Spring Fire

 

—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 PRIMAVERA
 
I love the lizards running for your sake,
Love how the mate-seeking fan puffs turkey’s tail,
Love even the amped-up sense of near heart-fail,
You, beauty, inducing the springtide bruised-rib-ache.

 

 

 

 

 

SPRING FIRE
 
I wish I could play for you, for you, Spring Fire,
That Swinburne-inspired symphonic poem by Bax,
Writ all in a youth like yours, my woodland desire,
Youth no sane god could create then decree it slacks:
O the opening droplets that drip on from last night’s rain,
Brimming the earthen vessel with purity,
Daring all nymphs of your age to stay and stain
Tunics or nude skin with long-limbed security
In wet grass too muddy-ground-touching to form lawn,
So healthy their young sweet selves, like yours, to trust
The slowly drying irrevocable dawn
Which tints the cloud-parted sky in hues of rust,
Russet, gold, lavender bursting. You should hear
The orchestral spell of it, penetrant, not quite near. 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ANTITHESIS OF MELODY
one rule for Beethoven, another for Arnold Bax
 
Repeated notes, to David Owen Norris,
Are “the antithesis of melody”;
Like English theorists of the “nine man’s morris,”
He disputes in Bax what Mozart gets for free.
Granted, Bax, the miraculous orchestrator,
Equates twice-, thrice-reiterated notes
With onrush, lilt, or furor striving for greater
Uplift, strong thermals, columns of swirling motes.
It seems our Norris has fingered, in his comment,
A sense of Bax the pianist, drumming fierce
Intensities into the keyboard, keen to foment
Orchestral iridescence, fountaining tiers
First earned while fending off the note-decay,
While fearing old-age decline in the bone-framed clay…

 

 

 

 

FRIEDA HUGHES
 
Frieda Hughes,
I honor your gallantry,
refusal to unlove either
your gifted father or your
immortal mother. That you
survived an Atreus house,
a seething hive: pity
scientific Nicholas, his
suicide earning all of you
a Kennedy-family fatedness.

 

 

 

 

 

PREDESTINATION
 
We, the ranking archangels,
Regret to inform you
That you have lost
In the lottery of Salvation.
Sorry we are
That even heretical
Peter’s pence
Can’t land you
Here with us.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PANDEMIC AND AFTER
He speaks, but not to be heard by her.
 
I hardly dared glance up at you
When you appeared on Zoom.
How do I keep my gaze reined in,
Your sweet form, here, in this room?

____________________

Our thanks to Tom Goff for some Spring ditties this morning, and a reminder that there are readings in the NorCal area today. You may not be geared up to go read Homer in Grace Cathedral in SF, but there are events to be had around here, too. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about 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.

A note that Brickhouse poets, which usually meets on Second Saturdays, has been postponed until June 10. And I had originally posted the Sac. Poetry Alliance reading with Lois P. Jones and William O’Daly as being today; actually, it’s next Saturday, 5/20.

For info about how wild turkeys find love, see https://www.nytimes.com/2022/11/21/travel/wild-turkeys-mates.html/.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Snurky