Giant’s Causeway, Bushmills, Northern Ireland
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos by Denise Kingsnorth and Public Domain
GIANT’S CAUSEWAY
A giant leap for humankind,
the step of Finn McCool ’tis said,
from Scottish Isles to Antrim coast,
his cause, say how a tale is led.
But what a stride across the sea
without his dipping, salty bath;
but such a move for even me,
to scoot from top down mountain path.
A narrow way, no passing bay,
as I leaned back to not fall out,
though would, if other scooter met
save drawing swords, with sticks, a bout.
A witch’s cauldron down beneath,
Atlantic breakers, crests that drooled,
where columns rise, hexagonal,
formed basalt, volcano lava cooled.
A giant leap for humankind,
the step of Finn McCool ’tis said,
from Scottish Isles to Antrim coast,
his cause, say how a tale is led.
But what a stride across the sea
without his dipping, salty bath;
but such a move for even me,
to scoot from top down mountain path.
A narrow way, no passing bay,
as I leaned back to not fall out,
though would, if other scooter met
save drawing swords, with sticks, a bout.
A witch’s cauldron down beneath,
Atlantic breakers, crests that drooled,
where columns rise, hexagonal,
formed basalt, volcano lava cooled.
The winds rush-race, through foreign place,
runs deep amongst Armada wrecks,
familiars, black caws from daws,
here’s spellbound space of muttered hex.
I shiver, shake, PD and cold,
as wonder how she’ll climb steep back,
while tourists shout above the waves
their tongues whiplashed from poses, stack.
Titanic stance like drying shag
while wardens warn, unstable rocks,
as I sink deeper, borrowed gloves,
and think, drive better, hands in socks.
runs deep amongst Armada wrecks,
familiars, black caws from daws,
here’s spellbound space of muttered hex.
I shiver, shake, PD and cold,
as wonder how she’ll climb steep back,
while tourists shout above the waves
their tongues whiplashed from poses, stack.
Titanic stance like drying shag
while wardens warn, unstable rocks,
as I sink deeper, borrowed gloves,
and think, drive better, hands in socks.
But now ascent, with bellowed shouts,
‘I’m coming through’, to Japanese,
though rest halfway, my ‘listening post’,
for spies, tour headphones, streaming screes?
Despite two cut-outs, pushing arms,
me leaning forward, grand-prix style,
we gained our height, above the rage,
with wiser wagtails, waves, a mile.
‘I’m coming through’, to Japanese,
though rest halfway, my ‘listening post’,
for spies, tour headphones, streaming screes?
Despite two cut-outs, pushing arms,
me leaning forward, grand-prix style,
we gained our height, above the rage,
with wiser wagtails, waves, a mile.
SMITHY
My ancestors, uncommon name,
yet smithies, forging with their craft,
some counterfeits, for nothing new,
but flame and bellows, tools of trade,
from darkness, heat, by anvil blows,
as hammered out their serif wings—
for Methodists, known Primitive—
in light of day, some shape achieved?
Is poet nature’s heritage?
My ancestors, uncommon name,
yet smithies, forging with their craft,
some counterfeits, for nothing new,
but flame and bellows, tools of trade,
from darkness, heat, by anvil blows,
as hammered out their serif wings—
for Methodists, known Primitive—
in light of day, some shape achieved?
Is poet nature’s heritage?
PARKY POETRY
My clock’s been changed by Parkinson’s—
of quivers, shakes I was aware,
less so, new contracts signed in bed
as kicking strikes out in my legs.
Insomnia (plus football kit)
brings overtime for laptop dance,
as I smith words, play poetry,
fill overtime as versify.
Keen adolescence woke once more—
a pensioner who writes—the key
that board replacing scrawling ink
of unintended curlicues.
So screen time my horology,
collective poets, company,
the new hangout, Zoom Open Mic,
together slur and shuffle through
our poor creative all-style works,
amazed no longer lost for words.
We read, write on a level plain,
all ages struggling through the pain
barrier to craft Parky lines,
and learn the value of a like,
as fellow pilgrims’ hearts affirm.
