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Sunday, March 31, 2024

Easter Morning

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
EASTER MORNING
—A.R. Ammons (1926-2001)

I have a life that did not become,

that turned aside and stopped,

astonished:

I hold it in me like a pregnancy or

as on my lap a child

not to grow old but dwell on
 


it is to his grave I most

frequently return and return

to ask what is wrong, what was

wrong, to see it all by

the light of a different necessity

but the grave will not heal

and the child,

stirring, must share my grave

with me, an old man having

gotten by on what was left


 
when I go back to my home country in these

fresh far-away days, it’s convenient to visit

everybody, aunts and uncles, those who used to say,

look how he’s shooting up, and the

trinket aunts who always had a little

something in their pocketbooks, cinnamon bark

or a penny or nickel, and uncles who

were the rumored fathers of cousins

who whispered of them as of great, if

troubled, presences, and school
 


teachers, just about everybody older

(and some younger) collected in one place

waiting, particularly, but not for

me, mother and father there, too, and others

close, close as burrowing

under skin, all in the graveyard

assembled, done for, the world they

used to wield, have trouble and joy

in, gone
 


the child in me that could not become

was not ready for others to go,

to go on into change, blessings and

horrors, but stands there by the road

where the mishap occurred, crying out for

help, come and fix this or we

can’t get by, but the great ones who

were to return, they could not or did

not hear and went on in a flurry and

now, I say in the graveyard, here

lies the flurry, now it can’t come

back with help or helpful asides, now

we all buy the bitter

incompletions, pick up the knots of

horror, silently raving, and go on

crashing into empty ends not

completions, not rondures the fullness

has come into and spent itself from


 
I stand on the stump

of a child, whether myself

or my little brother who died, and

yell as far as I can, I cannot leave this place, for

for me it is the dearest and the worst,

it is life nearest to life which is

life lost: it is my place where

I must stand and fail,

calling attention with tears

to the branches not lofting

boughs into space, to the barren

air that holds the world that was my world


 
though the incompletions

(& completions) burn out

standing in the flash high-burn

momentary structure of ash, still it

is a picture-book, letter-perfect

Easter morning: I have been for a

walk: the wind is tranquil: the brook

works without flashing in an abundant

tranquility: the birds are lively with

voice: I saw something I had

never seen before: two great birds,

maybe eagles, blackwinged, whitenecked

and –headed, came from the south oaring

the great wings steadily; they went

directly over me, high up, and kept on

due north: but then one bird,

the one behind, veered a little to the

left and the other bird kept on seeming

not to notice for a minute: the first

began to circle as if looking for

something, coasting, resting its wings

on the down side of some of the circles:

the other bird came back and they both

circled, looking perhaps for a draft

they turned a few more times, possibly'

rising—at least, clearly resting—

then flew on falling into distance till

they broke across the local bush and

trees: it was a sight of bountiful

majesty and integrity: the having

patterns and routes, breaking

from them to explore other patterns or

better ways to routes, and then the

return: a dance sacred as the sap in

the trees, permanent in its descriptions

as the ripples round the brook’s

ripplestone: fresh as this particular

flood of burn breaking across us now

from the sun.

____________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA












 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For future 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!
 

 






















Saturday, March 30, 2024

Maelstrom

 —Poetry by Allison Grayhurst,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
MAELSTROM

In preference
instilling
the conditions
of terror
        Fly like a hen
across the field and back
to the barn
        Could there be another dream
worthy of oiling or is there just
inactivity everywhere causing
grid-lock, prolonging depression and time spent
under the rafters watching the game?
        I am somewhere identical to where I was
        before,
yet labouring under its own Academy—learning
the tricks, discerning the only essential tea
adequate to brew.
        There is the other side to this
and I will get there
without therapy or disintegration.
I will get there, intact, not a garment
soiled or torn.
 
 
 
 

INERTIA FOILED

       I could speak ugly
like a suicide weapon
inflating misery into
a ballooned and final action,
irrevocable.
       I could cry like I was begging—
one leg broken, both legs
unusable, cry in my rejection,
plead pity like a half-crushed
ant.
       I could hide in my comfortable spot,
refusing to move or to attempt a peering-out,
beyond
my visible understanding.
       I could stop and stop forever
but I can’t because
love is stirring, waking
ready to come down the stairs
and share a language, a trust
that overpowers my sluggish mind-flow,
tells me
       I could just receive
and dedicate my purpose
alone
to this sensation.
 
