Cherry Bakewells
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
CHERRY
Why do I keep the best till last
when eating cake;
quite unlike wine.
My mindful taste buds
find their pace, start marks
from first eye-captured plate,
declared by sharp seep under tongue,
gland leak swamping salivary, amylase-ready,
first attack.
But then with
fingers, silver fork, or even, patience,
Latin grace,
I have to pick the landing site,
where to dig archaeology.
A cherry bakewell,
red top last,
or jam glued to the underside,
roof icing goo-spread over top?
My favour is
to face the bland,
sandwich crusts or boring crumbs
of comfort, prelude true tidbits.
As strategy slowly evolves, brings
nearer mountain summit loom,
my nightmare,
banquet guest of Queen,
We finishing,
my dish removed. *
Why do I keep the best till last
when eating cake;
quite unlike wine.
My mindful taste buds
find their pace, start marks
from first eye-captured plate,
declared by sharp seep under tongue,
gland leak swamping salivary, amylase-ready,
first attack.
But then with
fingers, silver fork, or even, patience,
Latin grace,
I have to pick the landing site,
where to dig archaeology.
A cherry bakewell,
red top last,
or jam glued to the underside,
roof icing goo-spread over top?
My favour is
to face the bland,
sandwich crusts or boring crumbs
of comfort, prelude true tidbits.
As strategy slowly evolves, brings
nearer mountain summit loom,
my nightmare,
banquet guest of Queen,
We finishing,
my dish removed. *
* In British royal custom, known as 'The Royal We', the Monarch always refers to themselves formally as 'We' rather than 'I'. When the Monarch has finished eating their dish, all guest plates are removed [whether the guests are finished or not].
ALLOTTED SPACE
Black fish nets drape where canes are lashed,
discarded tights suggest worn through,
all day is worked to sunset strip,
for irrigation butt is filled,
no handcuffs, yet old bedstead, notched,
silk sheets, down pillows, dreams long gone,
the knots and ties and metal rings
near leather thongs and magazines.
Compost-making pages featured last,
with promises of bone meal soon.
To puff the pipe, though do not smoke,
while listen battered wireless hum,
not radio. I want no drink,
here no release, though thermos cup
reminds of how it used to be.
I note the greenfly over there,
aware no borders weed seeds care;
the customs post, a long pea row,
where tax-free excess rhubarb share.
Allotment place, working men's club,
some clubfoot there, but growth is good,
and unexpected bloom appears.
Black fish nets drape where canes are lashed,
discarded tights suggest worn through,
all day is worked to sunset strip,
for irrigation butt is filled,
no handcuffs, yet old bedstead, notched,
silk sheets, down pillows, dreams long gone,
the knots and ties and metal rings
near leather thongs and magazines.
Compost-making pages featured last,
with promises of bone meal soon.
To puff the pipe, though do not smoke,
while listen battered wireless hum,
not radio. I want no drink,
here no release, though thermos cup
reminds of how it used to be.
I note the greenfly over there,
aware no borders weed seeds care;
the customs post, a long pea row,
where tax-free excess rhubarb share.
Allotment place, working men's club,
some clubfoot there, but growth is good,
and unexpected bloom appears.
GOOSE?
Is it an ocean island strand
where eggs collected from the sand,
and packed for scientific lab,
to study turtles as a brand?
It is from in a sea of blue
people transport the azure tray,
for under UV waves of light
their eggshell white takes cobalt shade.
But stare, no glare, the yellow ball,
all eyes alert, experiment;
directing focus on the strange,
a golden egg, some goose has laid?
Is it an ocean island strand
where eggs collected from the sand,
and packed for scientific lab,
to study turtles as a brand?
It is from in a sea of blue
people transport the azure tray,
for under UV waves of light
their eggshell white takes cobalt shade.
But stare, no glare, the yellow ball,
all eyes alert, experiment;
directing focus on the strange,
a golden egg, some goose has laid?
MANES TO MASQUES
You know that mane draped old mare’s neck,
a Charleston shawl with tassel strings,
long earrings like her swinging fringe,
the twenties style on eighty years.
The young embarrassed by her style,
Quixotic, in her dreamy way,
poor sighted, eccentricity,
exotic dancer prancing free,
recalling balls, masques of the past.
