Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
IMPORT
After “Cargoes” by John Masefield
This, the first picture book I heard,
those cargoes shipped around the globe,
a select few, so not exposed
to triangles, Bermuda, slaves,
for earth still small in empire days.
Yet curling tongue round unknown words,
and curlicues of terms unfurled
brought world’s exotic to my door,
its jewels, species, ivory,
endangered, robbed from natives chained.
The British dirty, coal stacked, smoke,
butt through from north where peasants lived,
pig-led, brittle, need upper lip,
cheapest chuckle by the compère,
and I’d thought this as all folk shared.
After “Cargoes” by John Masefield
This, the first picture book I heard,
those cargoes shipped around the globe,
a select few, so not exposed
to triangles, Bermuda, slaves,
for earth still small in empire days.
Yet curling tongue round unknown words,
and curlicues of terms unfurled
brought world’s exotic to my door,
its jewels, species, ivory,
endangered, robbed from natives chained.
The British dirty, coal stacked, smoke,
butt through from north where peasants lived,
pig-led, brittle, need upper lip,
cheapest chuckle by the compère,
and I’d thought this as all folk shared.
FATHER WEPT
After “Michael” by William Wordsworth
My rural, say, bucolic life,
was soon to end by leaving home,
for adolescent city brights,
yet knowing homework ill prepared
for hostel, training, underground,
and scenes unknown before that strife.
My peers were bored, Devonian,
for cider and the speedway track,
while I knew terrors of the night
would soon seduce and tempt, though wrack.
But parting gift that haunted, teared,
was Wordsworth’s ‘Michael’, for my year,
and which, alone, alerted ears
and sense, uncommon pedagogue;
a sheepfold that I dreamed back there,
some granite for my shifting sands,
and parents waiting prodigal.
BUCOLIC
After “The Deserted Village” by Oliver Goldsmith
Why is nostalgia so abused,
when recall stands as warning post
that what has gone bore worthwhile fruit
before the tide swept all aside?
That plodding plowman, with the shire—
sharing same elegiac mourn—
is now combined in landscape changed,
sheet tracts without a break applied;
new hedge funds felling ancient elms
and filling ditches, border lands
for barren productivity,
vein slags, for what seams undermined.
Efficiency looms over cott,
rotating crops mechanical,
and gleaning lost in history.
Where is the bonus jubilee
of earth returned, good stewardship,
an Eden ’fore the apple core?
IF ONLY…
After “If” by Rudyard Kipling
Stiff upper lip, this testing if,
an empire son, which never sets?
In sum, the character and grit
which takes it on the cheek and more,
for more than honour, head held high,
is service in reciprocate,
hot coals upon disloyal traits.
I would appreciate the more
if theory practised theatre,
and men of class abused the less
or journalists themselves lived so.
Lodge on the Square in ritual stance,
this alpha white cannot escape,
as gauntlet thrown from privilege.
Chivalric codes heard and ignored,
though Rudyard sketches second mile;
but blogs as little read as books,
unless an influence at large.
Our zeitgeist lived as much as his,
so why this thought, vox populi,
amongst the polls, tops readers’ choice?
Is it the sermonette acquired,
assurance, ours some godly path,
a lifeboat meant to save our souls?
If only we should rule the world.
After “If” by Rudyard Kipling
Stiff upper lip, this testing if,
an empire son, which never sets?
In sum, the character and grit
which takes it on the cheek and more,
for more than honour, head held high,
is service in reciprocate,
hot coals upon disloyal traits.
I would appreciate the more
if theory practised theatre,
and men of class abused the less
or journalists themselves lived so.
Lodge on the Square in ritual stance,
this alpha white cannot escape,
as gauntlet thrown from privilege.
Chivalric codes heard and ignored,
though Rudyard sketches second mile;
but blogs as little read as books,
unless an influence at large.
Our zeitgeist lived as much as his,
so why this thought, vox populi,
amongst the polls, tops readers’ choice?
Is it the sermonette acquired,
assurance, ours some godly path,
a lifeboat meant to save our souls?
If only we should rule the world.
PLEASURE COSTS
After “Leisure” by William Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beside the rocks,
And stare as long as fox at flocks.
No time to build hide in the glade
and watch descent, nuthatch displayed.
No time to find the dome above
stars in the brook as sprinkled love.
No time to learn as journeyman
that wonder scanned in wander’s span.
For nature’s gift, a privilege,
the sentence savage if not bridged.
It’s time, as stewards of the earth
to see, as care, preserving worth.
A poor life this is if need to dare,
And stare as long as fox at flocks.
No time to build hide in the glade
and watch descent, nuthatch displayed.
No time to find the dome above
stars in the brook as sprinkled love.
No time to learn as journeyman
that wonder scanned in wander’s span.
For nature’s gift, a privilege,
the sentence savage if not bridged.
It’s time, as stewards of the earth
to see, as care, preserving worth.
A poor life this is if need to dare,
yet find no time to stand, declare.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BITE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My meal means maelstrom in the mouth,
strange sense, secretions by the buds,
aromas acting as they should,
trigger to tingle under tongue,
sharp-shooting zest to meet the test,
those first incisors, firebrand taste,
tandoori chicken, bite of breast.
_____________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s feature as we slosh our way into February. The first five poems are from his series based on poetry written before 1928; and then we have “Bite”, his feast for the senses. Taste those snappy sounds, if you will!
_____________________
—Medusa
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BITE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My meal means maelstrom in the mouth,
strange sense, secretions by the buds,
aromas acting as they should,
trigger to tingle under tongue,
sharp-shooting zest to meet the test,
those first incisors, firebrand taste,
tandoori chicken, bite of breast.
_____________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s feature as we slosh our way into February. The first five poems are from his series based on poetry written before 1928; and then we have “Bite”, his feast for the senses. Taste those snappy sounds, if you will!
_____________________
—Medusa
A reminder that today is the deadline
for submissions to Sixteen Rivers Press's
book-length manuscripts contest;
and Poetry Night in Davis features
Alan Williamson and Jeanne Foster.
For info about these 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 keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
and Poetry Night in Davis features
Alan Williamson and Jeanne Foster.
For info about these 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 keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