 
 


IN THE BLOODLINE

In the bloodline
like walls of lead
storing blockages like
clots and unlivable dilemmas,
the past is a monster
telling you what and what you don’t
deserve, beating on your brain
like on a dusty rug that will never
rid itself of mites no matter how hard
it is hit, will never release
its stains, can only be thrown out, over
the rail, into the dumpster.

In the vital present, uncompromised by thought
and expectations, nothing is determined,
no fortune teller to foretell what doesn’t yet exist.

Gravity is a false witness,
a trickster in the fold, folding this into that
into complex patterns void of significance,
except as patterns to follow, analyze, get lost in
as a desperate hope for control.

But the galaxy is not gravity,
is affectionate, unpredictable, purer
than understanding.
Bloodlines are straight lines
that nature abhors.

Ignore common enemies,
blow out the candles, blow,
arousing the birthing pulse
of a strange and glorious logic.
 
 
 
 

WHAT DO I BELONG TO?

I waited like a face
before a mirror
waiting for expression,
waiting for an answer to carry me through
until mealtime.

I washed the clothes, did all things
necessary to keep clean and fertile,
to rejuvenate and knead out the numbness
infiltrating one limb and another.

I asked like I was instructed to ask,
grazing at every opportunity, in spite
of the lack.

I moved against the shadows so they
wouldn’t consume, making every effort
not to harden, to curtail
this stasis that will turn to sickness and
turn again to death.

I am waiting for a reaping
in this favourite place
I call my own, so I can build upon,
have a steady flow to satiate all thirst,
have breathing room to flesh out dreams—
some prayed for, some unexpected.
 
 
 
 

PEEL

Orange peel
peel away my
heartless woes,
condemn again
the general rule
and allow the lotus
to bloom.

Remarkable day
that snatches away
the mystique from the mystics,
horseback rides to the summit
then descends at high velocity,
never losing ground or footing.

Power in my mind, I trust what I believe,
finally not fooled by the artificial
or displays of unquestioning confidence.
Finally my hope is tied to my faith.

I squeeze the fruit and smile in amazement
as I taste its intoxicating droplets,
let them pool in my mouth,
sensually reviving, loosen the grip
then drink.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

One should use common words to say uncommon things.

—Arthur Schopenhauer

__________________

Today we welcome Allison Grayhurst back to the Kitchen, coming down as she is from snowy Canada with her fine poems. Allison has been nominated for “Best of the Net” five times. She has over 1400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; see more of her work at www.allisongrayhurst.com/. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Allison, and don’t stay away so long next time!

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Allison Grayhurst



















For future 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!
 

 












 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, March 29, 2024

Flying Without Wings

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddler’s Friday, with poetry from
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Claire J. Baker, and Katy Brown
 
 
 
ALONG THE BIKE TRAIL, SHADY WOODS

A radiant voice this Sunday morning
from shadows in the woods. A feathery
tenor trill mated with boombox orchestra.
Who was singing? I stopped to listen—
a shame to leave such a voice for only birds
to hear. A song in Italian about return
of the swallow in spring. The song ended,
the singer bowed and turned away.
Oaks still listening, the sky March-clear—
did I imagine? There are no swallows here.
 
 
 
 

SKETCHED ON TRAIL-CREST

As if I’d never seen it before—
this angle of sun, these shades of green
emerging from dead, and everything
so high, sure-rooted. Warblers singing,
their tiny feet clasped around tightropes
of branch or twig, their low gravity-
center grounded, their lightness in flight.
 
 
 


CAMPSITE

What a waste of a landscape,
this pink sunset dreamscape
which you match with your passion-
pink van and camp chair.
Oh you’ll breathe the clean air
like the summit of fashion,

and drink your iced beverage
that gives you some leverage
for facing the starred dark
that shines on the water
(oh where’s the bug-swatter?)
while the wolves and coyotes bark.
 
 
 
 

OLD CHURCHYARD

Headstones and dead bones
confined within metal bars
as if they’d escape—
wild plum dances in white bloom
with no regard for fences.
 
 
 
 

HIGH MEADOW

    for Loki (2011-2024)

The image stays in my head,
a stain on memory I wouldn’t even try
to remove, fresh as a young dog gone now,
flying over sagebrush light as bees
from the hives, insistent as forget-me-not
twining my bootlaces. It evokes summer
on this blue-green spherical treasure
we call Earth—summer brief as springtime
into snow, the plague of years. Alive
in memory—dog meeting mountain,
flying without wings.
 
