—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
CYCLAMEN CYCLE
She sweeps the freshly fallen heads
of rosy cyclamen, dross, sill gloss,
the wet-room cistern, wiped clean cream—
to throw them in trash, pristine bin,
neglected compost for the tip.
A sterile antiseptic tank
to flush away deposits, waste,
such pristine for indelicate,
though pheromones, trayed potted plants
waft over odours closeted.
Pink bow-tie fading ribbon twists,
tray litter from this chamber pot
all ready to renew brown soil,
no sense of shame as scrubbed away,
this wasted spirit to the dump.
She sweeps the freshly fallen heads
of rosy cyclamen, dross, sill gloss,
the wet-room cistern, wiped clean cream—
to throw them in trash, pristine bin,
neglected compost for the tip.
A sterile antiseptic tank
to flush away deposits, waste,
such pristine for indelicate,
though pheromones, trayed potted plants
waft over odours closeted.
Pink bow-tie fading ribbon twists,
tray litter from this chamber pot
all ready to renew brown soil,
no sense of shame as scrubbed away,
this wasted spirit to the dump.
FARM AND WALLED GARDEN
After a recent Open Mic Parkinson Poetry evening…
Our commune, type, collective farm,
rotated fields, mixed ’conomy—
not wheat and tares together sown—
but fruitful yield, across the stiles.
A garner edge where strangers tread,
all welcome, for none alien,
and hedges where wild life may thrive,
box mad March hares, conserving best.
From mouthing fears to miller’s flower,
or berried punnets, Greenman spells,
its seeding ears to cropping wields
a harvest, common market bound.
The wall protects our herbal scents,
medicinal, health giving plants,
each with a title, name attached—
both listening and speaking posts.
After a recent Open Mic Parkinson Poetry evening…
Our commune, type, collective farm,
rotated fields, mixed ’conomy—
not wheat and tares together sown—
but fruitful yield, across the stiles.
A garner edge where strangers tread,
all welcome, for none alien,
and hedges where wild life may thrive,
box mad March hares, conserving best.
From mouthing fears to miller’s flower,
or berried punnets, Greenman spells,
its seeding ears to cropping wields
a harvest, common market bound.
The wall protects our herbal scents,
medicinal, health giving plants,
each with a title, name attached—
both listening and speaking posts.
COUNTY SIGNS
The menu’s plain as travel on;
lodge here at this near eatery.
The filling’s thin within the bread—
just one sixth meat I calculate—
pig in a poke as some, tight, say.
It’s not the norm, ‘A’ frame approach;
those adverts hording space we walk,
or nigh doom-laden sandwich, bored,
with bold old text, still soon to come—
just so, they past three score and ten.
Supplanted posts, what war knocked down,
by Kentish men—not men of Kent;
their line’s Midway—not county line—
but Deal’s around, lore of the land,
with tablets found, the smuggling coves.
Read out, shoutout, here what’s ‘tea’ for?
With pressgangs, hops, pay-as-you-go
still keeping tabs and keeping track—
though well-worn paths need change about—
remain alert, look out for signs.
—‘County Lines’ is the term used by the police in the UK for pushers using young people to transport drugs from the cities out into the counties and countryside.
—One county—Kent—is ‘split’ west and east, midway, by the river Medway. Those born in the east are known as Kentish Men, in the west, Men of Kent. To the east of the county lie the towns of Sandwich and Deal. Kent is known for growing hops, used in beer-making.
The menu’s plain as travel on;
lodge here at this near eatery.
The filling’s thin within the bread—
just one sixth meat I calculate—
pig in a poke as some, tight, say.
It’s not the norm, ‘A’ frame approach;
those adverts hording space we walk,
or nigh doom-laden sandwich, bored,
with bold old text, still soon to come—
just so, they past three score and ten.
Supplanted posts, what war knocked down,
by Kentish men—not men of Kent;
their line’s Midway—not county line—
but Deal’s around, lore of the land,
with tablets found, the smuggling coves.
Read out, shoutout, here what’s ‘tea’ for?
With pressgangs, hops, pay-as-you-go
still keeping tabs and keeping track—
though well-worn paths need change about—
remain alert, look out for signs.
—‘County Lines’ is the term used by the police in the UK for pushers using young people to transport drugs from the cities out into the counties and countryside.
—One county—Kent—is ‘split’ west and east, midway, by the river Medway. Those born in the east are known as Kentish Men, in the west, Men of Kent. To the east of the county lie the towns of Sandwich and Deal. Kent is known for growing hops, used in beer-making.
