Elections—OMG!

 —Poetry by Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog,
North Wales
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A GOREY MOMENT

I sometimes have a Gorey moment
wondering what could have been
if the hanging chads
hadn’t hung,
or if Gore had hung up
his gentleman’s suit
and cried “Fraud”
as loudly as Trump was to do.

No hate to fuel 9/11,
no war in Iraq,
perhaps
the end
of history
would be nigh
as Fukuyama predicated,
existing divisions becoming
historic
and no new ones
created.

With more Gore less blood
would be spilled.
There would be no Bushfires burning
the sun would be shining
but without its intensity,
the storms would be still
and the world would be stable.

It was hanging by a thread
and we missed it,
missed the chance
to grasp those chads
hanging.



(prev. pub. in New Verse News, 12/12/23)

 

 

 

 

LOST OPPORTUNITIES

Every day I grieve
for the missed opportunities
in this country,
the man we could have had as leader
now speaking on a smaller stage
now reaching a smaller audience
with a message of peace and reconciliation,
of investment in society not weapons.

Everyday I grieve
for the missed opportunities
in that other county
where the man they could have had as leader
now speaks on a smaller stage,
now reaches a smaller audience
with a message of peace and reconciliation,
of investment in society not weapons.

Everyday I grieve
for the missed opportunities
to build a better world
where human rights are respected
wherever humans live,
where violence is deplored
whoever the perpetrators.
Where international law is upheld
so those who break it face justice
whoever they are,
wherever they are.
Where there is nowhere to hide
for those who break it
Where there are no smoke screens
of meaningless words
but only exposure.


Every day I grieve for a world
where only the Corbyns and the Sanders

may rest in peace.

 

 

 

 

ORDER, ORDER

We built their cages.
We gilded them.
We listened to their croaks,
no one could call it song,
hear, hear, hear hear,
call to order.
Order, order,
keep them in order.
Keep them stuffed
with food and drink,
we did that too,
keep them fed and watered.
No not watered
they won’t drink water
that would be out
of order.
Order, order.
Watch them
flapping their paper wings
to order.
Order order.
We should give them orders.
We pay the pipers,
they should sing for us
but they can only croak,
hear hear, hear hear,
for themselves.
We don’t have to listen.


(prev. pub. by Culture Matters, The Fish Rots 

From The Head Anthology, February 2022)

 

 

FAKING IT


The search goes on to find it
that golden transformation
that makes base into precious
and spins a thread of gold.
Yes, there’s a new alchemist
on the block
and he has it to a T
faking gold
to make gold
sneaking forth
to guide and gild
your path
with
threads
of gold-
spun
yarns.


(prev. pub. in Masticadores USA, June 2024)

 

 

 

 
 

PERFORMANCE ART

He’s the last man standing.

And whether comedian
or statesman
performance is all
for the last man standing.
Standing in the rubble of the city.
Standing on the bodies of the dead heroes,
those lions led by donkeys once again.
No more laughter,
no more tears,
the final curtain
came down on them.
Hollow victory
or glorious defeat
it’s all the same to them.

But the last man still stands,
the star of the show
temporarily.



(prev. pub. in Topical Poetry, 3/27/22)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MAN OF THE MOMENT
—Lynn White

It’s truly the time of our lives,
the age of the besuited bureaucrat
the middle-class white male
middling this and middling that
geographically limited,
culturally limited,
intellectually bereft
darling of the establishment
and so a man for our times.


Rest in Peace Another Party
to join the rest who tried
to change our times.


(prev. pub. in Topical Poetry, June 2023)

____________________

Many thanks to Lynn White and her timely election poems today! I don’t talk much about politics in the Kitchen, trying not to spoil the food, but ’tis the season to screw ourselves in many parts of the world, and Lynn is just the gal to write about it. Although she may be Welsh/British, it seems like these problems are universal. (Love the sly mention of illustrator Edward Gorey! Gorey moment, indeed.) Thanks again, Lynn!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

"Hot Air" Balloon

 

 

 

 

A Thousand Lives

 

—Poetry by Mitali Chakravarty, Singapore
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

GLITTERS

I have lived a thousand lives.
In each glitter on the river
lives a memory woven with
waves and sun rays.