 
 


A SPIRAL CONE

Why do Fibonacci Numbers occur in pinecones?
—Victoria Li


Here’s
a
pine cone
along the
trail, resting on its
side, those brachts still intact; upper
brachts gnawed off by critters—squirrels, maybe
               deer, raccoons.

Such
a
feast in
a single
pine cone. And just look
around, giant cones of gray pine
everywhere littering the railroad grade—not litter!

They
feed
the wild
critters through
a hard cold winter.
I could collect the seedless cones
for fire starter in my wood stove, watch the flames  
                rising

in
this
very
manner, in
a Fibonacci
sequence like a work of art or
like a poem flickering comfort to heart and hearth.
 
 
 
 

Today’s LittleNip:

A tightrope trail

—Taylor Graham

tread terraced into hill
between woods
and railroad track

one-shoe wide
at mercy of weather.

__________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her poetry and photos today, and condolences for the loss of her fine canine pal, Loki. TG writes that Loki “was a good dog, partner, companion, ready to explore the world.” Of course she will be missed.

Our recent Seed of the Week was “Tightrope”, so watch for mentions of such a contraption in today’s poetry. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Forms TG has sent us this week include a Tanka (“Old Churchyard”); some Normative Syllabics (“Sketched on Trail-Crest”); a Cherita (“A tightrope trail”); some BushBallad Meter that is also a response to last week’s Ekphrastic photo [see below] (“Campsite”); a Word-Can Poem that is also an Ode or Epitaph for Loki (“High Meadow”); and a Fibonacci Sequence (“A Spiral Cone”). The BushBallad Meter was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week.

A note that the Cameron Park workshop, which normally would meet on Tuesday, April 2, was going to be cancelled because the library will be closed, but it has found a new home for the day at the Millwork Moonraker on Robin Lane in Cameron Park.
Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details. While you're there, check out the workshop on April 6 in Placerville: Explore Riparian Landscape Through Art, Poetry and Native Plants, and the Wakamatsu workshop coming up April 14. Poetry Month is a-poppin' in El Dorado County!  
 
For more news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry, or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area—not the least of which is Sacramento Poetry Center’s busy schedule of events to celebrate National Poetry Month coming up in April. Go to their website at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org and click on Poetry Month @ SPC for all the skinny.

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


This week, in addition to one from Taylor Graham (see above), we received Ekphrastic poems  from Nolcha Fox Joe Nolan, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


SOMEWHERE ELSE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m sitting next to babbling brook,
though what it prattles, I can’t tell.
My hearing aids are in the van.
My husband says the flowers
are all blooming, and
they smell so nice.
But allergies are blooming, too,
so I hold tissues to my nose.
I can’t bend down to pick the flowers.
Arthritis makes me achy-breaky.
Wind now chills me to the bone.
I left my sweater in the drawer.
I think I should be somewhere else.
Like home.

* * *

KINKAID-PSYCHEDELIA
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Someone took some LSD
Before painting up this poetry–
A scene of perfect harmony--
Beauty born of nature.

A pop-top
V-dub,
His and hers
Adirondack chairs
In which to dawdle
By a river
Fed by waterfall.

Picnic table
All well-set,
Shade-awning
Above the sliding door.

Where are the beautiful people
Needed to complete
This Kinkaid-psychedelia?

* * *

START WITH BLUE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

What is this gloss of fuzzy rocks,
blur filter, romance photo shock,
home comforts in fake fantasy?
Abundant blooms whose bugs removed,
this sterile plot, too colourful,
where insect beaks must search in vain.
That bird of prey glides low off course,
though not natural habitat,
but making mark, confusing cloud.
See frothy flow of turquoise stream,
the purple mountain,, verdant growth,
spring season, summer and the fall.
The dog unphased by downwind scents
of bolder deer, and even bears—
or senseless, laid low, drug induced?

Trim rainbow frills on cover sheet,
the lean to for the Volkswagen,
and lean to theme for picture look.
Flame pyramid of campfire build
without the need for heat, so reel,
a dream delivered in a van.
Both peach and puce for plastic chairs,
by conifers, deciduous,
the shapely leaves to aid our site.
Too many anchors in this frame,
unless expansive, final scale;
beginners’ challenge to complete.
These pieces, busy scenery,
straight edge, corner, fussy bit,
packed only in a jigsaw mix.
And where to start? Blue box for me,
unique the shade in palette range,
so look for standout in the field.

