly
Unbound by restraining strings
Or tethered by weighting tails.
Unlike kites,
Artists need no wind to rise
And dance within the air
Beneath the clouds.
They’re prone to shout aloud in glee
When they’ve made some mastery
And pulled plums from a pie.
Chewing on a pizza-crust,
Ask an artist
Why he must
Do what he does so well,
When what he makes won’t sell
And he might
Go hungry
Overnight,
And suffer a toning bell
That ends a night
He hadn’t slept—
When kites, a-flying, have wept.
“MODERN CULTURE”
—Joe Nolan
You don’t need my ticket
Where you’re going.
Your route is
All mapped-out.
You’re set to go.
Nothing I could tell you
Would be of any use
In a strange dimension
I don’t know—
The dimension they call
“Modern Culture,”
Where victims are honored,
But not heroes.
If you have a problem
With where things are going,
Keep it under your hat—
The authorities
Are looking for rebels,
For those who object.
They have a problem with that.
—Joe Nolan
You don’t need my ticket
Where you’re going.
Your route is
All mapped-out.
You’re set to go.
Nothing I could tell you
Would be of any use
In a strange dimension
I don’t know—
The dimension they call
“Modern Culture,”
Where victims are honored,
But not heroes.
If you have a problem
With where things are going,
Keep it under your hat—
The authorities
Are looking for rebels,
For those who object.
They have a problem with that.
HUNGER FOR TIME
—Joe Nolan
To hunger for time
When time passes slowly,
To hunger for love
That’s slipped away....
What love is there
For the lowly?
To hunger for sun
In the rain,
To pray for fog
To block the sun,
When the fortune of light
Is too bountied,
Is to know
The weight of pain
Of those who’ve come
From across the seas,
From Ireland or from Spain.
—Joe Nolan
To hunger for time
When time passes slowly,
To hunger for love
That’s slipped away....
What love is there
For the lowly?
To hunger for sun
In the rain,
To pray for fog
To block the sun,
When the fortune of light
Is too bountied,
Is to know
The weight of pain
Of those who’ve come
From across the seas,
From Ireland or from Spain.
SUNSET WORSHIP
—Joe Nolan
To properly worship a sunset,
You must fly through
More than
Forty colors,
More than in a rainbow,
Since they do not intersect
Many blends,
At all,
In rainbows that gather
After a rainfall,
When rain has gone away.
You must bow your head and pray
Into majestic sunsets,
Summoning the most beautiful ray
Of the sun
To strike your head
And let you be One
With the Sky.
You needn’t wonder why
The power of so many colors
Can let your spirit
Fly!,
Though it may.
Just assume that whatever grabs you
And drags you out of your body
Is taking you for a ride
For a special moment
On the other side.
—Joe Nolan
To properly worship a sunset,
You must fly through
More than
Forty colors,
More than in a rainbow,
Since they do not intersect
Many blends,
At all,
In rainbows that gather
After a rainfall,
When rain has gone away.
You must bow your head and pray
Into majestic sunsets,
Summoning the most beautiful ray
Of the sun
To strike your head
And let you be One
With the Sky.
You needn’t wonder why
The power of so many colors
Can let your spirit
Fly!,
Though it may.
Just assume that whatever grabs you
And drags you out of your body
Is taking you for a ride
For a special moment
On the other side.
My favorite time
is Christmas, when
candy canes
hang on the tree,
and cookies wait
for Santa Claus.
Let’s not forget
the gingerbread
we use to make
a house for
ginger daddy,
ginger mom.
Christmas is
the time for home
to be sweet home.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
is Christmas, when
candy canes
hang on the tree,
and cookies wait
for Santa Claus.
Let’s not forget
the gingerbread
we use to make
a house for
ginger daddy,
ginger mom.
Christmas is
the time for home
to be sweet home.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
PEER REVIEW
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
They have a home, that hideaway,
(though hide’s the last thing they’ll compute)
cork cambium for wrapround scarf,
this bole begging for residence,
a begging bowl where residents
can catch, wide-eyed, the fly past flap,
waiters, service on tenterhooks,
with talents seen in talon swoop.
A tawny, dun and fawny down,
(though carpet’s in the midden range)
the dusk will dim, in sign off fledge
for moving house to make it sweet
with rodent bones, regurgitate,
gullet scouring pellet balls,
as fur twice tasted, up and down,
a Roman, vomitorium.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
They have a home, that hideaway,
(though hide’s the last thing they’ll compute)
cork cambium for wrapround scarf,
this bole begging for residence,
a begging bowl where residents
can catch, wide-eyed, the fly past flap,
waiters, service on tenterhooks,
with talents seen in talon swoop.
A tawny, dun and fawny down,
(though carpet’s in the midden range)
the dusk will dim, in sign off fledge
for moving house to make it sweet
with rodent bones, regurgitate,
gullet scouring pellet balls,
as fur twice tasted, up and down,
a Roman, vomitorium.
REGENERATE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How sum that comfort, coming home,
return to rest, across the bar,
a restoration, most of blessed,
the place less of geography
as settled tone to state of mind,
a satisfaction for the past.
Those objects d’art, old crafty things
that once impinged, in recall now;
that touch us, as they did our loves—
who cares that grandma’s pot was cracked—
the signs that progress certified,
a paperchase across the years.
Some would have us cut from our roots,
the buried, out of sight and mind;
though beauty, pride and future lies,
with productivity above,
if tapped connections, soil pipe lost,
what power save source, regenerate?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
How sum that comfort, coming home,
return to rest, across the bar,
a restoration, most of blessed,
the place less of geography
as settled tone to state of mind,
a satisfaction for the past.
Those objects d’art, old crafty things
that once impinged, in recall now;
that touch us, as they did our loves—
who cares that grandma’s pot was cracked—
the signs that progress certified,
a paperchase across the years.
