Knitting The World Together

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Steven Bruce, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Visual Poetry by Robert Fleming
—Tree Illustration by Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Steven Bruce,
and Joe Nolan 

HIDDEN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Somewhere unbeknownst to man,
is forest hidden, untouched, wild.
Roots that knit the world together,
Leaves that paint the black of night.
Somewhere, something, bigger
than our tiny egos can envision,
somewhere that will outlast
all the damage we inflict.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

FOREST TIMBRE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Our arboretum, monument,
where folks recall the dead of war,
so many fallen, leaf on leaf,
consigned to earth, the world of worms.
There counterintuitive, dun
becomes burnt umber land, ground-scaped,
rich humus for the sapling root,
new life for old, continuous.

Pinetum for the conifers
from northern climes where Christmas grown,
to Lebanon’s Bsharri trees,
both signs of God in branched out faith
as Bodhi in the Buddhist way,
Yggdrasil for the Nordic strains.

Is this the privilege of trees,
as Eden to Golgotha, more,
to take the space in legend, lore,
from hourglass, route to canopy,
with mycorrhiza web on call?
Take tump or clump where bark is heard—
as chopped, spokeshaved or pecked, beak, bill—
there’s carbon storage on the hill.

That whipping post, those stocks, witch chair,
were cradle, marriage bed before,
and all things hewn for infant care—
indeed family tree carved out;
what may be harvest of our grain—
the nurtured life or deathbed knell?

 

 

 

Harvesting Tools 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

HARVESTING THE GRAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A treasure chest, still silver shine,
tools bright, though handles manicured
by leathered palms, patina years,
now pegged, clipped, hung in craftsman’s den;
from blade, spokeshave, to chisel grooved,
for furrow hew or plane and lathe,         
this vice clamp locks the sacred space,
that horde where bored cannot be found,
the artisan’s trove, unmoved, set square.

Paraphernalia screwed down,
with awls and all to punch their weight
through hide where seek the buckle bite—
this is the workshop for the grate,
sandpaper gauge to be applied.
Here sons ply wood with hammered nails—
learn cursed shrieks where thumbs intervene—
learn feel for trees by timber yards,
a metric for their carpentry.

As lads run rings and harvest grain,
know knots, as buff what can be done,
they learn to work with, journeymen,
and not to fight relationship,
mortise and tenon joined as one.
Bemoan claimed signs of fading skills,
but while there’s canopy, concern,
that bole of life outgrows the stump,
those trees present salvation yet.

 

 

 

Gilliat Struggles with the Giant Octopus

—Painting by Gustave Doré

 

SLIGHT
—Steven Bruce, Barcelona, Spain

Out of their tiny mouths,
it comes, slight and salty,

a swirl of wearisome words,

which are nothing
but a sweeping small swell
over the stilled Kraken’s papillae.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FOUR VISUAL POEMS
—Robert Fleming, Lewes, Delaware

 

 

Apollo 11 in 1969 discovers pizza

 

Moon crust pizza causes howling

Pizza with moon peppers causes jealousy

 

Pizza with mushrooms is a narcotic

 

_____________________

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

GO YE 4TH
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Go ye 1st and
incriminate
the mime

Go ye 2nd and
illuminate
the Sky

Go ye 3rd and
dominate
the show

Go ye 4th and
disseminate
the Estate

Go ye 5th and
prevaricate
a tale

Go ye 6th and
conglomerate
at Broadway

Go ye 7th and
exaggerate
the inning

Go ye 8th and
humiliate
Pluto

Go ye 9th and
detonate
a Grand Slam

Go ye 10th and
decorate
perfection

Go ye 11th and
calculate
the last hour

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

BACKWARDS
—Caschwa

she said she was fire
so he brought out the
fire extinguisher
to extinguish her

he said no woman could
ever put him in his place
so she dropped him
down a manhole

if only arians knew what
antidisestablish
meant

it doesn’t work to play
a grand finale
on a spinet

couldn’t speak French
so I called my
derailleur
a ten-speed

once you admit that you’ve
been there and done that
they’ll throw the book
at you

I swallow pills to help my health
and to enrich
Big Pharma’s
wealth 

—Public Domain Cartoon 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WOE IS ME
—Caschwa

I’ll just woeander
along the winding Creekside
in the early dawn

humming woelodic
responses to the bird calls
in the forest trees

munching sliced woelon
for endurance and good strength
it is a long hike

my woemory fails
to recall where I started
hope the end is soon

oh woercy, woercy
there’s a deer hiding thither
we fear each other

and stay far apart
to remain off the woenu
together in peace
 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AT THE ORGANIC RESTAURANT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Would you like your
Pseudo-organic
Compost-pile
Fake chicken
Leafy green salad
Sprinkled with
Lipid-covered
Nano-particles
To re-set your
Operating system
Or not?

