Black Roses

 

Out of the Darkness
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

THE DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam

You have come with your gift of black roses
for my midnight joy. Now the house
is full of flowers that die after all,
no matter how I loved them.

All of my rooms are thick with their dying
and I am sad now. Flowers cannot
heal me, yet you keep bringing
these impossible black roses.

 
(prev. pub. in My Best Regret, Mini-Chap, 2008)

 

 

 

 Pretending To Be Real

 

THE AURA OF DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam

"Bird in silhouette against flare of light"
—Photo by James Ballard as seen in
Reflections On a Gift of Watermelon Pickle


O bird, in bird outline
O bird, in bird silhouette
O bird, in stark relief—
      that old thieved line

Around you, a rim of flared light
Behind you, a swirl of energy
Inside of you, the dark threat

Unreal or real, what
      has decided you?
Sharp beak and quiet eye—at rest,
      what has arrested you?

           …against swirl of energy
     …all light has suppressed in you
…self darkened to mere silhouette

A shadow-child might see you
      and think you tame.
A shadow-world might free you
      and release your name.
And I might rearrange the gathered
      instance of you to exclaim :

                 …reality is not true
         …imagination has its own view
 …no shape of fear is darker than you

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/21; 8/31/21; 

5/24/22)

 

 

 

 Fled

 

GRAPHITE #2
—Robin Gale Odam

iced coffee, a piece of empty paper

a candle flickers the dark morning,
little starvings—feeding the options

i saw the seabird in the sky above
the intersection—as in a pencil sketch,
there was only one

__________________

ANOTHER STRANGE CONFRONTATION :

an old woman in white crossing the road, all night—to the rural mailbox to check for mail—her lost brilliance of mind but a reflection now in the occasional headlights that pick her out of the ghostly darkness, giving the driver a fright—but not her—so intent on her one errand. Somewhere her history rewinds itself like a book she might write, that might be scholarly, or surreal. What letter does she need to reclaim herself—the road too wide for her slowness—her frailty no match for the oncoming car that might drive through her, a disheveled presence escaped from a dream, or from the mesmerized attention of the driver.

 

 

 

 The Book

 

THE EMPTY CORRIDOR
—Joyce Odam

After Les Derniers Secrets by Claude Lazar

How the light follows the line of the hallway in a
long perspective; how it widens past the three open
doors, each room with no occupant; how time is
not the meaning here, or the consideration.

It is the green tone of silence, the meticulous gold
shine on the floor and walls, the darkness that
blends. It is the curiosity. If the three doors close,
where will the light go?

The photograph on the left wall is the only clue,
but it is hidden, seen only at an angle. The open
rooms swallow the pale defining light from the hall.
The immaculate floor swallows the dust. The ceil-
ings press and expand, as if breathing.

The photograph tries to remember—tries to re-
gather this is a new place, and it is of the old. What
does it know of now? Now is myth.

The dim hallway is content with its soft ambience.
The green tone of silence deepens as it turns the
hour from one tenor to another.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/20/18; 8/23/22)

_________________

IN CROSS-HATCH DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam

Here is a man in a scratched-out opening,
a stick figure only—but there,

in a clump of despair. How is it
he has affected me so?

I care for him—
trapped in the crosshatch darkness.

I want the artist to release him—
captive to misery—unable

to back-out of the opening
or step forward into a positive dimension.

What do I recognize in him?
Is it myself—did I do this—give him

this hopeless suffering—why do I
linger at this page—as if only I can free him?

                                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/15/14; 3/29/16)

 

 

 

 Watching It

 

HE TENDS THE DYING WOMAN

He tends the dying woman, gives her a name, gives
her a vision to hang on to the fraying thread that is
her life, medicates the space between, holds up a
mirror, then a curtain, touches her shadow as she
dies, a breaking smile between them as he closes
her eyes. He names her Helen, or Wife, or Myster-
ious Future-Being out of Grave-Fog, out of love’s
lost light. He names her perfect who never was
perfect.

She ties him to her with a thread of painful light,
then a thread of darkness, weaving them intricately
and perfectly together until they knot. He sings into
himself, naming her name.

Eve, Eve, he sings, then weeps in a dry place which
he names silence, silence for her name to him, for
her importance to his effort. He never knew he was
so full of her life that she lays before him now like
an entrance. He fills his hands with hers but they
do not fit; they marvel away into her numbed sen-
sation, which is so real he cannot enter it.

