Moth Mullein
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Michael H. Brownstein
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Michael H. Brownstein
MOTH MULLEIN ON THE FRINGES
They look so fragile,
half a dozen white or yellow
lobed flowers on a tall, slender stalk,
living alongside the rails of a train
that runs on Sunday. On this swelter-
Tuesday in July, these flowers burst
full-sun on sand. How can they
stand, not drooping? Already,
walking the tracks this morning,
I seek shade. This flower’s ancestors
came from Eurasia, North Africa.
They like disturbed, dry places.
They’re called invasive, a noxious
weed. So delicately lovely.
They look so fragile,
half a dozen white or yellow
lobed flowers on a tall, slender stalk,
living alongside the rails of a train
that runs on Sunday. On this swelter-
Tuesday in July, these flowers burst
full-sun on sand. How can they
stand, not drooping? Already,
walking the tracks this morning,
I seek shade. This flower’s ancestors
came from Eurasia, North Africa.
They like disturbed, dry places.
They’re called invasive, a noxious
weed. So delicately lovely.
A HILL TO CLIMB
No real trailhead at the bottom,
no headstones for the mute graves marked
only by dead vines twining rusted iron stakes
for the host of pesthouse indigents buried
here. I keep climbing. Here’s the adit
to the now-dead mine gnawed into the hill
as if by dragon-gulps, the refuse spit out
in chips of quartz now radiant with sunrise.
And here are heaps of human trash
waiting to be hauled away. I’m startled
by a sign—don’t call it arrogant,
this fragile hope—carried here by some-
one from a once-upon-a-time home.
It reads: Make a Difference in the World.
No real trailhead at the bottom,
no headstones for the mute graves marked
only by dead vines twining rusted iron stakes
for the host of pesthouse indigents buried
here. I keep climbing. Here’s the adit
to the now-dead mine gnawed into the hill
as if by dragon-gulps, the refuse spit out
in chips of quartz now radiant with sunrise.
And here are heaps of human trash
waiting to be hauled away. I’m startled
by a sign—don’t call it arrogant,
this fragile hope—carried here by some-
one from a once-upon-a-time home.
It reads: Make a Difference in the World.
GOLDEN REVISITED
Feathers so bold in flight—quiet here, riffled
by ground-level breeze on the dozer’d edge
of chaparral where homeless seem most at home.
A bird quite dead in its feathers of rich
red-brown. Giant of a bird, judging by what’s left
of its spine. My dog showed me.
Golden Eagle, I think. Bird who flew just above
us on the two-lane climbing, as if to guide us
on my dog’s first trip to mountain-high,
years ago, a puppy. That flawed but perfect day,
fragile as memory, to see a Golden Eagle
so close, so untouchable.
Feathers so bold in flight—quiet here, riffled
by ground-level breeze on the dozer’d edge
of chaparral where homeless seem most at home.
A bird quite dead in its feathers of rich
red-brown. Giant of a bird, judging by what’s left
of its spine. My dog showed me.
Golden Eagle, I think. Bird who flew just above
us on the two-lane climbing, as if to guide us
on my dog’s first trip to mountain-high,
years ago, a puppy. That flawed but perfect day,
fragile as memory, to see a Golden Eagle
so close, so untouchable.
A SIDE-TRAIL
What secrets hide
alongside trails
that guide onward.
A neat small tent
pays no rent—it’s
not meant for rich.
The whisper-leaf
speaks of grief, joy,
our brief living.
What secrets hide
alongside trails
that guide onward.
A neat small tent
pays no rent—it’s
not meant for rich.
The whisper-leaf
speaks of grief, joy,
our brief living.
ALMOST WHERE?
His bike’s heavy, heavier still
to push dead weight up the hill
in such heat—will he ever reach the top?
Does he live in these homeless woods
with all a body’s needs and shoulds?
Right now his need is a drink of water.
Is there none? What do the trees drink
as this late sun begins to sink
and traffic goes speeding by, headed home?
THE MUSIC DIED
In the old-time tourist town where Time’s at bay,
I’d see a piano on the boardwalk—time to play!
Imagine unseen fingers on the keys, those tunes
that bring back memories urging Time to stay.
Now, chairs and tables set all along the row
for food and drink, or just for passing time of day.
What happened to the old spinet I would visit,
wondering what magic songs might Time allay?
Remember morning echoes of an evening past,
its bright tones lingering as if in time-delay.
So many things are gone now—the little train,
its rails excised—the constant drift of Time away.
This old poet haunts the boardwalk listening
for ghost chords—what music? Time won’t say.