You have choices,
You know?
It’s still a free society.

We’re not locking people down
Like 2021
And shoving this stuff
Down their throats.

That will come
Sometime later, maybe,
When the next, tragic,
Synthroid micro-predator
Is released into your genome
By mandated injection.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Be seasonal, ethical, and gentle.

—Fennel Hudson, Traditional Angling: Fennel’s Journal No. 6

__________________

Welcome to another week of Medusa’s Kitchen, and thanks to today’s contributors for helping us celebrate our Seed of the Week (in honor of last Friday’s Arbor Day), Trees—among, of course, other subjects from far and wide. 

 

This coming Thursday is the annual Big Day Of Giving. Go to BigDayOfGiving.org to find out how to make a donation to your favorite non-profit.

Swan Scythe Press is accepting manuscripts for its 2024 chapbook contest through June 15th (postmark). Any living poet writing in English is eligible to submit. The winning manuscript will be published in a 6" x 9" format, perfect-bound with full-color cover. The contest winner will receive 25 copies of the book and a prize of $200. Info: go to submittable at www.swanscythepress.com/. 

And this coming Wednesday is the deadline for the annual anthology, Voices, from Cold River Press. For info about that 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. National Poetry Month will end that day, too, but that doesn’t mean NorCal poetry events will end—there’s plenty more to come! So keep an eye on that link for all that fun and poetry frolic in the future!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Goodnight, Moon...

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will present Sarah Menefee and
Jim Normington tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this 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!

 

 

Meant To Be A Dreamer

 —Poetry, Artwork and Photos by
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA

LOS ANGELES WEDDING

Wind marries rain
on the avenue 

on the corner across
the street where
evening and ice split up
and went down
running into the ground.

It was just a wedding
and no ring.
It was over
by rush hour.

In this city
I have seen many things.
The poet in me

believes this is paradise.

 

 

 

 

THE CROWS SING

I hear the crows sing.
Their song stretches
past the branches and
trees. How am I to tell
them, I am trying to
sleep? The night was

long. Let me dream as
I lay in my bed. Is it
wrong to tell the crows
to stop their song? I
need a little sleep. I
need a lot of dreams.

But the crows do not
stop and I just cannot
sleep now. I think I was
meant to be a dreamer.
But no one believes me.

 

 

 

I COME TO YOU

I come to you
with a heart raised
in winter and
a bird for you
on each finger.
They cannot fly
but I find their
songs whimsical
even in flight
far from their nests.
I come to you
with open arms
and an open
heart. The frost is
thawing and these birds
are singing new
songs as winter
gives way to spring.

 

 

 

 
 

NIGHTBIRDS

Nightbirds are the ghosts
in the shrubbery. We hear
the hollering like La Llorona
with voices that are music
for the dead. I see them 

flying out of the bushes
and flying back in. They
seem to be on the hunt
for lonesome prey.
But I am often wrong in

my guesses. In the orange
tree the nightbirds make
their nests. The branches
are thin and break. A blue
moon shines above as

the nightbirds take off
singing. There is something
dark and sinister in their
harmonies and black wings.
Their songs burst apart

in deep sorrow. Am I
sky high, hallucinating?
Am I sky high, like the one
night at the bar where
I had to leave my car?
I followed a comet home.
I could not find my street.

 

 

 

 

BOUQUET
After Pedro Mir

I imagine your
words a bouquet
of roses nourishing
the birds and bees of spring.
They fill me with warmth
from my head to my belly.
My blood circulates.
Your words are oxygen.
I feel them in my teeth.
They are the nutrients
and my salvation.
They take out the salt
from my wounds.
What can I give in return?
My heart?
My love?
My time?

Anything you want,
and anything you need,
a bouquet of roses
to acknowledge your importance.
You have saved me
from death without love.