Each sparkle calms the
mind, calming to rid of
gut-wrenching pains that
echo refrains.

Life is but an ebb and flow.
Pains come and go.
Each sparkle is transient.
Life pauses, restarts again.

Bejewelled, the river dazzles
with the shimmer of borrowed
light. Thousands of lives drift in
the turmoil of eternal transience.

 

 

 

LAND AND WATER  

Water bubbles
like a bauble in a
little nick of a rock.

Fluidly it flows, endless
drops together to create
a stream that chases
an oceanic dream.

The waves in the seas,
whipped by the breeze,
never stop—they flow.

They sway. They beat
the rock, shaping and
reshaping, making more
sand, remoulding shorelines…

 

 

 

VOICES

I hear voices—voices that
say, look at the sky. It’s so
blue. Watch the clouds
float. Hear the birds call…

Imagine—imagine now—
floating on a cloud, traveling
round the Earth, watching
from above… See—

How green the trees!
Varied hues shimmer gold  or
blue, colourful dots fleck the
day, starry nights fill the dark.

And yet puffs of smoke from
far obliterate the colours of
life with a surreal, haze-like
curling miasma that spreads.

 

 

 

 

AURORA

I do not write poetry anymore
as the sky waves colours that
mystify with splendour, inspire
with wonder. I dribble words
over sizzling sausages and eat
them with potatoes and cheese.
I can only describe these. Not
the magnificence that rolls out
a silent sonata of the Universe
or a light ensemble that spills
shades and dances to amaze
with innate grace, vibrancy.
Perhaps, it greets dawn with an
aubade of tints or invites night
with its peacock shades. I watch,
and I watch the reel repeatedly. 

 

 

 

SONG OF A POSTER BOY

When they pasted
my poster on walls,
I thought it’d be nice.
I’d flit from hall to hall
And the girls would smile.

But now when I skip
from frame to frame,
The girl in the swing
bites an apple, laughs,
and says, “You again!”

 

 

 

 

FRESH-MOWN GRASS

The smell and sound
of fresh-mown grass
pauses by the window,
and waits…waits to see
if I’ll notice. The mower
has moved to the next
patch. I hear the machine
whirr a distant hum. I
breathe deeply and feel
the grass bits fly. The
grass is me and I am the
grass. Let’s dance… as
bits of us fly … all dots
in a larger frame made
with a brush steeped
in pointillism.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TRANSIENCE
—Mitali Chakravarty

Snowflakes waft—
Pristine, starry, soft,
heady as Nocturnes,
jasmines or edelweiss.
 
As the sun shines,
crystal clear icicles
melt and disappear.

___________________

Our thanks to Newcomer Mitali Chakravarty, who likes to float towards an unreachable utopia with words and rhymes. She has lived in many countries and now is in Singapore, where she runs an online site, borderlessjournal.com, which has published its first hard-copy anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from across the World. She has published a few hundred poems online and in anthologies and now has her debut poetry book, Flight of Angsana Oriole, from India, and another upcoming collection coming from UK. Mitali says she has wafted around the world, to finally find a home on a tropical island filled with angsanas, orioles and parakeets. Welcome to the Kitchen,Mitali, and don’t be a stranger!

 

There’s not much time left, but next Thursday, July 4, is the deadline for sign-ups for the annual Poetry Postcard Fest, organized by the Cascadia Poetics Lab. Go to: https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/how-it-works to learn all about it and to register. Poets from around the world are welcome!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Mitali Chakravarty

A reminder that the
Calaveras Poetry Festival
takes place in Murphys today;
the Sierra College workshop,
Intro to Eco-Poetry, meets
on Zoom starting at 10am; and
the Disposable Darlings
After-Hours poetry reading
takes place in Grass Valley
tonight, 6:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

Drying On The Vine (And It's Only June!)