 

 

 

 War Torn

 

INSOMNIA XIV
—Robin Gale Odam

The night summons me in the
amity of darkness—I breathe a
question into this peregrine
complexity of time: “What is it
like when I cross your mind?”

deep is collective
whenever I look for you
one more memory

                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, 1/17) 

 

 

 

 As Is

 

TO SAY MY DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam

I come with a heavy word now
for your lonely mouth

the kiss is heavy too
and made of weariness

each gift is broken first
to give you perfect sadness

I put my hand across your eyes
to say my darkness

I lay my fever
underneath your touch

I cry gray laughter
for your ashen echo

I bring you everything I am
and call it love

                        
(prev. pub. in Oregonian [Newspaper], 11/12/72 and

Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/27/13)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

then from deep of night
hunter’s moon with jupiter
red leaves on the ground

          —Robin Gale Odam

______________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have taken our Seed of the Week: Out of the Darkness to new heights (depths?) suitable for Halloween and for Día de los Muertos, and many thanks to them and to Joyce for today’s photos! Our new Seed of the Week is “Where Am I Going?” Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

And don’t let your own ghosts spring Out of the Darkness and getcha…

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!

 

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

cascading
rocks
of
anxiety—
what if
what if
what if . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goosebumps and The Greenman

  

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Rus Khomutoff, Shiva Neupane, Sayani Muhkerjee,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

DARK
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Death gathers darkness as a robe.
He tiptoes out of shadows.
With a sigh, he sits himself
at my red breakfast table.
You’re late again. I shake my head.
He nods most sheepishly.
I pour some dark roast in his cup.
He grins and drinks it up.
 

 

 

 

MOLDING MUCK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I saw that can and thought the worst—
corrupt uncovered, muck revealed,
but then, next day, as gloom descends,
‘out of the darkness’ looms—as Seed,
less of the Week as the whole year.

For now, as Fall, the leaves descend—
untidy mat, for brooms assumed,
smoke, bonfires leaving warmer globe,
a heady potion brewing there—
but worms in clay, leafmould so mold.

As English spells tell witch the word,
those nutrients promote rebirth,
so out of darkness spring is spawned—
the Greenman works his wonder-world,
and all from nature’s waste resolved.

Our harvest is not grain alone,
but later gifts of stubble blades,
that auxin, cutting petioles,
leech nitrate nodules out from roots,
in symbiotic party time.

A host recycled from the old,
just as our host, that Greenman told,
the feast passed over, death to life;
post-prandial, soiled starter served
in snowdrop, jasmine, crocus corm. 

 

 

 

 —Rus Khomutoff, New York

 

MAD
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

When we call someone
A madman
Are we not failing to understand?
Our perceptive erosion of mind
Is what causing the derailment of
Our epistemic alignment to truth. 

 

 

 

 

MY BIGGEST PET PEEVE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Once singled out to speak on a
subject, I composed my thoughts
and began speaking. So far, so
good. Then, out of the darkness,
some restless figure in the audience
stood up to interpose their own
thoughts, as if they were the one
singled out to speak.

I wanted so much to strangle them
by the neck like a police officer using
excessive force, and issue this
response via bullhorn:

“I am not your keyboard, where you
can casually at any time make edits
that would, in your opinion, improve
the presentation. So sit your ass
down and keep your big mouth shut!”

But the audience didn’t come to hear
that kind of talk, so I watered it down
a bit to the point where I merely said:

“Thank you. I’ll proceed when the
rude interruptions cease.” 

 

 

 

EVANDEVILISTS
—Caschwa

barefoot and pregnant
had worked pretty well
so they devised a plan
to expand that to include

frightened and wounded,
aimed to refine their skills
of keeping control over all
the people, no matter what
the Constitution specifies

just let those guns run amok
and leave people seriously
or mortally wounded, and
control is in our pocket!

 

 

 

 

BREATHE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

A little forever is nothing
Munching my own little
Sorrows
My infinity knows no
Nothing
Wealth is receptive
If you keep looking for
Tomorrowlands
You get hit with a new venture
Of polished newly molten
The city I wear
With my confident casino
My new era is nothing new
My own sorrows
Of newly built castles
I breathe thee.