 

 

 

 

KEEP PUSHING FORWARD

Why did the black cat cross my path?
Why did the black coffee burn my lip?
I have grown not to believe in bad luck.
The hurricane will come whether
I am in Florida or not. I flip the page of
my story and keep pushing forward
until I cannot go forward anymore.
My hand falls asleep when I sleep.
It goes too limp to hold a hammer.

In my dreams there is no talk of politics
or religion. I am just a child that plays
the games I no longer play. I do not
get nervous when my dream girl talks
to me. We kick the soccer ball back
and forth until the dream is over.
We go to a concert in another dream.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BEHIND THE WALL
—Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

Blackbirds walk
without shoes.
Between blades of
grass, they
leave slight
imprints, which
only the
most acute
eye can see.

______________________

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

 

 

 

 —Photo by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today is a busy day
in NorCal poetry, starting at 10am
with the Arts And Nature Festival in
Georgetown; First Church of Poetry at noon
in Sacramento; then a conversation
between Juan Felipe and Maceo Montoya
and Terezita Romo at 1pm at
Sacramento City College;
Voices of JUST-Is in Sacramento
at 4pm; Thompson Peak Writers’ Workshop
featuring Lara Gularte, Dianna Henning,
 and June Sanders in Janesville, 4pm;
and LabRats Music & Poetry Jam
tonight in Sacramento, 8pm.
For more info about these and other
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!

 

LittleSnake’s version of
L.A. Wedding

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remaining Invisible

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein,
Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

HOW TO REMAIN INVISIBLE WHEN
THE GREAT STORM FALLS
(Jefferson City, MO, tornado, 11:40 PM,
May 22nd/23rd, 2019)

Two days later you navigate the ruts in the road,
fallen trees, torn roofs, swinging wires, broken
poles
to a house at the end of a broken street and a
gravel path,
up the steps of a porch still strong, an electric box
dangling,
no windows broken, branches and car parts a picture
frame.
When the door opens, heat rushes outside. A frail
woman
at the door. Yes, she says. On her kitchen table,
a melting ice-cream carton, bags of leaking vegetables,
the soiled odor of spoiled milk. Come in, she says.
No electricity, a water pipe maligned, gas turned off.
All around you, every house has a sign—you can
stay or
you must vacate. There is no sign on her front door.
You’re the first people I’ve seen in three days. Is it
safe?
We have food, you tell her, and water. One of us
can remain with you. We’ll see if we cannot get
you help.
And then the wind of the tornado slips from her.
Her body rocks, then shivers, one hand goes to her
face.
Sorry, she says, I can’t help it and she cries and cries.

 

 

 

 

FATHER

I always thought you would outlive me
Lifting heavy boxes past the age of seventy,
Carrying them fifty feet without rest
As if you were white water riding a crest
Of a wave digging talons into sand—
You were always the one I could count on to stand
As my corner man in the boxing ring
Or tell me a lie when I was asked to sing
At this function or that, knowing my throat
Was stale bread, textured oat.
Yet now I find you tied to machines
Calculating strokes of your heart on reams
Cascading past the nurse’s station in intensive care.
I left work early wondering if I dare
Peek in to see you beyond the open door.
You smile, plant heavy white stocking feet to the
floor:
I’m OK, you tell me, my heart was racing,
And you move your finger to your chest as if tracing
A child’s picture shaded with red
An intricate design with a loose thread.

 

 

 

 

AN AFFAIR WITH LOVE

Now that everything is over,
The speed bump, the crack in concrete,
A chapbook by Steven Schletor
Open to pages four and five
Waving its torn hands in the wind.
When it rains, when it snows,
After the hail, after the heavy sleet,
After the weather breaks to a drizzle,
The staples bend and rust and break,
But this is nothing. Water has a way
With cardboard and paper, rock
And sandstone, love and ink.

 

 

 

 
 
ERRANDS AND OTHER THINGS
OCCUPY MY TIME

and now I look through my list of poems,
a silence so concise it swells into me.
Is there no room for hunger or shame,
the loose breath of the injured fawn
leaning terribly against the injured oak,
its new buds wet with the last blossoms of snow?
Somewhere children are flying kites. It is spring.
Somewhere children are flying kites. It is fall.
The homeless man from the corner tells me
water is the hardest thing to find in the city.
“Can you spare fifty cents? I need a can of cola.”
His teeth are like mine, coated and spoiled.
I give him a quarter and he buys a bag of chips.