* * *

Here is an Ars Poetica about Ekphrastic prompts from Stephen Kingsnorth:


POETIC SYMBIOSIS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I hunger for ekphrastic prompt,
a call of nature, instinct romp,
rich lode of words, mined idioms,
associations, mind controlled.
Set image, imprint, opens store,
a gallery of fruits displayed,
a hazel twig, diviner’s rod,
releases spring held underground.

Is it that picture aids the terms,
a complement to understand?
Perhaps the image stirs the cause,
an inspiration lost before.
Maybe imagination brewed,
a story culled from history,
or fantasy of future called,
an episode, freed zeitgeist, told.

The enforced rest of Parkinson,
a muscle waste, but mindful wrest,
is that unsettled brain at work,
provokes the need, self-castigate?
So should I paste my own bill-post,
and prosecute the case myself,
and so dispose my ill-at-ease,
some comfort for myself at least?

* * *

Claire J. Baker has sent a clever Cinquain:
 
 
 —Cartoon Courtesy of 
Public Domain


EPITAPHISH
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Her heart
a piece of toast,
soul a bowl of warm milk.
Ageless, but often she was seen
dunking.


* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a Question Poem which is also a response to the recent SOW, “Tightrope”:
 
 
 


CLUELESS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

isn’t every new attempt a tightrope?

aren’t all questions enigmas?

are partnerships often conspiracies?

shouldn’t the path not taken be very clean?

does CRT explain the black hole in space?

why was I chosen to do someone else’s dirty work?

will carrying an A+ stamper and stamp pad raise my GPA?

why do men carry two testicles but no answers?

if I ask her to marry me, will she say repeat the question?

who said, I have but one lie to give to my country?


* * *

This is Carl’s response to our current SOW, “Spring Chickens”. He says it “might be a new form: Quatrains, 9-7-9-7, first and third lines rhyme”. It needs a name, CS. For now, I’ll call it Carl’s Spring Chickens:
 
 


SPRING CHICKEN
—Caschwa

you girls have certainly been busy
last week it was a tightrope
to make us insecure and dizzy
now it’s a spring, of all things

well I’m going to have to draw the line
Bungie jumping, not my style
lesser risks are acceptably fine
for this aging spring chicken

rode bicycles before helmets were
required, never got a scratch
rode the Pike’s wooden roller coaster
sure we would hit the ocean

proposed in the springtime, “I sure will!”
had four decades together
never ever fell like Jack and Jill
but sickness took her from me

motorcycle pushed the envelope
too far on one occasion
healed and happy, no loss of high hope
time to move on and relax

* * *

Carl has also sent us, as he puts it, “Quinzaines galore”:
 
 


ALL OF ME
—Caschwa

I’m all you will ever want
or hope to obtain
are you in?

today’s weather forecast showed
T-storms at noon time
where were they?

there’s no cash in my pocket
when I arrive home
who needs it?

I planted 5 or 6 bulbs
in the front garden
where’s the switch?

black baby buggy bumpers
can you repeat that
five times fast?

she sells sea shells down by the
sea shore, she sells sea
what I mean?

from the whole world’s a stage coach
to best SUV
where to, hon?

* * *

And here is a  Rannaigecht from Carl:
 
 
 


SPRINGTIME
—Caschwa

just by opening the door
a new season, fresh and live
sights, sounds, smells, tastes, majestic
see kinetic acorns dive


* * *

In memoriam of Taylor Graham’s dog, Loki, Katy Brown has sent us two poems which could be called Odes or Epitaphs. TG wrote one (see above), and these are Katy’s. And don’t forget that Katy and TG will be facilitating another Wakamatsu workshop on Sunday, April 14. See UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details. Here are Katy’s poems:
 
 
Cooling off in the sprinkler
—Photo by Katy Brown
 

Loki
 
was a good dog.
Curiosity attached to a nose.
Mischief in motion.
 
Loki
was a clever dog.
Meticulous tracker,
she followed the scent.
 
Loki
was a great dog.
Love in a fur coat,
she delighted in the world.
 
Loki    
was a tracking dog,
following scent into
the shadowed world.
 
Loki
was a wonderful dog.
She was heart in motion.
 