 

 

 

 

SILENCE
—Sayani Mukherjee

Silence is growing
Amidst
Still landscapes
I'm still sharpening
My red knife of grimace
My bird flight
Across southern most
I'm learning how
When what is
My silence is growing
Amidst moisture and pain
With my marked
Signatures
Still landscapes
Evaporating its promised gleam
The Sun finally shows
Its name today
Is Silence. 

 

 

 

 

OBTAINING SUSTAINABILITY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

In the new world order
Everyone deserves a
Decent little condo
Of at least a hundred square-feet,
Replete with all the amenities
And a door mat to wipe your feet
Before you go in
And put on your slippers
So you won’t track dirt around
And a broom instead of a vacuum
Since it makes a horrible sound
And uses too much electricity
For which we burn fossil fuels,
For, Oh!, what a mess we’ve made—
We humans, we people, we fools. 

 

 

 

COVETOUS HEARTS
—Joe Nolan

Polarized speech
Runs cold and deep,
While covetous hearts
Desire what others keep.
Thus, there is no peace.

Demonize and other-ize
The others.
Keep unto your own,
But try to keep control
Of everyone around you,
Since you never know
Who your enemies are,
Until a cobra strikes,
Quickly, without remorse—
Just what you’d expect
From a cobra,
Of course,
Or even from a scorpion,
If you roll over on top of one
When you are fast asleep.

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

SHOPLIFTER
—Nolcha Fox

We catch her on camera. Two days before first
snow, she runs down Main Street, shaking trees.
She steals the red and yellow, leaves a trail of gold.
Frost follows in her footsteps. Goosebumps ruffle
icy feathers, honk at last full moon of fall.

 

 

 

 

_____________________

Thanks to today’s contributors, who have written on a variety of subjects—many of which have to do with our recent Seeds of the Week, such as Fear and Out of the Darkness. And Stephen Kingsnorth was “haunted” by last week’s photo of the Can of Worms, so he wrote an Ekphrastic poem about it that turned out to be, well, darned positive (watch for a feature by Stephen this coming Thursday, and check out yesterday's halloweenie feature by Nolcha Fox). All of these hauntings are seasonal, of course, for autumn and Halloween and politics and other types of gathering gloom. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week; hope will soon return!

Newcomer Rus Khomutoff writes that he is an experimental poet from New York who has published four chapbooks since 2015. His writing has appeared in Triplov, Bold Monkey, Ink Pantry & Egophobia. His personal blog is radiaworld.tumblr.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Rus, and don’t be a stranger!

NorCal poetry for this week begins with Sacramento Poetry Center’s Julia Vinograd tribute tonight, featuring Filmmaker Ken Paul Rosenthal with excerpts from his in-progress feature documentary film about Berkeley’s legendary street poet. 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.

 

And be careful—it's a jungle out there!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

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-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!

 

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

black cat among us!
where is that
sassy jay when
she’s really needed??

 

 

 

 

Out of Darkness

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox

First frost

reminds me leaves will drop
and brown and crunch and scatter,
that soon I’ll wrap my brittle bones
in fleece and wool and shivers,
that sidewalks will be coated ice
and I must watch my step,
that snow and ice will melt in spring
and bring us fruit and flowers.

 

 

 

 

This body is

a log, a chiseled
thing with wooden
wings that
cannot hover
over ponds,
a boat of timber,
waterlogged, that
cannot float,
abandoned
in the woods.

 

 

 

 

Plunged into

darkness, the streetlights
drink starlight, the moon
hides her face underneath
a black curtain, clock faces
are blank, the lamps
cast no shadow, the silence
is louder than my beating heart.

 

 

 

 

THE ROOM I FEAR

Poe would love a room like this,
with peril predetermined.
While some see books from floor to roof,
I see an earthquake burial.

 

 

 

WHISPERS

lace curtain lifts
and listens
to the whispers
of the wind.
Whispers waft
towards towels
hanging on the rack.
Towels tattle
all the secrets
spread by breezes
whisking through
the sunlit room.
Soapsuds lulled
to sleep by
gossip they heard
yesterday.

 

 

 

 

JELLY

So soft and so squishy,
he flavors his meal
with some salt and small skulls
of the unwitting victims
he lured from the depths
with a deli of sweetly
swift stings.

