—Poetry by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Dragons Courtesy of Public Domain
—Dragons Courtesy of Public Domain
IT’S RAINING AGAIN
The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.
She’s tried.
She’s really tried.
She’s wept tears
of frustration.
She’s wept tears
of anger.
She’s wept tears
of sadness
that flow from the mountains
to the sea.
It’s the vowels
she finds hard.
And the consonants.
And the mutations.
And the way it’s spoken form
changes
over the distance traveled
in the time it takes her
to make a small cloud
and a tiny puff of wind.
A tiny puff,
not enough to to raise the cloud
above the mountains.
So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.
Or blows in angry swirls.
And still
she tries.
She really tries.
She weeps tears
of frustration.
She weeps tears
of anger.
She weeps tears
of sadness.
Floods of tears.
Lakes.
Tears which fall
in cascades
from the mountains
The weather god doesn’t speak Welsh.
She’s tried.
She’s really tried.
She’s wept tears
of frustration.
She’s wept tears
of anger.
She’s wept tears
of sadness
that flow from the mountains
to the sea.
It’s the vowels
she finds hard.
And the consonants.
And the mutations.
And the way it’s spoken form
changes
over the distance traveled
in the time it takes her
to make a small cloud
and a tiny puff of wind.
A tiny puff,
not enough to to raise the cloud
above the mountains.
So it hangs in a sad, sullen mist.
Or blows in angry swirls.
And still
she tries.
She really tries.
She weeps tears
of frustration.
She weeps tears
of anger.
She weeps tears
of sadness.
Floods of tears.
Lakes.
Tears which fall
in cascades
from the mountains
to the sea.
A GREY PLACE?
This is a grey place,
there's no denying.
Grey slate, grey granite,
grey houses built of both.
And it rains a lot, there's no denying.
Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain
falling greyly from heavy misty clouds.
But when caught by a sunbeam
it makes glistening slides
shimmering across the slate
and falls in bright white tails
or snakes like silver
where the mountains leak it.
And spills heavily over rocks,
it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed
cascades catching rainbows as they crash
then spitting them back out
in a fine spray of colours.
And now there's no grey
in the dark blue, black sky
filled with gold and silver twinkles.
No grey at all in this place now,
there's no denying.
This is a grey place,
there's no denying.
Grey slate, grey granite,
grey houses built of both.
And it rains a lot, there's no denying.
Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain
falling greyly from heavy misty clouds.
But when caught by a sunbeam
it makes glistening slides
shimmering across the slate
and falls in bright white tails
or snakes like silver
where the mountains leak it.
And spills heavily over rocks,
it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed
cascades catching rainbows as they crash
then spitting them back out
in a fine spray of colours.
And now there's no grey
in the dark blue, black sky
filled with gold and silver twinkles.
No grey at all in this place now,
there's no denying.
(prev. pub. by Silver Birch Press
in Where I Live Series 2015)
CUSTARD CREAMS
It was a country guest house,
once a working farm.
The lady of the hose was brushing Lily’s hair.
“Lily doesn’t go out anymore,” she said,
“she refuses.”
She put down her brush
and gave Lily a custard cream
which was delicately eaten.
“I tempted her out for a walk
a couple of years ago.”
She waved the packet in explanation
of the source of temptation.
“We walked down the lane
and she was fine at first
and then a rabbit ran across.
She stopped and turned
and looked at me
with wild rolling eyes.
She would go no further
wouldn’t be tempted
so we turned.
She wanted to go home
but I tempted her,“ she waved the packet
“and we went further.
Then a bird flew across
and she stopped and turned
to look at me with wild rolling eyes.
She would go no further
wouldn’t be tempted.
So we turned
and went home.
She gave Lily a custard cream
which was delicately eaten.
Then she opened up her storeroom
to show me the piled up boxes of
custard creams,
floor to ceiling
custard creams.
“Lily won’t eat anything else now.
And well, they don’t go far.
A packet of custard creams,
it’s not much for a horse, you know!”
(prev. pub. in Little Old Lady Comedy,
Spring 2023)
WATERFALL
They put a fence by the waterfall
all along the high bank near the path.