Loki    
was an irrepressible dog.
A joyful explorer, always alert.
 
Loki
was a singular dog.
There will never be another like her.


—Katy Brown, Davis, CA
 
 
 
—Photo by Taylor Graham

 
WALKING ALONE IN LION COUNTRY
—Katy Brown
 
It was easier with a dog, even an old tracking dog.
Loki had a keen sense of smell and
the protective spirit of a shepherd.
The fatal attack near Georgetown was just too close.
 
Walking alone in lion country, now that
Loki has crossed the rainbow bridge,
seems more perilous than before.
Even with a loud air horn and big staff.
 
The woman, walking alone, is no stranger
to the wild world.  She knows to look up
for potential predators on limbs in trees.
She knows to watch for snakes near the trail.
 
She appreciates the wildlife and vegetation
on these walks in the wilderness.
Before long, she will walk with a companion,
chosen for its experience and temperament.
 
Four eyes and ears, and one of them,
with a keen tracker’s nose and curiosity,
will make the walks more relaxing.
They will share many adventures.
 
Both of them, safer for the shared experience.
Both of them, smiling together on the trail.
The added danger of walking alone in lion country
—greatly reduced with a keen companion.

___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? 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.) Brush up on your Tanka:

•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka

•••AND/OR: Last Sunday, MK featured some Tan-Renga (short Renga) from Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/03/mystic-lovers.html/). Why don’t you and one of your poetry pals write one or more Rengas? If you write a Tanka with another poet, it becomes a Renga. One poet writes the first three lines (7-5-7), the second poet finishes the two other lines (7-7):

•••Renga: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/renga-poetic-forms

•••AND/OR: Let’s write some Rengas together! You write a two-line (7-7) response to my three and send it in to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. You write ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! Here—I’ll start:

blanket of yellow
fluff soon to become feathers
shrill sounds of spring chicks

•••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 “Spring Chickens”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••BushBallad Meter: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter
•••Carl’s Spring Chickens: Any number of Quatrains, 9-7-9-7, rhyme lines 1 and 3
•••Cinquain (Crapsey): 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.
•••Cherita: medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=cherita
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Epitaph: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/epitaph
•••Fibonacci (Fib) poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/fibonacci-poetry-a-new-poetic-form
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Quinzaine: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html
•••Rannaigecht: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rannaigecht-poetic-forms
•••Renga, Renga Chain: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/renga-poetic-forms
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••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
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy
of Public Domain



















 

A reminder that El Gigante presents
Christopher Buckley on Zoom tonight, 7pm.
For info about these and other
future 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!
 

 





















Thursday, March 28, 2024

31 Days On The Tip Of My Tongue [Nos. 16-31]

 —Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock,
Antioch, CA
 
 
16
O Magnum Mysterium


From the back of my mind  

to the corner of my eye 
the moon swims to the surface
And I climb ever so high

* * *


17
Of A Most Horrible Magic


For an audience that
hasn’t been born yet
I just pretend to care
look down my book-bent nose
and smile silently

* * *

18
Can you make out the words


Can you make out the words
that should catch in my teeth
spilled sentences
falling from my mouth
 
 
 
 no fog no flu not a flipping bit of work to do
 

19
Fiction


Out of reach memories play blind man’s bluff
The rain embroiders little blue stars all over the
rosemary bush
I can only wonder
Under a maiden moon


* * *


20
E Coupon


The rolling dark carries you toward morning
beggars

choosers

and the rest
a frenzied rightness


* * *


21
Dreams Decocted


Take heed
I was never a giant
 
 
 
 

22
As The Sparks Fly Upward


Flags of cloud unfurl toward sunrise
My boyhood bleeds
and never touches the ground


* * *

23
The Paraclete


This dream wasn’t meant for you
Moonlight puddled everywhere
Nothing but this pile of words
Maddening the night


* * *


24
My Blue-Bearded Heart Notwithstanding


A pyred orchard
the parting gift
of cherries we see
through memory’s eyes
 
 
 
 
Downtown


25
A Self-Addressed Envelope


Every stoplight sings a song to me
of who I once was
to tell me why my hair keeps catching fire


* * *


26
Compendia


I hold morning in my singing hands
Those clouds followed me all my yesterdays
The angels drew lots to decide which of us would
remember
 
 
 
 
Near Courtland


27
Chicharrones  and Licorice


Like a morris dancer doing the samba
my mind is given to wander
with a smirk on her lips


* * *


28
The Sweet Tang of Incipient Decay


I’ll weave a song with calloused tongue
to the tumult of butterfly and flower
and all the silence between our fingers


* * *

29
An Acquired Taste


the noughts
the crosses
live behind unseeing windows
the shooting stars

the broken people
 
 
 
Most Home


30
Almost One Of Those Moons


I dare not touch the ground
tumble down story upon story
with guttural noise and smeared ink


* * *

31
Dreams of God


Vainly trying to conjure
A man I was once
She banged out Two Timing Woman
The hammers covered in tinfoil

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.