In the old-time tourist town where Time’s at bay,
I’d see a piano on the boardwalk—time to play!
Imagine unseen fingers on the keys, those tunes
that bring back memories urging Time to stay.
Now, chairs and tables set all along the row
for food and drink, or just for passing time of day.
What happened to the old spinet I would visit,
wondering what magic songs might Time allay?
Remember morning echoes of an evening past,
its bright tones lingering as if in time-delay.
So many things are gone now—the little train,
its rails excised—the constant drift of Time away.
This old poet haunts the boardwalk listening
for ghost chords—what music? Time won’t say.
Today’s LittleNip:
FOOTHILL DREAMING
—Taylor Graham
This summer morning
I watch alabaster clouds
build ever higher
cliffs and towers, pinnacles
gracing the summit’s blue sky.
_______________________
Taylor Graham has brought us fragility today, our recent Seed of the Week, with moth mullein and hope and alabaster clouds. Thank you for all these, TG! Forms she has sent us this week include a Tanka (“Foothill Dreaming”); a Word-Can Poem (“A Hill to Climb”); a Than-Bauk (“A Side-Trail”); a Tripadi (“Almost Where?”); and a Ghazal Variation which is also a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic Photo last week (“The Music Died”). The Than-Bauk and the Tripadi were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.
There will be an Ekphrastic Poetry Writing Workshop from Lara Gularte in Placerville on this coming Weds., (7/26) at the Arts & Culture Switchboard Gallery, based on the art of Ameera Godwin. Space is limited, so please let Lara know if you would like to sign up (larag@aol.com/). Then on Sunday, July 30, Beverly Baranyo and J.C. Olander will read at Chateau Davell in Camino. For more info about El Dorado County poetry events, past and future, go to Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. And 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.
And now it’s time for…
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges— Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)
There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!
* * *
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo
This week we have responses to our Ekphrastic photo from Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:
YOUR PIANO IS READY, SIR
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Your piano is ready to mount,
Dear sir,
To bang out a playful tune,
Something that you know by heart—
There’s no play-sheets
There to follow.
Show us your state of musical art
In the way you play—
Notes you hold
And those you keep,
Although you’ve grown quite old,
Just like the piano’s keys.
Bang out a playful melody
To show us your spirit, free.
Let us know the growth of gold
Like Fall’s leaves from the trees.
Let them blow
Through your melody,
Thump base-notes with your thumb.
Let us know how a brave soul faces
His time greeting Kingdom-come.
* * *
UPRIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
His back a board, he leans at waist,
to scrutinize the keys.
His eyebrows meet, two shaggy mutts,
to contemplate a feast
of music not yet brought to sound.
His ears aflutter, fingers raised
to dance on blacks and whites,
the piano tuner takes a breath
before he starts to work.
* * *
YOUR FORTE?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
On parquet parked, light wood takes shade,
as if pretending it’s not there,
but how to hide a wheelie bin
which so few want, know how to play.
that’s had its day, save concert hall,
Joanna told, forever old.
Mine’s not been tuned for thirty years,
Germanic, black, family tank,
with inlaid lettering, old gold,
with umlauts, lit old candlesticks,
the keys top dressed in ivory,
fine dust collecting, knobbly bits.
Those ivories tickled no more,
save no one here, but I alone,
as thump out hymns of life, by ear,
kitbag rations, near eighty years;
our neighbour rang this week to say,
the window open, concert grand.
When Wesley’s done, shanties encore,
my oeuvre, songs sung at first school;
though as that boy we gathered round
as mother played and we all sang.
So we devised such joy ourselves
without device or screen in sight.
Propped up by Mozart, music stool,
despite the lessons of five years
I never mastered reading notes,
but, yet prefer the ear I use
for playing and hearing myself—
with tone deaf lonely over street.
I’ll scabbard forte, though pierced inside
that kids rejected its bequest—
for none will home it when I’m gone.
Of minor scale, that massive hulk,
its bulk in play, family tree,
and celebrating memory.
* * *
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Your piano is ready to mount,
Dear sir,
To bang out a playful tune,
Something that you know by heart—
There’s no play-sheets
There to follow.
Show us your state of musical art
In the way you play—
Notes you hold
And those you keep,
Although you’ve grown quite old,
Just like the piano’s keys.
Bang out a playful melody
To show us your spirit, free.
Let us know the growth of gold
Like Fall’s leaves from the trees.
Let them blow
Through your melody,
Thump base-notes with your thumb.
Let us know how a brave soul faces
His time greeting Kingdom-come.
* * *
UPRIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
His back a board, he leans at waist,
to scrutinize the keys.