It was ugly,
an eyesore
but it was supposed to make it safer
stop people climbing up the rocks at its side
and jumping in
though no one could remember an accident.
It didn’t work.
The children went under.
The adults went over.
It was more dangerous
as the approach was much narrower now
and slippery from the increased footfall
on the restricted area.
But at least
there was no accident
it was just ugly
an eyesore
until
someone took a saw to it
and threw the bits
into the water
to float away
down river.
They built it higher then
a bigger eyesore
and difficult for children
to climb over.
But they still do.
After all they’ve been doing it for centuries.
It’s probably in their genes
and no one can remember an accident.
(prev. pub. in Praxis Magazine, December 2018)
They put a fence by the waterfall
all along the high bank near the path.
It was ugly,
an eyesore
but it was supposed to make it safer
stop people climbing up the rocks at its side
and jumping in
though no one could remember an accident.
It didn’t work.
The children went under.
The adults went over.
It was more dangerous
as the approach was much narrower now
and slippery from the increased footfall
on the restricted area.
But at least
there was no accident
it was just ugly
an eyesore
until
someone took a saw to it
and threw the bits
into the water
to float away
down river.
They built it higher then
a bigger eyesore
and difficult for children
to climb over.
But they still do.
After all they’ve been doing it for centuries.
It’s probably in their genes
and no one can remember an accident.
(prev. pub. in Praxis Magazine, December 2018)
THE CRIMEA PASS
It was opened at the time of the Crimean War.
This does not seem to be a legend.
Though probably it was not built by Russian
prisoners who left their boots behind.
This does seem to be a legend.
After all this is North Wales and ours is the land
of legends
and we all know that the pub at the summit
served ale on Sunday lock-ins right up to the time
when the purple dragon was sent to burn it down
to nothing.
Only pine trees remain
miraculously unscathed
to mark the spot for ever.
And as for the dragon, he found a mate
with our native red and made happy families
in a slate cavern for many years.
But when the time was right
the still angry drinkers
raised their glasses
to cast a spell
which transformed all the dragons.
Changed them into the rhododendrons
which grow like pink and purple miracles,
breaths of dragon fire colouring the slate tips.
It’s something to ponder when you pass over
the Crimea in springtime.
(prev. pub. in Lothlorian Poetry Journal, 2/4/22)
ST GEORGE AND THE DRAGONS
A long time ago
St George killed all the dragons in England.
All of them,
the black ones,
the green ones
and the white.
He killed all the dragons in Sweden
and in the Middle East.
He killed all of them,
the black ones,
the green ones
and the white.
But the red dragons defeated him,
hid in the rainy Welsh mountains.
Leapt out and ambushed him.
Bent his sword with the heat
of their fire.
Ate up his horse,
so that he had to run away,
slipping and sliding over the wet rocks,
into the muddy dense wood
in fear.
Yes,
the red dragons defeated him
and left him hiding in his cave,
in fear.
So,
come for a walk with me.
This is the dragon’s country.
They are very shy and secretive these days,
even though St George is long gone
and they have nothing to fear.
Come for a walk with me
and I will show you dragons
when I find them.
I know that
it’s only a matter of time.
(prev. pub. in Lothlorian Poetry Journal, 1/21)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.
―R.A. Salvatore, Streams of Silver
___________________
—Medusa, welcoming Lynn White back for another round of fine poems, this time on the subject of her homeland, Wales, and its mighty dragons. Find Lynn at https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com AND/OR https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.
And here’s wishing our Jewish friends and SnakePals a happy Yom Kippur, which begins tonight.
". . . and I will show you dragons where I find them."
A reminder that
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
meets in Camino today, featuring
Wendy Patrice Williams and
Jennifer O’Neill Pickering.
For info about this and other
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.
Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
and find the date you want.
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!
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
meets in Camino today, featuring
Wendy Patrice Williams and
Jennifer O’Neill Pickering.
For info about this and other
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.
Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
and find the date you want.
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
grumbling giants
trudge across the sky;
each carries
a smoldering
black cloud
upon her back…