 

 

 

 

IN THE MORNING IT WILL STILL BE OKAY

This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love is a god-stone, thick and sometimes valuable,
strong-wristed, one arc of a finger
stretching.

Love has the weight of god, the weight of Eve’s
sister,
Lilith, and vomit, water mixed with salt,
A mottled permutation of tear-stained skin,
pink and ordinary, thinly veined and iridescent,
the sigh of sun arriving into day’s orange blue.

This is who I love. This is what I love.
An evening of chimneys and steam,
a cloud of feather and frog,
green eyes,
you.

 

 

 

 

CREATIVE BIO

Michael H. Brownstein is on the roof of his old house, the roof in serious disrepair, and he walks on it as if he’s on a boardwalk—a squirrel falls through where he just stood—what is left to do but go to all fours, tread carefully until he’s on safe ground, call the roofers (he can’t fix this), and write a poem.

He’s walking across a great field, firecrackers exploding. He swats away at dozens of mosquitoes. Near where he teaches, the security guard tackles him and points out a sniper who has been shooting at him as he crossed. There is nothing else to do but conduct a poetry workshop in his algebra class.

He goes camping, and a rattlesnake crawls into his sleeping bag. Prayer and poetry—they really do go together.

On and on. Take a break. Write a poem.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, from A Defense of Poetry and Other Essays

_____________________

—Medusa, thanking Michael Brownstein for his fine poetry today!

 

Check out this article from The Fulcrum, "Our campaigns need more poetry", which appeared in yesterday's Sacramento Bee: https://thefulcrum.us/ethics-leadership/national-poetry-month/. Raise your hand if you agree...

 

 

 

 Take a break. Write a poem…
(Best advice I’ve heard all week!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Escritores Del Nuevo Sol presents
its Contra Banned reading tonight
at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm.


For info about this 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!

 

 

 

The Wisdom of Trees

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And than scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joshua C. Frank,
and Joyce Odam
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan

 

 

APRIL MOWING

Dawn turns the light on weedy field, the open
book—our earth so hungry

Dawn with its golden promises aslant
turns the back pasture to adventure, to
a battlefield of man and nature, whose
light makes all things, thistle and paradise
on just five acres. And the birds tune up,
weedy or not, morning songs for the bugs
that field and woodland provide, fat bugs for
the phoebe and swallow hawking above
open new-mown grass. Meditating the
book of green providence before it burns
our summer, shall I whack weeds to the bare
earth while the morning passes into noon
so shadows dwindle under winged vultures
hungry as is the wild law of this land.

 

 

 

 

“THIS TREE IS A SURVIVOR”

“Arborists with the nonprofit Archangel Ancient Tree Archive are embarking on a mission to clone the resilient southern live oak…”
        —Christopher Cann, USA

That ancient live oak weathered hurricanes
and lightning strikes, still healthy, still alive.
We need such trees in time of climate change.
At timberline I climbed into a tree,
a juniper, quite hollowed out by storm.

In spite of summit wind, inside was warm
as wisdom of the ages spoke to me—
or so it seemed. You might think this strange
or not, this sylvan power to survive
and speak its secret wordless to our brains—

we humans still discovering our earth,
each step of progress like a death or birth.

 

 

 

 

OUTSIDE THE ROOFLESS CAMP

miners lettuce turned
inedible, golden as
some old miners’ dreams

 

 

 

 

MY DOG AS AIRCRAFT

Narrowbody he is, though not
consuming less fuel (his appetite’s
voracious); he’s quicker boarding
(lickety split straight up
into sky); he’s jet-
black but for the white cloud
on his chest, feet splashed
with earth landing,
and dirty brown nose
from digging ground squirrels.

 

 

 

 

NATURE AREA

a maze of trails loses us   

two corvids overhead
cast shadows through tall treetops
giving no answer

 

 

 

 

BIRDS, BEES, & THE HIKE   

how much granola
and water must we carry?
bees don’t pack a lunch

a slogging hot climb
up bare transmission-line ridge—
ravens sailing high

listen to the sweet
chirps, twitters, humming praise songs—
Sure you locked the door?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD GRAVEYARD IN THE RAIN
—Taylor Graham

Easter’s past, its plastic wreaths lie
silent as the dead. But nature’s
blue dicks rise thru rotting asphalt
assuring us of life. 