My clock’s been changed by Parkinson’s—
of quivers, shakes I was aware,
less so, new contracts signed in bed
as kicking strikes out in my legs.
Insomnia (plus football kit)
brings overtime for laptop dance,
as I smith words, play poetry,
fill overtime as versify.
Keen adolescence woke once more—
a pensioner who writes—the key
that board replacing scrawling ink
of unintended curlicues.
So screen time my horology,
collective poets, company,
the new hangout, Zoom Open Mic,
together slur and shuffle through
our poor creative all-style works,
amazed no longer lost for words.
We read, write on a level plain,
all ages struggling through the pain
barrier to craft Parky lines,
and learn the value of a like,
as fellow pilgrims’ hearts affirm.
WORDLE
My Wordle exercise at night
I find homework for poetry,
exploring words not on my terms,
a lexicon beyond my range.
By concentrating, other spheres,
it steals my orbit from its round,
skull cavity wherein I found,
exploring aches that make me pain
to others who have heard the script,
repeats rehearsed to curtain fall.
Those traffic lights, grey, amber, green,
hill start, gear crash, near braking point,
hope parking, double yellow lines,
may yet, blue badge, escape just fine.
My Wordle exercise at night
I find homework for poetry,
exploring words not on my terms,
a lexicon beyond my range.
By concentrating, other spheres,
it steals my orbit from its round,
skull cavity wherein I found,
exploring aches that make me pain
to others who have heard the script,
repeats rehearsed to curtain fall.
Those traffic lights, grey, amber, green,
hill start, gear crash, near braking point,
hope parking, double yellow lines,
may yet, blue badge, escape just fine.
TIPPING THE SCALES
We have our balanced choices laid,
but what part of our speech in mind?
I played them with arpeggios,
see major piano forte roll;
but saw, them dropping from my eyes,
a Damascene conversion rôle.
Until some wholesome harmony,
with better sight accompanied—
unless one cites the climb of peaks,
I am returned again to weight.
In stable judgement, what allowed
to pass my lips, by tongue unfurled,
the season springing open buds,
sweet, sour, bitter, savoury, salt.
It hangs there, tipping off that tongue—
what is the palate taste of mouth,
though palette, colours on my plate
can influence, prove false my teeth?
We have our balanced choices laid,
but what part of our speech in mind?
I played them with arpeggios,
see major piano forte roll;
but saw, them dropping from my eyes,
a Damascene conversion rôle.
Until some wholesome harmony,
with better sight accompanied—
unless one cites the climb of peaks,
I am returned again to weight.
In stable judgement, what allowed
to pass my lips, by tongue unfurled,
the season springing open buds,
sweet, sour, bitter, savoury, salt.
It hangs there, tipping off that tongue—
what is the palate taste of mouth,
though palette, colours on my plate
can influence, prove false my teeth?
BLESSING
It’s not a curse, this Parkinson,
some certain blessing, well disguised.
In hours I cannot trek the hills—
for that was our retirement plan
and why we chose Welsh vales, our home—
as smithy when the words prevail,
for stead of pacing with our feet
I dance a metric measure, verse,
so visit scenes off beaten track
yet with sure rhythm in my stride.
Than envisaged, that vista wide—
poetic license as required—
days unconsumed by dreams passed by,
still less the symptomatic pains
I am free spirit, poetry,
whose disease illustrates content
but no veto, of what I write.
Though tremors and insomnia,
a freeze, poor balance, restless legs,
what could be better as my tools,
along with stare, chair occupied?
It’s not a curse, this Parkinson,
some certain blessing, well disguised.
In hours I cannot trek the hills—
for that was our retirement plan
and why we chose Welsh vales, our home—
as smithy when the words prevail,
for stead of pacing with our feet
I dance a metric measure, verse,
so visit scenes off beaten track
yet with sure rhythm in my stride.
Than envisaged, that vista wide—
poetic license as required—
days unconsumed by dreams passed by,
still less the symptomatic pains
I am free spirit, poetry,
whose disease illustrates content
but no veto, of what I write.