—Stephen King

__________________

Today’s post is a continuation of yesterday’s from Robert Lee Haycock, and many thanks to him for these two days of poetry! The photos are ones I have gleaned from some of the first pictures Robert had posted in Medusa’s Kitchen back in 2013. Thanks, RLH, for 31 flavors of your days!

__________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 —Photo by Robert Lee Haycock










 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Molly Fisk 
will present a workshop
on Writing As Activism
in Nevada City today, 4pm.
For future 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!
 
"I can only wonder
under a maiden moon..."


 


















 
 

Wednesday, March 27, 2024

31 Days On The Tip Of My Tongue [Nos. 1-15]

 —Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock,
Antioch, CA
 
 
1
Tables of Content


These words do not fit
In a house made of bottles
She touched my shoulder
With sleep in her hand


* * *


2
Palimpsest


Shall I tell you a story of once or twice upon a time?
An excuse to burn things for beauty?
The children shout.
I hear lullabies. 


* * *


3
A High Sulking Fog
 

Limned upon a marbled page
Many footed lines feast
The foolscap's rough tooth
It galls the oaks to think it 
 

 

 
4
So Tell Me But Tell Me So 

 
Possessed of a tin ear

and a pornographic memory
I tried to unwrap a dream

but the word got out


* * *

5
listen to the morning open her new eyes


every single star in this sad sky
got tangled up in the trees last night
tripping down ill lit streets
on the tiptoes of my tongue


* * *

6
A Raucous Chorus


sings solfège
behind the cafetorium
and I hear no end of voices
 
 
 


7
Her Thousand Tongues


her thousand tongues beg me to come away
so I close my eyes and walk through walls
that we didn’t know were waiting


* * *


8
This is the tomb of the woodpecker that
was Zeus!


A landscape from a  

long-forgotten dream
whispers to the wheeling dark
There is a rabbit on the moon  

And an old man with a lantern


* * *

9
My elbows on the checkered oilcloth


remembering my first Orange Julius
a little moiré star that pointed to an adjacent
numerical scale
a song I didn’t know I had forgotten 
the taste of my last words
 
 
 
 
Enraptured
 

10
All These Houses We Thought Were Dreaming


a thousand times and then one more
street lamp dandelions in the fog
my thoughts wandered off the bus

a stop too soon


* * *

11
Shadow Puppets


She dances ‘til her hair’s aflame 
dreams a smile as she dies
cosseted by ghosts


* * *


12
I shaped a golem and brought him to life


I shaped a golem and brought him to life
many blustery years ago 
He never had an easy time of it
A little-known fact left a bad taste in his mouth
 
 
 
 High Chaparral

 

13
My Well-Tempered Radio


Look through my eyes
Bassoons and didgeridoos
I thought I knew the name of every thing


* * *

14
Talking Through My Hat


I didn’t see
these noisy roses
throw out the nines
a sixpence song to
hoard a windfall of shadow


* * *

15
from the green room of your dream


leaf-laden heads bent in prayer
to a big blue bag of precious nothings
listen to my flowers sing


__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If the portraits of our absent friends are pleasant to us, which renew our memory of them and relieve our regret for their absence by a false and empty consolation, how much more pleasant are letters [and poems] which bring us the written characters of the absent friend.
 
―Héloïse d'Argenteuil,
The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse

__________________


Joy in the Kitchen today as Prodigal Poet Robert Lee Haycock returns from who-knows-what journeys. This SnakePal first visited us in 2013 and was a regular contributor of poems and photos. But then… well… people drift away. But now he’s back, with new poems, and I have paired them with some of the first photos of his that were posted ‘way back when. Today we have numbers 1-15 of his “31 Days”, and tomorrow we’ll have numbers 16-31. Thanks, Robert Lee!

__________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Contra Loma
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock









 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For future 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!