 

 

 

Blue Dick

(Dipterostemon capitatus)
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

_____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poems and pix today, as we celebrate Arbor Day. TG says her new dog, Otis, has, puppy-like, a lot to learn and unlearn. Me too, Sistah. I still have a lot I need to both learn and unlearn…

Forms TG has used this week include a Ryūka (“Old Graveyard in the Rain”); a Sonnet ("This Tree Is a Survivor”); a Haiku (“Outside the Roofless Camp”); a Quadrille (“My Dog as Aircraft”); a Gambun (“Nature Area”); a Haiku Chain (“Birds, Bees, & the Hike”); and an American Sentence Acrostic that is also an Unrhymed Sonnet (“April Mowing”). “My Dog as Aircraft” also has hints of a Definition Poem. The Gambun and the Definition Poem were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

An American Sentence Acrostic is a Poetry Super Highway prompt from Jen Karetnick (https://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/april-21-2024-poetry-writing-prompt-from-jen-karetnick/): Write a 17-syllable American sentence, as per Allen Ginsberg's definition. (See https://www.negativecapabilitypress.org/.../theamericanse…) Then, write down each word of the sentence in order vertically, like an acrostic but with words instead of letters. They will become the first word in each line of a poem. You can also think of it as a reverse Golden Shovel.

This week in El Dorado County poetry, readers from the Ripe Area Project will red at Chateau Davell in Camino Sunday afternoon at 2pm. Also on Sunday, Georgetown will hold its annual Arts in Nature Festival, starting at 10am. Free. The Poets Squad (members of Tues. & Two workshop from Placerville and Thursday & Two workshop from Georgetown) will be reading poems onstage at 12:30pm; before that, come to Poets Gathering (informal poem-sharing) down by the Nature Area by the upper ponds and Nisenan Village. Everyone welcome!  

 

For 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/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) 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, including a buncha stuff in the Sacramento area this weekend.

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, we received Ekphrastic poems  from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):


TOO MUCH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Nature is too good to me,
she’s left me quite a feast.
Rows and rows of vegetables,
much more than I can eat.
I am a hungry caterpillar.
Goodness knows, I tried.
All I got was heartburn
and an invite to lose weight.
I’ll have to build a cozy nest
and sleep the whole thing off.
Let’s hope when I wake up
I’ll have transformed for the better.

* * *

A LOT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Of work, a lot for garden growth—
allotment, yet behind the house;
a model transferred to backyard,
where tastebuds take priority—
for floral tributes die away,
give way to brassicas as sprout,
and cabbage whites will have their day.

Borne movement, part ‘to grow your own’,
a self-sufficiency in war;
associations came to front,
and to fruition, battlelines;
another set of trenches dug,
with starburst, though our nearer sun,
a no-man’s-land, nature alone.

Those gardens of community,
the green and pleasant land preserved,
in urban scape, an escape plot,
another Eden, worms for snake.
It’s weedless, pristine, that regard,
as though the veg are measured too,
and not to stray beyond their clay.

For lots are portioned, border-lined,
as if the cropping pre-defined;
the patches also colour schemed,
shape, order, lines and area—
but each seed, new leaf turned over,
unique unfolding pattern-wise,
a chaos principle contained.

More nine bean rows, composted soil,
but Innisfree if bag your own;
The Innes, thirties, nation owned,
its loam based rating, one to four.
With runners high and lettuce low,
butt, broad bean, hoedown, outcrop, glass,
this not of cottage garden class.

So what is posed when there’s no rose?
That war dictates you eat as grow,
but blooms too help the world go round?
Community can build with bricks,
unique the folk though look alike,
and dreaming stretches focal length,
our dust, our clay at best when mixed?


(Note: what is called a Community Garden in the U.S. is in the UK called an allotment.)