BLACK AND WHITE
In black and white, what ties these two,
old undergrad and soon to be,
the neckties unlike those around,
on underground, or flower power,
though longer hair, a nod towards
the shoulder length, too far a dare,
as bedsit swop, YMCA.
The lad was fashioned by his class,
though pupils needs not know his form
(would Sixth sense tell where he was from?),
as teacher filling gap before
the ivories of academe,
an ivy league in US terms,
though Michaelmas his first to be.
How grim a London terrace stance
from Zambia, the hostel chance
to sit exam in third attempt.
Affection through wide range of age
was solely due to heritage,
both Wesley men and trained in kind,
expected fellowship when strange.
So summit meet, some weekday greet,
these journeymen, apprenticeship,
cold light of day on Bond Street roof,
though not the west end city beat;
yet bond remained throughout the year,
as by degrees they travelled on,
two Methodists, cause, common song.
In black and white, what ties these two,
old undergrad and soon to be,
the neckties unlike those around,
on underground, or flower power,
though longer hair, a nod towards
the shoulder length, too far a dare,
as bedsit swop, YMCA.
The lad was fashioned by his class,
though pupils needs not know his form
(would Sixth sense tell where he was from?),
as teacher filling gap before
the ivories of academe,
an ivy league in US terms,
though Michaelmas his first to be.
How grim a London terrace stance
from Zambia, the hostel chance
to sit exam in third attempt.
Affection through wide range of age
was solely due to heritage,
both Wesley men and trained in kind,
expected fellowship when strange.
So summit meet, some weekday greet,
these journeymen, apprenticeship,
cold light of day on Bond Street roof,
though not the west end city beat;
yet bond remained throughout the year,
as by degrees they travelled on,
two Methodists, cause, common song.
FEW REGRETS
Rebellion ’gainst rebels, me—
more thought boring, establishment—
but what of we, compliant raised,
had not with wit or motive drive
to break from what was satisfied?
Of middle class, from teachers, faith,
where earning, saving, service meant
the means to live responsibly
in charity and social care,
though challenge where laid fare unfair.
And yes, we had our protests too,
South Africa, apartheid set,
a call for justice, driven rights;
though small oneself against the tide
we took a stand and raised our voice.
I walked the line, jeered, rugby tours,
supported Woodstock, Nam protests,
young burning draft cards, pacifist,
but not the new imperialists,
who beckoned on, Mod Rocker tiffs.
It was the age, naïvety,
the police still a happy lot,
and we, deceived; thought major plot
injustice in our global view.
I reason no apology
for revolution limited
to protest, Julie Felix songs,
investing ‘third world’ businesses,
but not that stand of anarchists,
most now I fear, by wealth encased.
So I remain claimed radical,
conservative to effect change,
for how give reason to reject
those goals set in the serpents’ nest,
which now, we find, included church?
I admit, of the extant set,
but should confess against the tide
of expectation, those in step
with zeitgeist of a former age,
now hindsight, retrospect in charge?
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.
—Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
______________________
—Medusa, thanking UK poet Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today!
Rebellion ’gainst rebels, me—
more thought boring, establishment—
but what of we, compliant raised,
had not with wit or motive drive
to break from what was satisfied?
Of middle class, from teachers, faith,
where earning, saving, service meant
the means to live responsibly
in charity and social care,
though challenge where laid fare unfair.
And yes, we had our protests too,
South Africa, apartheid set,
a call for justice, driven rights;
though small oneself against the tide
we took a stand and raised our voice.
I walked the line, jeered, rugby tours,
supported Woodstock, Nam protests,
young burning draft cards, pacifist,
but not the new imperialists,
who beckoned on, Mod Rocker tiffs.
It was the age, naïvety,
the police still a happy lot,
and we, deceived; thought major plot
injustice in our global view.
I reason no apology
for revolution limited
to protest, Julie Felix songs,
investing ‘third world’ businesses,
but not that stand of anarchists,
most now I fear, by wealth encased.
So I remain claimed radical,
conservative to effect change,
for how give reason to reject
those goals set in the serpents’ nest,
which now, we find, included church?
I admit, of the extant set,
but should confess against the tide
of expectation, those in step
with zeitgeist of a former age,
now hindsight, retrospect in charge?
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.
—Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
______________________
—Medusa, thanking UK poet Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today!
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
