This fragile world…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Shiva Neupani,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth
VACANCY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Your eyes divine
shine vacancy,
you wilt under
under my stare.
You curl into
an ampersand,
unroll into
a question mark.
You are a feather
in my throat
that unravels
into a bird.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Your eyes divine
shine vacancy,
you wilt under
under my stare.
You curl into
an ampersand,
unroll into
a question mark.
You are a feather
in my throat
that unravels
into a bird.
A fragile shelter…
—Public Domain Photo
—Public Domain Photo
SHELTER
—Nolcha Fox
Touch is a fragile shelter,
a refuge from anger,
forgiveness of sins,
a dreamless sleep,
a moment to breathe,
before it melts to void.
—Nolcha Fox
Touch is a fragile shelter,
a refuge from anger,
forgiveness of sins,
a dreamless sleep,
a moment to breathe,
before it melts to void.
Fragile as glass…
—Public Domain Photo
ALGEBRAIC REUNION
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Three times my new-bought lampshade glass
fell from its bubble wrap, and crashed
to crazy paving, the front door,
as if a curse could hang in air.
A fragile label, parcel post,
they say, seen challenge to the staff
so treated worse than one without,
just as removal men, I’ve found.
And as for bullies in the class,
who act as bulls, their china shop
for weak find power assaulting frail,
just as the pack pick out from herd.
But are we not Kintsugi art,
for beauty not in perfect class,
but rather celebrating mend,
as gold highlight imperfect cracks?
If time, then a new paradigm,
in space the work of human hands
creating, breaking—such is life—
the holes holistic, being whole.
Creation’s waste, marred, if despised,
a painting thieved for private view,
the glossy book unleaved at rest,
sheet staves well laid, but never played.?
The golden vein not vanity
but focus drawn to well-worn face,
to rejoin shards, a smoothing cream,
the wrinkles wise—or con art plied?
Old pottery, new carpentry,
the joiner’s trade, awe auric held,
the mortise, tenon redeployed,
that staple diet reassigned?
Ceramic patchwork quilt enjoyed,
patella groove to cap it all,
when couched we’re as cracked up to be,
the shattered fracture, algebra.
Fragile as a teacup…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
MOCHA MOCK-UP
—Stephen Kingsnorth
The plates and silver service piled,
captured faces, emulsified,
crockery, old crocks are gathered,
from tea party for ancestry.
Table’s clear, family laid out,
from past years, long, old visitors,
fathers, beverage for the soul,
syllabic, haiku in a cup.
To read the tea leaves, swirl, invert;
for frothy coffee, see the smears,
or if a mocha, mock-up face,
as in the clouds, balls, cotton wool.
That dappled shape, transforms as builds—
I blur my focus, relax eyes,
to change the point of concentrate—
so here’s the liquid, washing-up.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
The plates and silver service piled,
captured faces, emulsified,
crockery, old crocks are gathered,
from tea party for ancestry.
Table’s clear, family laid out,
from past years, long, old visitors,
fathers, beverage for the soul,
syllabic, haiku in a cup.
To read the tea leaves, swirl, invert;
for frothy coffee, see the smears,
or if a mocha, mock-up face,
as in the clouds, balls, cotton wool.
That dappled shape, transforms as builds—
I blur my focus, relax eyes,
to change the point of concentrate—
so here’s the liquid, washing-up.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
MORNING'S YAWNING MAYHEM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Morning’s yawning mayhem
Has arisen.
Coffee,—must—have...
Coffee.
Forget about tea.
I need my morning stimulant
As strong as it can be (within reason).
Simplicity is to stare at the rising sun
Inching above the horizon,
Knowing it’s a gift from our Galaxy—
Our Milky Way.
Sounds rather maternal
For stars so disparately scattered
With a massive black-hole
Deep in its center
That keeps all the other stars
Swirling its gravity-field,
But that’s not surprising.
When we call home and Dad answers,
We say, “Hello” and ask for Mom.
It’s always been thus—
Mothers are the center.
Dads are those in whom we trust,
Hopefully,
If they’re acting properly,
As they must,
Or else fall from grace
Lose their place,
Disappear.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Morning’s yawning mayhem
Has arisen.
Coffee,—must—have...
Coffee.
Forget about tea.
I need my morning stimulant
As strong as it can be (within reason).
Simplicity is to stare at the rising sun
Inching above the horizon,
Knowing it’s a gift from our Galaxy—
Our Milky Way.