 

 

 

 

HAUNTING

You sing through the keyhole,
move curtains and lampshades
to dance to a tune I can only imagine.
I listen for words, but I only hear whispers that
promise much more than my poor ears can bear.
The piano keys move, but there’s nobody playing
the melodies haunting each room in the house.
Please show yourself, don’t be so coy,
I won’t hurt you. I only love music,
I want to applaud.

 

 

 

 

BLUR

Your death was a blur, you spinning
wildly around the borders
of my life.

 

 

 

 

WHAT CHANGED

Once I believed
I could do anything,
not knowing what
anything might be.
Anything
became nothing
interesting.
I did it anyway.
And now
I am nothing.
Interesting.

 

 

 

WHEN I AM DEAD

will I miss the rise and set
of sun that marked the
borders of my days?
Will I miss spring rain,
fall leaves that blow and hide
beneath the sparkling snow?
Will I need these pleasures,
or will I simply rest in
just not being, free of pain
and age and worries?
Will that be enough for me?

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Winter holds

a yellow leaf
between its bone-chilled fingers,
gifting it to starry night
as keepsake for tomorrow.

—Nolcha Fox

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her (somewhat) dark poems to mark this season of ghosts and goblins!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry of the Sierra Foothills
features Estela Victoria-Cordero
and Paul Aponte plus open mic at
Chateau Davell in Camino today, 2pm.
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-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!

 

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

Nolcha spins tales of
brittle bones, lamps
without shadow,
whispers of promise
singing through
the keyhole…

 

 

 

 

 

Shadows and Stars

 

—Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

W. Covina, CA
—Visuals by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

THE SKIES CRY

Suddenly, the skies cry for you and me.

A great storm comes down on our heads.

It fills us with its cold and wet tears.

I think it wants to drown us in its sorrow.
It wants to baptize us in its grief.
Have no doubt I tend to confabulate things.

The lone bird that flies overhead is a
messenger of rain. How far will it fly above
us before it disappears. I keep my eyes
on a corner of the sky where there are no
clouds. Soon it will no longer be raining.

Calm will wash over you and me. We will
not think twice about the rain. You and I
will go on our way under sunny skies.

 

READ THE CLOUDS 

 

When I have no book handy


I read the clouds.


 

They unfold like a map and

unleash a river of rain.

 

How vast they are as I walk


under their shadows.

How full they are before
they give birth to storms.

I read them and wonder if they
speak the language of water.

I am a fool for thinking such
thoughts about the clouds.

I do not feel ashamed, however,
as I try to make the sound of water.

 

BLANKET MY FLESH

I blanket my flesh with night.
It covers me from head to toe.
Up there are the moon and stars,
above where the planets exist.
I remain on the floor.

Sometimes I am in the sand
all covered up from head to toe.
Still as a solid rock.
I hear the laughs as I
bite my tongue.

 

TOTAL DARKNESS

I pray for sleeplessness to end
when my days grow heavy.
What else would you wish for?

I cannot stay awake for nonsense.
I need a break to escape it all.
I would love to sleep in total darkness.

The longer the darkness, the better.
I do not want to dream of real things.

Just shut off the lights, let night
come in total darkness. Let me sleep.

 

  

I AM AWKWARD

I am awkward.
Save yourself the time
when you try to guess
what I am thinking.

I do not know
myself where I am or
where I am going with
my thoughts most times.

I am awkward.
Still, I mean well, and
if you need to know, I
just want to live in peace.

I go inward.
I find a shell to keep
myself in when the world
starts dropping bombs.

 

  

 MY AFFLICTION

Your affection is my affliction.
I burn the earth because of you.
I do not lie down for a minute.
How can I when I am on a quest?

I do not give up despite the pitfalls.
It is love I seek earnestly.
I lose big at every roll of the dice.
All I want is to be with you.

I do not know from where love grows.
O Goddess of my heart, show yourself.
I have kissed the frog in the mirror.
What a sap I have been all these years.

I long for the days of innocence,
where I walked and talked as a child.
I knew nothing of love or lust.
The universe was taking a nap.

 

 

THIRST 

After Federico Garcia Lorca

 

Shadows fill my thirst


and stars fill my appetite.

Your lips fill my heart.

Your breath is the wind

 

I am guided by.


I have much thirst.

Without such thirst

I could have died.

The thirst for song
is still something
I can’t get my fill of,
and I want so much

for you to be the song
I sing, full of life
and love, a song
like a beautiful dream.