* * *

LAWNMOWER FOR SALE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when we bought the place
it had 4 magnificent lawns
so we got a hearty lawnmower
to keep them manicured

then we grew rows and rows
of crops, and added a full-
sized green house to enjoy
the freshest of ingredients for
our soups and salads

now the lawnmower sits lonely
in a corner of a tool shed, no
longer needed, no purpose
obsolete, abandoned, still

maybe a retired landscaper
would be the best match to
grab up this retired lawnmower?

they could take little walks
together and share dreams of
the good old days when both
were needed and had purpose

* * *

This plaintive poem from Carl is a Baccresiezé:

 

 

 

 

SUBSCRIPTION CANCELLED
—Caschwa

magazines still come for my wife
though disease has ended her life
but subscriptions go on and on
            forevermore

there’s no room here for such a store
little house crowded with old stuff
magazines still come for my wife
            forevermore

reached the customer service line
told them of my predicament
they cancelled my wife’s subscription
            forevermore

* * *

Carl has also sent a Lannet:

 

 

 

I COULD HAVE TAKEN A NAP
—Caschwa

had some extra time too sublime to lose
so I embarked on a journey to write
poetry that might cause people to care
what is really in the air when you sleep
on your back, turn to your side, then inhale
unidentified missing particles
from that stale piece of bread you won’t throw out
mail order bakery hack, pissing your
dough instead of remaining in the know
read the articles, don’t go all blindly
aiming for bulls eyes that are not really
there, only to learn you were their target
and they were unkindly taking you to
the cleaners, ugly burn, cannot fix it

* * *

Here is a Daisy Chain from Carl:

 

 

 

SOMEWHERE ABOVE
—Caschwa

Up in the attic lives strange, weird and dusty
Dusty shoes from trails less travelled

Travelled too long, away from home sweet home
Home delivery when you are not there to get it

It may walk away from your front porch forever
Forever gone, like it was never ordered in the first
place

Place your head in your palms, you hold the secret
Secret you are forbidden from sharing with family

Family picnic or other gathering, you know the kind
Kind-hearted and sweet kin, along with monsters

Monsters from the deep who ascend to light with-
out invite
Invite all present to irritate and bother your very
soul

Soul that you were polishing up to shine brightly
Brightly singing off-key, too loudly like a garage
band

Band of skeptics and snipers who will shoot you
down
Down the river where there is no stairway up.

* * *

This week, Joyce Odam has sent us a Couplet Sonnet. (Dare she pluck a string?) A Couplet Sonnet is, well, a Sonnet rhymed in couplets. Joyce chose not to separate these couplets, space-wise:

 

 

 

 

 CHINA CLAY
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
        After Untitled by Frederick Dielman, c. 1879   
        (painted and glazed earthenware, 8” x 8”,
        American Art Review, Sept. 1999)

She must be patient.  Dare she pluck a string;
dare she strum a chord and start to sing;
dare she fill a silence with her song—
so eloquently silent for so long—
turning to porcelain where the brooding gaze
of one who loves no music never strays
as if to give permission to be lured.
Indifference will keep his heart inured.
She’s but a pose of waiting—though the light
adores her—and the all-surrounding night—
and the shadows in the courtyard where she waits
—servant of music—mis-sent by the fates.
Does the deaf one also have no eyes?
A night wind plucks a string.  An echo sighs.

* * *

Here is a Rhupunt from Joshua Frank:

 

 

 

WHAT’S LEFT TO SAY?
—Joshua C. Frank

When women’s plans
Are like a man’s,
So they act trans,
What’s left to say?

When folks believe
That to conceive
Is cause to grieve,
What’s left to say?

When Mother’s womb
Is a place of doom,
The trash the tomb,
What’s left to say?

When faithful priests
Must be released
And God is least,
What’s left to say?

When men replace
That empty space,
Our folk to erase,
What’s left to say?


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

* * *

And here is a Villanelle from Josh:

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration

 

A VILLANELLE FOR ROBERT HOOGLAND
—Joshua C. Frank

Robert Hoogland was arrested for calling his female-to-male transgender daughter female.

Their mouths are gagged, their hands are bound;
Their children taken by the state,
These parents have no legal ground.
 
While children run and play around
The lip of Hell’s wide, yawning gate,
Their mouths are gagged, their hands are bound.
 
If they should ever make a sound,
They’ll age in jail for crimes of hate;
These parents have no legal ground.
 
Their efforts will be quickly drowned
As red tape seals their children’s fate. 