Sounds rather maternal
For stars so disparately scattered
With a massive black-hole
Deep in its center
That keeps all the other stars
Swirling its gravity-field,
But that’s not surprising.
When we call home and Dad answers,
We say, “Hello” and ask for Mom.
It’s always been thus—
Mothers are the center.
Dads are those in whom we trust,
Hopefully,
If they’re acting properly,
As they must,
Or else fall from grace
Lose their place,
Disappear.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
TO CRY FROM ONLY ONE EYE
—Joe Nolan
Isn’t it strange to cry
From only one eye
And not the other--
To mourn a suicide brother,
While others remained alive?
The news that went in, sideways,
Had betrayed,
How long it had been
Since, by phone, we’d played,
How dismay and disappointment
Went cold unto the grave.
—Joe Nolan
Isn’t it strange to cry
From only one eye
And not the other--
To mourn a suicide brother,
While others remained alive?
The news that went in, sideways,
Had betrayed,
How long it had been
Since, by phone, we’d played,
How dismay and disappointment
Went cold unto the grave.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WORKING
—Joe Nolan
When comes time
To work,
We rise,
Carry tools
To the fields,
Wrap ourselves
Against the sun,
‘Til by its heat,
We’re forced to yield,
Above our
Shortened shadows.
This way
We work
From day to day,
Each day like the rest—
According to the seasons.
Winter comes
We get more rest,
When days are short
And nights are long,
Confident
We’ve done our best
As have all the others.
—Joe Nolan
When comes time
To work,
We rise,
Carry tools
To the fields,
Wrap ourselves
Against the sun,
‘Til by its heat,
We’re forced to yield,
Above our
Shortened shadows.
This way
We work
From day to day,
Each day like the rest—
According to the seasons.
Winter comes
We get more rest,
When days are short
And nights are long,
Confident
We’ve done our best
As have all the others.
A fragile life…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
THE BUSINESS OF DEATH
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
When you were born
You needed a pram
Clothing, foods and the like.
When you started your schooling
You needed a textbook and bench
When you graduated you worked
And paid the taxes, bills and mortgage
You are in the eddy of the monetary world
Where your freedom is swallowed
And you don’t get rescued from the monetary abyss.
The monetary world imposes
Funeral expenses on your death
So you are the fountain of business.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
When you were born
You needed a pram
Clothing, foods and the like.
When you started your schooling
You needed a textbook and bench
When you graduated you worked
And paid the taxes, bills and mortgage
You are in the eddy of the monetary world
Where your freedom is swallowed
And you don’t get rescued from the monetary abyss.
The monetary world imposes
Funeral expenses on your death
So you are the fountain of business.
A fragile peace…
—Public Domain Photo
PEACE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
For Peace comes slow
A sudden birth
Unexpected win
Balms your soul
A royal-blue impish touch
Sometimes
A hurricane
It just
Soothes
For Peace comes slowly
More difficult
Than Love
Loving One
Each breathing
Each Eyelash
It is private
A fine jewel
Must be hidden
Kept
Under your shirt
For peace is more precious
Than Love
Itself.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DESERT FLOWERS
—Joe Nolan
Desert flowers
Bloom at night—
Cannot stand
Blinding light—
Too hot, too bright.
Darkness’ beauty
By candle-light,
Soft to touch–
Delight!
____________________
A fragile peace… This week’s Seed of the Week was “Fragile”, and, as usual, our contributors rose to the occasion. So thanks to them for that! All of life is fragile, of course, so it’s best to keep writing while we have a chance to do so. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
This morning, Poetry in Motion read-around will take place at 10:30am in Placerville, and Kory Vance will read at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento tonight, 7:30pm. Weds. will be the book release of Clare Frank’s BURNT: A Memoir of Fighting Fire (Placerville, 6pm); Thursday will be busy with Third Thursdays at the Library (Sacramento, 12noon—this month's theme is Independence, noun: the fact or state of being independent); Susan Flynn and Jemi McDonald at Poetry in Davis (7pm); and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe happens in Sacramento, 8pm. Friday will be the rescheduled Hot Poetry in the Park (Sacramento, 6pm). Then Saturday will be busy, with a MoSt workshop (Modesto, 1pm); Oakland’s Beast Crawl starts at 3:30pm; D.R. Wagner and Dave Boles read for Sac. Poetry Alliance (Sacramento, 4pm); and Shelley Wong reads in Auburn for Silver Tongue Saturdays, 4pm. 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
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
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!