His eyebrows meet, two shaggy mutts,
to contemplate a feast
of music not yet brought to sound.
His ears aflutter, fingers raised
to dance on blacks and whites,
the piano tuner takes a breath
before he starts to work.
* * *
YOUR FORTE?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
On parquet parked, light wood takes shade,
as if pretending it’s not there,
but how to hide a wheelie bin
which so few want, know how to play.
that’s had its day, save concert hall,
Joanna told, forever old.
Mine’s not been tuned for thirty years,
Germanic, black, family tank,
with inlaid lettering, old gold,
with umlauts, lit old candlesticks,
the keys top dressed in ivory,
fine dust collecting, knobbly bits.
Those ivories tickled no more,
save no one here, but I alone,
as thump out hymns of life, by ear,
kitbag rations, near eighty years;
our neighbour rang this week to say,
the window open, concert grand.
When Wesley’s done, shanties encore,
my oeuvre, songs sung at first school;
though as that boy we gathered round
as mother played and we all sang.
So we devised such joy ourselves
without device or screen in sight.
Propped up by Mozart, music stool,
despite the lessons of five years
I never mastered reading notes,
but, yet prefer the ear I use
for playing and hearing myself—
with tone deaf lonely over street.
I’ll scabbard forte, though pierced inside
that kids rejected its bequest—
for none will home it when I’m gone.
Of minor scale, that massive hulk,
its bulk in play, family tree,
and celebrating memory.
* * *
Keith Snow sends us a Fibonacci:
FORMING
—Keith Snow, Harrisburg, PAI
am
counting
the stresses
hoping for image
like seeing my mom in my dreams
* * *
Here is a Haiku Sequence by Michael H. Brownstein from Jefferson City, MO:
Here is a Haiku Sequence by Michael H. Brownstein from Jefferson City, MO:
rivers of air
within the north wind's breath
fog rushes away
Pageant of Weather
welcomes North Wind to compete—
frost angels applaud
North Wind raised her voice
through dales and dells—
canyons of leaf sing
let the north wind in
let it hug your soul
let it kiss your smile
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
* * *
And an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth:
within the north wind's breath
fog rushes away
Pageant of Weather
welcomes North Wind to compete—
frost angels applaud
North Wind raised her voice
through dales and dells—
canyons of leaf sing
let the north wind in
let it hug your soul
let it kiss your smile
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
* * *
And an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth:
DRAWN
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Freshwashed and fair the day there, here,
narcissus air, smell tulip, pair,
dawn scent down drown yesterday’s smell.
Shine pouring sun bores window bare,
through bathsud water, light to spare
for lathes, in planes of green but white,
cold brine ocean or bathtub drawn?
It cleaves the flow, flaws into jewel,
so cracks it to a brighter sight.
And spotlights, little, surface sun—
they dance, when gone, dance back again;
mirror wobble, ceiling height—
delicious bath, all round the room.
Loaned, alone, moment for me,
so bathing, I find poetry.
_____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
_____________________
TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Freshwashed and fair the day there, here,
narcissus air, smell tulip, pair,
dawn scent down drown yesterday’s smell.
Shine pouring sun bores window bare,
through bathsud water, light to spare
for lathes, in planes of green but white,
cold brine ocean or bathtub drawn?
It cleaves the flow, flaws into jewel,
so cracks it to a brighter sight.
And spotlights, little, surface sun—
they dance, when gone, dance back again;
mirror wobble, ceiling height—
delicious bath, all round the room.
Loaned, alone, moment for me,
so bathing, I find poetry.
_____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
_____________________
TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!
See what you can make of these challenge, and send it/them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Here is a form from the Welsh:
•••Toddaid Poems: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/toddaid-poetic-forms
•••AND/OR something Spanish (Arabic?):
•••Zejel: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/zejel-poetic-forms
•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.
•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “The Joys of Camping”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Fibonacci (Fib) poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/fibonacci-poetry-a-new-poetic-form
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal AND/OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal AND/OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Than-bauk: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/than-bauk-poetic-forms
•••Toddaid Poems: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/toddaid-poetic-forms
•••Tripadi: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/tripadi-poetic-forms
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
•••Zejel: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/zejel-poetic-forms
____________________
—Medusa
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal AND/OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal AND/OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Than-bauk: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/than-bauk-poetic-forms
•••Toddaid Poems: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/toddaid-poetic-forms
•••Tripadi: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/tripadi-poetic-forms
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
•••Zejel: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/zejel-poetic-forms
____________________
—Medusa
Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
* * *
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
* * *
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
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.