Leave the lyric behind.
Let silence be the chorus.
A song for the blind
in love, a mystery song.

A song from your breath,
the wind that guides me.
A song of joy that rests
in your heart and mine.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I know there is no straight road
No straight road in this world
Only a giant labyrinth
Of intersecting crossroads.

―Federico García Lorca

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and visuals!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center
presents a Spoken Word Poetry Workshop
for young people in Turlock today, 1pm.
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-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

scratching in
the dry, dusty dirt,
looking for hope.
Don’t worry—
rain will come
soon enough…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Trespassing!

 

—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 Claire J. Baker

 

 

 

RESTLESS

My legs are restless, they need to walk.
My dog leads the way—I trust her
to make discoveries. She takes the back alley
of strip-mall where I found a cross once—
plain metal implanted in rocky cutbank—
it makes one wonder.
But now there’s a No Trespass sign.
I guess we must walk the fancy storefronts
and miss the tapestry’s colorful backside.
Childhood pleasure, alley treasure—
discarded books of wallpaper patterns
for collage, carpet samples, cardboard boxes
spark a child’s imagination.
My legs are itchy. That sign—prickles
of suspicion, straitjacket façade
of conformity, fear. 

 

 

 

OCTOBER SIDEWALKS

Man with extra-wide 2-seater stroller
leaves no passing room.

Mini dog chooses crosswalk’s center
to do his doggy-do.

Man-bones & dog-bones on front-bumper seat—
DogBones says “let’s go!”

Crow flies high,
eluding my camera & bird-ID app.

No skeleton driven robo-sweeper
like in city store. 

 

 

 

 

THRILL RIDE

This river of pavement
defining edges between
cliff and drop-off
between rock and flame,
living trees torching
their own leaves dying,
the blacktop river
winding so snakily down
we can’t see our way ahead. 

 

 

 

 

THIRST IN DROUGHT

Rainclouds drift & hover like
a tease—may they get serious.

Storefront: ragged man’s asleep
against the water dispenser.

Four crows peck at now-empty
unopened can: sparkling water.

Small puddles in parking lot—
unseen wild birds are singing. 

 

 

 

 

CROSS IN THE GRAVEYARD

Lone and slanting with no marker stone—
stone for the departed—just a lone
cross at graveyard’s edge, a sign of loss—
loss of life, home, family? A cross
witnesses the dead without a name.
Name, birth, life, death with no witnesses? 

 

 

 

 

PIONEER CEMETERY

Grave
headstones
marking years

this child lived two years
above ground, more below
sleeping the ages of earth

as lichen engraves the stone. 

 

 

 

Out of the Darkness . . .

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

LOOK (OUT) 

—Taylor Graham

          after “Inset” by Claudine Granthem

It’s golden metal polished to a sheen,
folded, gathered, pleated. Every aspect
shines. It’s a box, a frame to captivate,
to capture the eye. Look closer. Is that
an actual living eye within, or
simply the mirror image of your own
curious eye? Be careful. Stand a few
paces back. There are golden traps inside.

___________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham for ushering us into Halloween with her talk of ghosts and graveyards! Forms she has used this week include a Blank Verse response to an Ekphrastic Photo [“Look (Out)”]; a Small Ghazal (“Thirst in Drought”); a Just 15s (“October Sidewalks”); a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic Photo last week (“Thrill Ride”); a Clarity Pyramid variation (“Pioneer Cemetery”); and a Mirror Sestet (“Cross in the Graveyard”). The Mirror Sestet and the Clarity Pyramid were last week’s Triple-F Challenges. TG’s variation on the Clarity Pyramid was that she didn’t capitalize the first line or use it as a title, and her last line is not a quotation.

Poetry up here in El Dorado County this week includes a Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills reading at Chateau Davell in Camino this Sunday, 2pm, featuring Estela Victoria

Cordero and Paul Aponte, plus open mic. For details about this events, and news about El Dorado County poetry, past (photos!) and future, see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. And for more news about NorCal poetry, click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/).

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 Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox, and Claire Baker:


SNAKE PASS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

(a notorious road pass in the Peak District, Derbyshire, UK)

Clear weaving wall worms through the leaves,
curve parallels, drive guiding lines,
descent then rise through russets, rock,
from fruitful boles, broad canopies
of cantaloupe and tangerine,
squash, apricot, spice ginger fire,
yam marmalade, rust marigold.