Their mouths are gagged, their hands are bound.
 
Their children seized, locked in the pound,
Can’t help them now, for it’s too late,
These parents have no legal ground.
 
Must we raise our kids unsound
And watch them eat the devil’s bait?
Our mouths are gagged, our hands are bound;
We parents have no legal ground.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)


* * *

Here is an Ekphrastic poem from Stephen Kingsnorth, based on this photo he found:

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

ICHABOD
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Who trod these boards, and at what stage,
patina layered, dust to dust,
the weak creak furniture ignored,
a scene, neglect, forgotten acts?   

See slant of legs from table sloped,
wide gait to help the balanced weight,
as seek, specific, gravity;
flats, foot, cove beading, indistinct—
as bottles, so glass, carpentry,
if smile by shoulder, lost in shades.

Such place to make their presence felt,
what wights, wraith-shapes once framed this space,
grey outlook onto living street
through splattered panes of globule rain
with window smear, veiled grainy beer,
and drear hung drapes to draw across.
A bier for long past days and ways,
departed glory in the waste.

That alcove panelled, sill and grill,
grand papered wall now less defined,
Lincrusta, anaglypta died,
a skip from grandeur as its end.
Did taller lounge on emptied kegs,
pair cooper’s casks, their barrelled hoops
withstand the years, unlike the chair,
whose spindles bowed, with split ends seat,
a farmhouse air now littered, passed
those legs galore from tops to floor,  
a drinker’s dozen, maybe more?

What filtered mood supplied to us
as we decide what route to take,
the studio or rested place,
with stagecraft props or history?
So trace if reckon real or reel,
to beckon us or leave us cold;
grant grace to face the questions asked,
and if we find none, move us, on?

* * *

And last, an Ars Poetica from Stephen:

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

CRAFT
—Stephen Kingsnorth

As review our spending hours,
the costly lessons, learning hard,
delete them from our past
for leisure, rest, slacking part?
If so, read no further;
my harshest terms served, celebrate,
this through craft and heart;
if doing, worth, work well.

___________________

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.) Let’s join in the American Sentence Acrostic challenge from Jen Karetnick in Poetry Super Highway (https://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/psh/april-21-2024-poetry-writing-prompt-from-jen-karetnick/). See Taylor Graham’s example today (above):

•••American Sentence Acrostic: 17-syllable American sentence, as per Allen Ginsberg's definition. (See https://www.negativecapabilitypress.org/.../theamericanse…) Then, write down each word of the sentence in order vertically, like an acrostic but with words instead of letters. They will become the first word in each line of a poem, similar to a Reverse Golden Shovel.

•••AND/OR re-visit the Rhupunt such as the one from Josh Frank (above):

•••Rhupunt: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rhupunt-poetic-form

•••AND/OR the form with the fancy French name, the Baccresiezé, such as the one from Caschwa today (above). I like that indented repeated word. Poe-ish, yes?

•••Baccresiezé: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

•••AND/OR you can always do the Daisy Chain like Caschwa did (above). Daisies are for spring…

•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain

•••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 “Trees”.

____________________

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

•••American Sentence Acrostic: 17-syllable American sentence, as per Allen Ginsberg's definition. (See https://www.negativecapabilitypress.org/.../theamericanse…) Then, write down each word of the sentence in order vertically, like an acrostic but with words instead of letters. They will become the first word in each line of a poem, similar to a Reverse Golden Shovel.
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Baccresiezé: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain
•••Definition Poem (Carl Schwartz): has the appearance of a dictionary definition, but actual definition is humorous or unexpected
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Gambun: either a one-word first line or anything up to one sentence, capped by a Haiku of up to four lines. Samples: https://prunejuicesenryu.com/2021/03/01/issue-33-haibun-gembun
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Lannet (Sonnet Form): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/lannet-poetic-forms AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lannet.html AND/OR poetscollective.org/everysonnet/lannet
•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you
•••Rhupunt: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rhupunt-poetic-form
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet AND/OR blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form
•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle

___________________

—Medusa, wishing trees everywhere peace and prosperity, and may all of us escape the woodsman’s ax~

 

 

 

 This Week's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

A reminder that
Cal. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick
will read at Sac. Poetry Center
tonight with Nyeree Boyadjian, 6pm.
For info about this 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!