—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
CRAZY PAVING
This garden path asquirm with worms;
while early birds have had their fill
these squirls and curlicues have work
in drawing dead towards their depths,
rot cradle for tap dancing roots.
tilth death as part of rise again.
Amongst moss-crevassed slabs, low-laid,
in fissures jigsawed, finger-tipped,
the very wings that wriggles speared
deposit seeds at channel’s end,
to join those parachuted, clock.
So lions’ teeth and groundsel swell,
a daisy, even buddleia
seed cling to sticky boring whorls;
but scraped from slime by grit speck trick,
they hide tight-lipped in graveyard still,
until their breakout time arrives.
And she, led up the garden path
sees necklace chain, first daisy bright
and plucks her jewel, where bee has been,
quite unaware of treasure map
that lies beneath in buried trove.
This garden path asquirm with worms;
while early birds have had their fill
these squirls and curlicues have work
in drawing dead towards their depths,
rot cradle for tap dancing roots.
tilth death as part of rise again.
Amongst moss-crevassed slabs, low-laid,
in fissures jigsawed, finger-tipped,
the very wings that wriggles speared
deposit seeds at channel’s end,
to join those parachuted, clock.
So lions’ teeth and groundsel swell,
a daisy, even buddleia
seed cling to sticky boring whorls;
but scraped from slime by grit speck trick,
they hide tight-lipped in graveyard still,
until their breakout time arrives.
And she, led up the garden path
sees necklace chain, first daisy bright
and plucks her jewel, where bee has been,
quite unaware of treasure map
that lies beneath in buried trove.
THE DETECTORISTS
Can it be that prot work ethic,
that I see readers work out, gym,
not sat back lounging in the chair
awaiting drinks tray to appear?
Since verse is interactive sport,
some give and take, translating form,
to yield, it’s grist to learning mill,
uncertainty, test erotemes?
Those penny dreadfuls, ditty rhymes,
or shanties to ensure raised sales,
a rip off, bodice ripper styles—
it’s profit, not the prophet’s call.
We read, we hear, reread again,
dig deep, as arch and anth our site,
uncover layers, hidden sight,
detectorists set searching ground.
And should homework prove onerous,
beneath our standing, not our class,
we let the grass grow under us,
and treasure trove stays undisturbed.
Can it be that prot work ethic,
that I see readers work out, gym,
not sat back lounging in the chair
awaiting drinks tray to appear?
Since verse is interactive sport,
some give and take, translating form,
to yield, it’s grist to learning mill,
uncertainty, test erotemes?
Those penny dreadfuls, ditty rhymes,
or shanties to ensure raised sales,
a rip off, bodice ripper styles—
it’s profit, not the prophet’s call.
We read, we hear, reread again,
dig deep, as arch and anth our site,
uncover layers, hidden sight,
detectorists set searching ground.
And should homework prove onerous,
beneath our standing, not our class,
we let the grass grow under us,
and treasure trove stays undisturbed.
CROSS CURRENTS
The ways of water, bubble flap,
rare reflection, pool of glass,
is it greeting, wave farewell,
rapids, whirlpool, H2O,
eddy, vortex, maelstrom pull?
Joined-up writing in the past,
rolled up, scrolled up billet-doux,
tied, pink ribbon in a bow,
to and fro from message passed,
corresponding to the last.
Word games warped by curlicues,
closed with kisses in a row,
X—a letter from yesterday,
graphite mark, axis of love,
ballot spoiled, but poll for show.
His message gushing, rush of pulse,
spouts of passion, showers on cue,
currents crossed with undertow,
stream of conscience next his style,
filling reservoir where mired.
Signoff, moniker of hugs,
scented paper, pheromones,
all mixed up, emotions weighed,
anger stamped as all wrapped up,
frank, a few years too late, post.
The ways of water, bubble flap,
rare reflection, pool of glass,
is it greeting, wave farewell,
rapids, whirlpool, H2O,
eddy, vortex, maelstrom pull?
Joined-up writing in the past,
rolled up, scrolled up billet-doux,
tied, pink ribbon in a bow,
to and fro from message passed,
corresponding to the last.
Word games warped by curlicues,
closed with kisses in a row,
X—a letter from yesterday,
graphite mark, axis of love,
ballot spoiled, but poll for show.
His message gushing, rush of pulse,
spouts of passion, showers on cue,
currents crossed with undertow,
stream of conscience next his style,
filling reservoir where mired.
Signoff, moniker of hugs,
scented paper, pheromones,
all mixed up, emotions weighed,
anger stamped as all wrapped up,
frank, a few years too late, post.
CONCEIT
After “The Flea” by John Donne
What a device to use conceit,
Dean of the church, but first deceit,
law student who was learning wiles,
seductive words, half rhyme shown base.
Case files, false arguments deployed,
as metaphysical conjoins
the two, with flea, in trinity—
all spiritual and physical
to justify man, virgin, flea.
The lawyer’s flaws, his arguments,
crude, lewd taboos, misogyny,
even ekphrastic in its day,
the printer’s ‘s’ resembling ‘f’,
but who’s the sucker in this play?
Who was this Donne; what did he do?
So glad that she had squashed the flea,
but petit mort, so whose to tell?
SHELVED
Why did I reach back, heartfelt search,
my boyhood breaks in grandma’s home,
those playful trips to park, the creek,
our sibling trips till tea called home?
The kitchen dinge, well pump still sink,
a parlour, unknown what its use,
a chain-pull cistern, frosted glass,
and love unbounded, known in full.
Found paradise in pebbled beach
’mongst jellyfish and stub end toes,
jam-sanded sandwich, bucket loo,
Aladdin smells, beach hut review.
But though I checked, confirmed the rules,
before I delved, revealed the horde;
was disallowed, not living there,
my precious roots of learning shelved.
Of course, I’m sad; though glad I wrote,
recovered joys of sixty past,
but now in limbo, story told,
no ears to hear, no eyes unfold,
so none will know my early thrill
of grandma simply being there.
TRUTH TO TELL?
When care suggests to share at fault,
the choice tectonic, implicate,
but to protect is covenant,
though even nightmare in effect.
It’s telling, taking toll by tales,
non-fiction, biographical,
but stock-take, can those shares have worth,
when all cashed in and crash results?
Uneasy case, not cut and shut,
accusative not what about,
to be a complement itself,
but truth to tell may not be whole.
To leave a hole, holistic rite,
relate it all, call misty eyes
and cloud where fog should be retained—
no mystery, best just unsaid.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HIVES
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Who says the monk cilice shirt,
hair of sackcloth, penance ash,
cannot be simply fleas at work,
lashes, stripes, the welts of bites,
or even hives, bee-keeping work?
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today! Flea poems are a nod to his recent spate of such, as he responded to a poem, "Fleas and Their Trappings” (MK, 8/21/23) by Joe Nolan of Stockton, CA.
“…or even hives, bee-keeping work?”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis
features Nancy Gonzalez St. Claire and
Linda Jackson Collins tonight, 7pm.
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.
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!
features Nancy Gonzalez St. Claire and
Linda Jackson Collins tonight, 7pm.
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.
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!
ants in the kitchen
still leave that lazy
grasshopper
fiddling in the dust . . .