Would she be harem sherbet girl,
for navel bauble belly dance,
or Cleopatra in a trance—
more spirit of the dead on floor?
Those ancient rites she celebrates
and fools herself as mask has slipped.
You know that mane draped old mare’s neck,
a Charleston shawl with tassel strings,
long earrings like her swinging fringe,
the twenties style on eighty years.
The young embarrassed by her style,
Quixotic, in her dreamy way,
poor sighted, eccentricity,
exotic dancer prancing free,
recalling balls, masques of the past.
Would she be harem sherbet girl,
for navel bauble belly dance,
or Cleopatra in a trance—
more spirit of the dead on floor?
Those ancient rites she celebrates
and fools herself as mask has slipped.
IN CONCERT
It’s stage-play, entertaining scene,
the main act stirring arms to dance,
all rhythms magnified on screen
abandonment of normal stance,
as music’s pitch where words have been,
pulse blood, through joints, inducing trance.
Beyond the reach of mindset block
a joyful moment, moving swing,
in gathered company of flock,
as the concert inside me sings,
take stock, the locked in freedom shock,
as limbs akimbo, fling is king.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BLUSH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Some juicy packs need friends about,
with laughter dripping, dripping mash,
strands and stringy orange pulp,
sip slipware sliding uncontrolled,
fruit of the spirit, fleshy stuff.
It is no wonder there’s a blush,
and hard stone hidden, brown in gold;
of ways to eat a mango—cold
and frothy, mush-filled lassi glass.
_______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is talking to us today about goose eggs and mangoes and peas and rhubarb—all signs of Spring, and we’re grateful for his poetry to help us kick off National Poetry Month here in the US. For info about that, including ways to celebrate Nat’l Poetry Month, see https://poets.org/national-poetry-month. And sign up for Poem-a-Day at https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus read about Poem in Your Pocket Day (this year, April 27) at https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
No fooling’! Just because it’s April Fool’s Day… Steven Smith of Cleveland reminds us that April is “the cruelest month”. Hm.
Speaking of National Poetry Month, Sacramento is lucky to have California Poet Laureate Lee Herrick kicking off the celebrations with a reading this afternoon, 2pm, at the Sacramento Poetry Center, along with Sacramento Poet Laureate Andru Defeye and Stockton Poet Laureate Tama Brisbane.
Also this afternoon, this one in Nevada City at 5pm, is Bring Your Fool Self, inviting you to collaborate with musicians—a reciprocity with the spoken word. 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
It’s stage-play, entertaining scene,
the main act stirring arms to dance,
all rhythms magnified on screen
abandonment of normal stance,
as music’s pitch where words have been,
pulse blood, through joints, inducing trance.
Beyond the reach of mindset block
a joyful moment, moving swing,
in gathered company of flock,
as the concert inside me sings,
take stock, the locked in freedom shock,
as limbs akimbo, fling is king.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BLUSH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Some juicy packs need friends about,
with laughter dripping, dripping mash,
strands and stringy orange pulp,
sip slipware sliding uncontrolled,
fruit of the spirit, fleshy stuff.
It is no wonder there’s a blush,
and hard stone hidden, brown in gold;
of ways to eat a mango—cold
and frothy, mush-filled lassi glass.
_______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is talking to us today about goose eggs and mangoes and peas and rhubarb—all signs of Spring, and we’re grateful for his poetry to help us kick off National Poetry Month here in the US. For info about that, including ways to celebrate Nat’l Poetry Month, see https://poets.org/national-poetry-month. And sign up for Poem-a-Day at https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus read about Poem in Your Pocket Day (this year, April 27) at https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
No fooling’! Just because it’s April Fool’s Day… Steven Smith of Cleveland reminds us that April is “the cruelest month”. Hm.
Speaking of National Poetry Month, Sacramento is lucky to have California Poet Laureate Lee Herrick kicking off the celebrations with a reading this afternoon, 2pm, at the Sacramento Poetry Center, along with Sacramento Poet Laureate Andru Defeye and Stockton Poet Laureate Tama Brisbane.
Also this afternoon, this one in Nevada City at 5pm, is Bring Your Fool Self, inviting you to collaborate with musicians—a reciprocity with the spoken word. 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!