Though tremors and insomnia,
a freeze, poor balance, restless legs,
what could be better as my tools,
along with stare, chair occupied?
APPOINTMENT TO A LISTENING POST
Who knows—will I—in months ahead,
what I was thinking in my head,
those plans re-laid, proposals staid,
caught dreams released from feathered drape?
It may brew bother, those I know,
but not so I, in ignorance,
for wonder’s still, mind wandering,
while magic knows not what it left.
I’ll not recall I’ve lost something,
the very thing I’m looking for,
or reason why I’m climbing stairs,
except the view I’m offered there.
It speaks a kind of paradise
that dreaded aches emerge, surprise,
some toll of pain repelled at source,
by course of pills with due repeats.
I’ll not expect the belly ache,
less likely find that label worn,
no longer moan at what’s to come,
though may recite words spoke before.
But if folk know the tale I tell,
they’ll nod or shake their heads on cue,
and grin or smile, laugh loud again.
despite not listening to my speech.
And I’ll be pleased, in smaller world,
that they appreciate my store
of myths and legends, fantasies,
to yet unfold, but real to me.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TRANSPORT CAFÉ, TRULY CAFE
Who knows—will I—in months ahead,
what I was thinking in my head,
those plans re-laid, proposals staid,
caught dreams released from feathered drape?
It may brew bother, those I know,
but not so I, in ignorance,
for wonder’s still, mind wandering,
while magic knows not what it left.
I’ll not recall I’ve lost something,
the very thing I’m looking for,
or reason why I’m climbing stairs,
except the view I’m offered there.
It speaks a kind of paradise
that dreaded aches emerge, surprise,
some toll of pain repelled at source,
by course of pills with due repeats.
I’ll not expect the belly ache,
less likely find that label worn,
no longer moan at what’s to come,
though may recite words spoke before.
But if folk know the tale I tell,
they’ll nod or shake their heads on cue,
and grin or smile, laugh loud again.
despite not listening to my speech.
And I’ll be pleased, in smaller world,
that they appreciate my store
of myths and legends, fantasies,
to yet unfold, but real to me.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TRANSPORT CAFÉ, TRULY CAFE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
His, being stacked, the plate attacked,
as forklift driver, has the knack—
insert and raise, swing over-dive—
more crane neck job, fling derrick back;
palate delight, new heights achieved,
spring budding tastes unreached by snack.
___________________
Our thanks to Master Word Smithy Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry, including his story of the Giant’s Causeway. For more about that epic spot on the globe, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant%27s_Causeway/.
About the second “Cafe” in today’s littlenip, I wrote to Stephen and asked if there should be an accent on the final e. He wrote, “No, it was intentionally so. There's a bit of a UK joke, that pretentious "cafes" use an accent to sound continental—whereas they are really just greasy spoon jobs—often referred to as "caffs". When I was a child, if you used the accent you were thought of as a posh Hooray Henry.” Having Stephen around is teaching us more and more about British English usage!
His, being stacked, the plate attacked,
as forklift driver, has the knack—
insert and raise, swing over-dive—
more crane neck job, fling derrick back;
palate delight, new heights achieved,
spring budding tastes unreached by snack.
___________________
Our thanks to Master Word Smithy Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry, including his story of the Giant’s Causeway. For more about that epic spot on the globe, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant%27s_Causeway/.
About the second “Cafe” in today’s littlenip, I wrote to Stephen and asked if there should be an accent on the final e. He wrote, “No, it was intentionally so. There's a bit of a UK joke, that pretentious "cafes" use an accent to sound continental—whereas they are really just greasy spoon jobs—often referred to as "caffs". When I was a child, if you used the accent you were thought of as a posh Hooray Henry.” Having Stephen around is teaching us more and more about British English usage!
Busy day again in NorCal poetry, with readings in Sacramento, Davis, and Grass Valley, including the return of Teatro Espejo, and The Garden of Hope at Sac. City College—not to mention that it’s Sacramento’s Big Day of Giving. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) 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
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