Some would have us cut from our roots,
the buried, out of sight and mind;
though beauty, pride and future lies,
with productivity above,
if tapped connections, soil pipe lost,
what power save source, regenerate?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
WHAT THE GREENMAN SEES
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Bed time story, fairy tales,
pillow talk aswirl as drift;
woodland folk amongst the spruce,
pines where Ariel released,
birch, mesh mycorrhizal routes,
fly agaric, polka stool,
lacewing whisper on the seat,
dangle legs, passed cranefly mist.
Pheasant chicks, gamekeeper’s gun,
poaching, scrambling in the gloom;
spider eggs in silken sacs,
elfen breakfast, steam pot tips
coddling toxicity,
snuffle, sips, arachnid cup,
dryads, greenman watch from branch,
truffle boars scent riches deep.
Wych hazel rods, divine in bend,
cider apples, tempting tree;
bite and die, the mystery,
pesky, pixie, goblin folk
tenant glades, though few will see—
will-o’-the-wisp, marshy light,
foe-conjured hours, dread of night—
friends we become, sheets, dawn, wights?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Bed time story, fairy tales,
pillow talk aswirl as drift;
woodland folk amongst the spruce,
pines where Ariel released,
birch, mesh mycorrhizal routes,
fly agaric, polka stool,
lacewing whisper on the seat,
dangle legs, passed cranefly mist.
Pheasant chicks, gamekeeper’s gun,
poaching, scrambling in the gloom;
spider eggs in silken sacs,
elfen breakfast, steam pot tips
coddling toxicity,
snuffle, sips, arachnid cup,
dryads, greenman watch from branch,
truffle boars scent riches deep.
Wych hazel rods, divine in bend,
cider apples, tempting tree;
bite and die, the mystery,
pesky, pixie, goblin folk
tenant glades, though few will see—
will-o’-the-wisp, marshy light,
foe-conjured hours, dread of night—
friends we become, sheets, dawn, wights?
TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s commentary on how we see,
or how we dream that things might be,
or what we would have others buy,
on whether our sale trustworthy.
No, take things with a pinch of salt,
for when green’s promised, check for fault;
has salad dressing changed domain—
once garnish, here is menu main?
Far-off memory, salad days,
though soon death’s flashback, this buffet.
So rasher act, scratch plate of tat
will douse your paper plate in fat;
is that why scratchings wrapped in foil—
calorie count so full of oil?
To top it all—like the North Pole,
melt in the mouth—though takes its toll;
curly as if a piggy’s tail,
some wag creates this shaggy tale?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s commentary on how we see,
or how we dream that things might be,
or what we would have others buy,
on whether our sale trustworthy.
No, take things with a pinch of salt,
for when green’s promised, check for fault;
has salad dressing changed domain—
once garnish, here is menu main?
Far-off memory, salad days,
though soon death’s flashback, this buffet.
So rasher act, scratch plate of tat
will douse your paper plate in fat;
is that why scratchings wrapped in foil—
calorie count so full of oil?
To top it all—like the North Pole,
melt in the mouth—though takes its toll;
curly as if a piggy’s tail,
some wag creates this shaggy tale?
I BOUGHT THE HOUSE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
made an offer
put a down payment
closed Escrow
paid it off
got the deed
pay the taxes
pay the insurance
do the upkeep
it is a matter of public record
County Assessor’s Office
but then there is this
one white kitty cat
who will argue he or she owns this place
it has its scent on it
which is the highest authority
no argument can defeat it
and so we coexist
each in our own world
that we fully own
no doubt about it
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BABY KANGAROO
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
To pull yourself up over hairy belly,
To slip inside a pouch and find a nipple,
To survive
The bounding and the jumping
That lets you
Know you’re inside
Something that’s alive,
To be a baby kangaroo.
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
made an offer
put a down payment
closed Escrow
paid it off
got the deed
pay the taxes
pay the insurance
do the upkeep
it is a matter of public record
County Assessor’s Office
but then there is this
one white kitty cat
who will argue he or she owns this place
it has its scent on it
which is the highest authority
no argument can defeat it
and so we coexist
each in our own world
that we fully own
no doubt about it
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BABY KANGAROO
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
To pull yourself up over hairy belly,
To slip inside a pouch and find a nipple,
To survive
The bounding and the jumping
That lets you
Know you’re inside
Something that’s alive,
To be a baby kangaroo.
_____________________
Good Spring morning to you, as the Vernal Equinox rounds the bend for 2023! Our Seed of the Week is “Home Sweet Home”, as you can see from our poetry (kangaroo's pocket!) and photos today; here’s hoping your home has kept you safe and warm during this challenging winter.
Stephen Kingsnorth’s poem, “What the Greenman Sees” (appropriate to the coming of Spring), was sent in response to Cynthia Bernard’s post last Saturday about mycelia—a fascinating subject, indeed.
NorCal poetry this week starts early on Monday morning with the Poetry in Motion read-around in Placerville, 10:30am. Then at 7:30pm tonight, Sac. Poetry Center features Judy Wells and Mary McGrath, plus open mic. Thursday, in addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento at 8pm, you can “attend” the Copper Canyon 50th Anniversary Reading with its stellar line-up on Zoom.
This weekend, on Friday, Sac Arts presents Art, Poetry & Jazz Night in Carmichael, with poets reading and musicians playing ekphrastic pieces, 6pm. On Saturday, Seven Stars Gallery in Nevada City features William O’Daly and Louis Valentine Johnson with new poems and musical pieces, 7pm. And on Sunday, Alice Pattway and Lara Gularte read at Poetry of the Sierra Foothills (plus open mic), 2pm—last Sunday, I erroneously said it was on 3/19. 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
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
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!
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!
