—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—Then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
—Then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joyce Odam
BLACKBIRD PIE
The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
is she practicing dawn-song of a bird?
Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers?
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s season’s change, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
she’s been practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Now all around her chair, the leaf-rot gathers
for shining rings of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
She’s just practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky,
the Muse practicing dawn-song of a bird.
(prev. version pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/2/21)
The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
is she practicing dawn-song of a bird?
Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers?
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s season’s change, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
she’s been practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Now all around her chair, the leaf-rot gathers
for shining rings of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
She’s just practicing dawn-song of a bird.
Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky,
the Muse practicing dawn-song of a bird.
(prev. version pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/2/21)
BERRIES, LATE AUGUST
Summer slips away along the track that only runs
on Sundays. Ballast and ties hold things together
season after season. Pale pink blossoms
have given place to purple-black of berries
at their prime now. Pick them quick
before they’re gone—juicy with seeds that stick
between teeth, tiny seeds tough as rebirth.
Summer slips away along the track that only runs
on Sundays. Ballast and ties hold things together
season after season. Pale pink blossoms
have given place to purple-black of berries
at their prime now. Pick them quick
before they’re gone—juicy with seeds that stick
between teeth, tiny seeds tough as rebirth.
MAGIC’S WHERE YOU FIND IT
In the Fairgrounds is a little garden plot
with a sign that says Over Here Over There
Magic Could Be Anywhere, and a bunch of
colorful fake mushrooms, red, yellow, blue all
with white dots like rainbow ladybugs. Beside
the public restrooms was a lady not young
nor old, black dress with white dots, shopping
cart heaped high, bags hung off the sides—
full of clothes. Every fabric, color, texture,
pattern imaginable for any season of the year.
Thrift store on wheels? We exchanged
greetings and smiles—hers like sun in rain.
Is she a quilter? A peddler of apparel
for the homeless? Is she homeless? Good
day wishes. Sun and shade. I didn’t
ask where on earth she got her magic smile.
In the Fairgrounds is a little garden plot
with a sign that says Over Here Over There
Magic Could Be Anywhere, and a bunch of
colorful fake mushrooms, red, yellow, blue all
with white dots like rainbow ladybugs. Beside
the public restrooms was a lady not young
nor old, black dress with white dots, shopping
cart heaped high, bags hung off the sides—
full of clothes. Every fabric, color, texture,
pattern imaginable for any season of the year.
Thrift store on wheels? We exchanged
greetings and smiles—hers like sun in rain.
Is she a quilter? A peddler of apparel
for the homeless? Is she homeless? Good
day wishes. Sun and shade. I didn’t
ask where on earth she got her magic smile.
INSTEAD OF A CASTLE
We have no castles here, just the County complex
on a hill with its Veterans Memorial flags waving,
its web of paved pathways, stairways climbing
to balconies, rock walls protecting the southern
exposure—a steep field sloping down to freeway.
A break between rock walls allows a single
steep and narrow flight of rock steps down
to that vacant field, in summer sun-
burned dry and brittle.
My dog and I might descend that flight but why?
It only offers weedy stickers.
We have no castles here, just the County complex
on a hill with its Veterans Memorial flags waving,
its web of paved pathways, stairways climbing
to balconies, rock walls protecting the southern
exposure—a steep field sloping down to freeway.
A break between rock walls allows a single
steep and narrow flight of rock steps down
to that vacant field, in summer sun-
burned dry and brittle.
My dog and I might descend that flight but why?
It only offers weedy stickers.
ROADSIDE CASTAWAYS
So much trash,
where to start?
Pick it up,
make it art!
Table leg
made of oak
might tell tales
if it spoke.
A bottle,
rusty knife—
pair ‘em up,
a still life!
So much trash,
where to start?
Pick it up,
make it art!
Table leg
made of oak
might tell tales
if it spoke.
A bottle,
rusty knife—
pair ‘em up,
a still life!
SUMMER’S BOUGH
We were sitting in the wilderness
with our picnic lunch beneath the bough—
what kind of tree? I don’t recall its name—
the bough—which must have needed pruning,
maybe concern for a deficiency in the cambium?—
that bough simply gave way and fell on our
picnic—bread, wine, and the famous Rubaiyat—
as if Omar had sneezed, causing the bough
to slip and fall, and you the free verse
poet sprang up, thinking (no, you said quite
out loud) that’s what you get for writing
all those rhyming quatrains.
We were sitting in the wilderness
with our picnic lunch beneath the bough—
what kind of tree? I don’t recall its name—
the bough—which must have needed pruning,
maybe concern for a deficiency in the cambium?—
that bough simply gave way and fell on our
picnic—bread, wine, and the famous Rubaiyat—
as if Omar had sneezed, causing the bough
to slip and fall, and you the free verse
poet sprang up, thinking (no, you said quite
out loud) that’s what you get for writing
all those rhyming quatrains.
Today’s LittleNip:
DAWN WALK IN LIGHT RAIN
Fragrance of golden
weed-fields ready for harvest—
come, September, soon.
___________________
Big thank-yous to Taylor Graham for joining us this morning here in the Kitchen with such a fine telling of summer’s denouement: “As Summer Slips Away”. Forms she has used this week include a Ballade (“Blackbird Pie”); a Haiku (“Dawn Walk in Light Rain”); a Word-Can Poem (“Summer's Bough”); a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic last week (“Instead of a Castle”); and a Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire (“Roadside Castaways”). The Ballade and the Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.
For info about El Dorado County poetry events, past and future, go to Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/, or 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.
And now it’s time for…
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
DAWN WALK IN LIGHT RAIN
Fragrance of golden
weed-fields ready for harvest—
come, September, soon.