This finery, due fall of course,
an autumn ode, like Gracian urn,
skeletal bones, deciduous,
but marrow flowing, rings out change,
until new life springs up again,
the cycle known, bucolic grown,
in rustic style of classical.

Here sure, we know we go somewhere;
why else carve contour, hill-hug route—
yet strange, counter intuitive,
as straight way, English Roman road,
though crow-fly not the only bird
as swift and swallow testify
in twists and turns but getting there?

A breathing space for cleaner air,
no wonder trees fill lore of faiths
as turn the leaves of sacred texts,
Eden—Snake Pass—to Golgotha,
or Yggdrasil to Bodhi shade,
in bumblebee and butterscotch,
brandy punch, pumpkin, carrot juice.

* * *

LEDGE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The ledge at the edge of the road,
that space of second chances
for winding, wending,
careening cars,
indifference wedged
between mountain and chasm.

* * *

CALIFORNIA GIRLS (Double Cinquain)
               1970’s
—Claire J. Baker

Oakland
had a Snake Road
we teens would ride for thrills--
narrow, curvy, and steep. We sealed
our eyes,

missed all
climbing vines, and
mail boxes painted blue,
lovely homes: Snake Rd. lures us there.
Let’s go.

* * *

Claire has also sent us a Smith Sonnet:

 

 

 
ON COMMON GROUND  
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
                            
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul…
                           --Oliver Wendell Holmes

Though proudly born, we never wear a crown ---
no silver spoons or servants tend our needs,
no dress-up carriage rides to formal teas!
Our heads held high, we walk a common ground,

no fanfare heard. And yet our footsteps echo
of climbing, reaching alpine meadows, where
we claim fresh realms of gold in poppy petals,
patterned veins on aspen leaves and granite.

We work the earth on dirty hands and knees.
Then wash our spirits’ grimy coveralls.
And, finally, we sponge our plain lives clean,
our ideals spurring warm community.
                            
The seeds we sow have thrived in sun and rain
which proves our common lives are not in vain.

* * *

Here is a poem from Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) in which he plays with the whole idea of rhyming:

 

 

 

FRENCH BALLET
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(read aloud as if all
words ending in “et”
end-rhyme with
“Ballet”

chicken nugget
a bucket a day
toilet not far away

a summerset
at the end of May
finding a bullet
in a pile of hay

stacked a pallet
in an awkward way
cut the filet and
served on a tray

deep pile carpet
soft touch for hard play
a songbird duet,
lightly gay

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth, this one about reading that which will prompt your poetry:

 

 

SPIRIT LEVEL
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Cinder desert waits phoenix build,
temp vacant unmarked asphalt patch,
wildly seeded, higgeldy parked,
raised clouds dirt-dust by sweep of tyres.

Close by, confined consigned the place,
squeeze-wedged door, one thin knee ajar,
lined-white tar, where the ticket ghost
haunts, time burn, watch St. Elmo’s hours.

Words multi-storeyed, stanza built:
so is but one rôle, poeteers,
not lit-dim gross-slab brute pre-cast,
floor-find signage, designed confound.

Accessible, disabled lot,
the lift for all prepared explore -
remain street platform if content
or roof-top climb, for wider view.

Single, hear sounding word or phrase,
ambiguous hints, second floor,
the third suggests some questions posed,
parallels to unearth beyond.

Find level where your reading takes,
at concrete base, stretch-search the skies;
tabloid to broadsheet, find your style;
the best is spirit level verse.

___________________

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 challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Let’s write some flowers:

•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html

•••AND/OR, using Claire Baker’s poem as an example, how about a Smith Sonnet:

•••Smith Sonnet: 14 lines, 5-ft. (pentameter), unrhymed except for final couplet

•••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 “Out of the Darkness…”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Clarity Pyramid: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pyramid.html
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html
•••Just 15s: poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Mirror Sestet: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/mirrorsestet.html
•••Small Ghazal (Joyce Odam): Varies the Ghazal form by using short couplets
•••Smith Sonnet: 14 lines, 5-ft. (pentameter), unrhymed except for final couplet

____________________

—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
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Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
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at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
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LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

autumn shadows slide
long purple fingers
under the door…