___________________
Big thank-yous to Taylor Graham for joining us this morning here in the Kitchen with such a fine telling of summer’s denouement: “As Summer Slips Away”. Forms she has used this week include a Ballade (“Blackbird Pie”); a Haiku (“Dawn Walk in Light Rain”); a Word-Can Poem (“Summer's Bough”); a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic last week (“Instead of a Castle”); and a Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire (“Roadside Castaways”). The Ballade and the Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.
For info about El Dorado County poetry events, past and future, go to Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/, or 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.
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
We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:
HOUSE OF CARDS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
We built this house
believing love would
turn back time
and we would meet
on rainy streets,
hold hands beneath
wet slickers.
Desert despair
dries out our talks,
each whisper
blows a card away
until we all fall down.
* * *
BARCHESTER TOWERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It’s nooks and crannies, fantasy,
the archway, turrets, crooked rooms,
a quirky, lamps upon the walls,
stirs bedtime stories, fairy tales;
mine’s Hansel, Gretel brought to mind.
Here’s hotchpotch, stages for each age,
an added quip through changing years,
the marker made and laid for each
new generation, stewardship,
each wing bequeathed by eldest son.
The outline silhouette of rooves
with garrets, spire and who knows what
but whatnots architectural,
it fascinates, invites us in,
suggests we enter for a spin.
With pink sky, bird flight, tree twigs, grass
as framework, this, a curio.
How many storeys counted, mount
foundations to the summit, top,
and maybe cellars set beneath?
A plumbline from the blue-green end
suggests inclined to slope degrees;
my name, assigned to novel build,
is Barchester, where towers abound,
and Slope acts, agency profound.
* * *
Here is a Sweetbriar from Joyce Odam:
HOUSE OF CARDS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
We built this house
believing love would
turn back time
and we would meet
on rainy streets,
hold hands beneath
wet slickers.
Desert despair
dries out our talks,
each whisper
blows a card away
until we all fall down.
* * *
BARCHESTER TOWERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It’s nooks and crannies, fantasy,
the archway, turrets, crooked rooms,
a quirky, lamps upon the walls,
stirs bedtime stories, fairy tales;
mine’s Hansel, Gretel brought to mind.
Here’s hotchpotch, stages for each age,
an added quip through changing years,
the marker made and laid for each
new generation, stewardship,
each wing bequeathed by eldest son.
The outline silhouette of rooves
with garrets, spire and who knows what
but whatnots architectural,
it fascinates, invites us in,
suggests we enter for a spin.
With pink sky, bird flight, tree twigs, grass
as framework, this, a curio.
How many storeys counted, mount
foundations to the summit, top,
and maybe cellars set beneath?
A plumbline from the blue-green end
suggests inclined to slope degrees;
my name, assigned to novel build,
is Barchester, where towers abound,
and Slope acts, agency profound.
* * *
Here is a Sweetbriar from Joyce Odam:
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
WHAT WE IMAGINE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
closing, like sand
shifting over
its patterns . . . like blue air
pulling the sky
along itself . . .
a flow from everywhere . . .
a gold humming—
dream or desert?
what is gathering there?
a far shining,
nonexistent,
dissolving as we stare
* * *
And here is an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth:
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
DRIFTWOOD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My scrap file filled with the stillborn,
that made a couplet, stanza, two,
but crept away, tail between legs,
like watered wine that drained away.
But in this new, recycling world,
should I lay bare what hungered soul—
and offer hibernating themes,
the may-be puns, haunt should-be lines,
those rhythms, rhymes that caught my pulse?
I gambled, that addiction steal,
with cherries, horses, roulette wheel,
the bouncing ball that jumps too far,
and even raffles in good cause,
would set me up, three pages least.
But chance and serendipity,
the happenstance on which rely
proved too much art, my naïve stance,
who never wagered, staked a thing.
And then I heard Paul Simon sing,
and heard the saint in his bedroom,
music’s goddess, Cecilia,
and knew his lyrics shamed my muse.
How difficult to excise verse,
extract the tooth that chewed so much;
use cold storage, a reduced font,
but just in case, like junk yard scrap,
its moment comes, spare sock proves pair.
___________________
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
My scrap file filled with the stillborn,
that made a couplet, stanza, two,
but crept away, tail between legs,
like watered wine that drained away.
But in this new, recycling world,
should I lay bare what hungered soul—
and offer hibernating themes,
the may-be puns, haunt should-be lines,
those rhythms, rhymes that caught my pulse?
I gambled, that addiction steal,
with cherries, horses, roulette wheel,
the bouncing ball that jumps too far,
and even raffles in good cause,
would set me up, three pages least.
But chance and serendipity,
the happenstance on which rely
proved too much art, my naïve stance,
who never wagered, staked a thing.
And then I heard Paul Simon sing,
and heard the saint in his bedroom,
music’s goddess, Cecilia,
and knew his lyrics shamed my muse.
How difficult to excise verse,
extract the tooth that chewed so much;
use cold storage, a reduced font,
but just in case, like junk yard scrap,
its moment comes, spare sock proves pair.
___________________
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!
•••Abstract/Sound Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/abstract-or-sound-poetry
•••AND/OR play around with letters:
•••Alphabet Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/alphabet-poetry-or-going-back-to-school
•••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 “Workshop”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Abstract/Sound Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/abstract-or-sound-poetry
•••Alphabet Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/alphabet-poetry-or-going-back-to-school
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ballade: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/ballade-poetic-forms
•••Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Sweetbriar (Viola Berg): https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#sweetbriar
•••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
____________________
—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
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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
There he goes again!
elderly cyclist
in a tattered straw hat~
There he goes again!
elderly cyclist
in a tattered straw hat~