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox, 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,

Mitali Chakravarty,
Melissa Lemay, Barbara Leonhard,
and Joshua C. Frank

 

 

HOT & TIRED

Drained. Like those peavine blossoms
on the trail, faded, withered, gone too soon.
It’s only June. By mid-morning
it’s too hot for mowing. Got to get going.
By noon we’re unstrung,
blinds closed tight against the sun.
Dog laid flat on the coolest floor
in the house, motionless for hours.
Overhead fan whirring. Don’t feel
like stirring. But what about
this morning’s walk?
Dawn is glowing got to get going
if we’re going to move at all. 

 

 

 

 

IMAGINING DARK SOUND

Black trunks of oak giants overlook
the RR track. What sound does a cat make
in these daylight woods deepening
into shadow-dark? We’re walking between
the rails. Ties & ballast. Side paths
thru blackberry bramble and rattle-dry weeds
are too overgrown for walking with a dog—
tickers, foxtails ready to leap and bury
themselves in his black coat.
Two young runners—firefighters on their
morning keep-in-shape—pause to warn me,
rattlesnake on the track ahead.
And big cat in the woods? What sound
does cougar make, stealthy
as the silent flight of owl? It’s morning
daylight, longest day of the year. My dog
leads us at a good fast trot, onward. 

 

 

 

AQUAMARINE

In sleep I wandered a drought-land of stubble
burned pale as sesame seeds. Too much sun.
Already I’d strayed from the festival of birds,
water in my jar undrinkable because their wings
were clipped in the name of human revelry. How
could I explain I was dying of thirst? I came upon
this aquamarine warehouse hunched on treeless
land. Road leading there overgrown with weeds,
storks-bill blading thru cracked pavement.
The structure slumping toward earth, exterior
paint flaking away, an aquamarine mirage midst
of desert without the song of a single bird. 

 

 

 

 

FREE-RANGE SONGBOOK

That phoebe on the fence post sings the catalog
of Tuesday June, a gradually descending
refrain in praise of weather, this early morning
giving a cooler start to the day. And, in keeping
with the integrity of birdsong, she can’t omit
our neighbor’s free-range chickens, bunnies—
even the red hen solidly nestled into dead
dry weeds and field-fence, brooding her eggs
so I don’t dare whack those weeds. 

 

 

 

AGAINST THE FENCE

red hen
never blinked
a feather

impressive
display of pluck

my machine cutting
dead grass to stubble but
I stopped in time

impossible
ellipses of luck each
brown egg

red hen feathers
scattered like stubble

safety a bonus
succumbs
in midst of summer wind 

___________________

SOLSTICE BLACK

One Raven paces
asphalt calling and calling
searching for what? whom?
What desire could ground him here
with all that bright sky above? 

 

 

 

 

DAWNING

dim gray silk
curtain parting light
from dark

mouse improvises
fundamental qualms

under mowed stubble
brood the dreams
of earthworm and mole

crazy tunnels
cottages of roots
flammables

enriching soil
and a full moon’s sleep

good-ol’ britches
transform the blues to blue
sky dancin’ denim

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BETWEEN COLLEGE & WILD
—Taylor Graham

Soft blue-white trumpets
of morning just at blooming—
sacred datura.

________________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos this morning! In addition to her mention of rattlesnakes (her poetry does indeed have fangs!), there are some words about cougars—we do have a few wandering our hills these days, and TG is musing about them.

Forms TG has used this week include a Haiku (“Between College & Wild)”: a Dream Poem (“Aquamarine”); a Word-Can Poem (“Free-Range Songbook”); a Tanka (“Solstice Black”); and two Rengays (“Dawning” & “Against the Fence”). The Rengay was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week. For a Rengay "partner”, TG draws random words. (More about the Dream Poem later.)

For 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 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.

Be sure to check out our shined-up FORMS! OMG!!! page (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/medusa-muses.html) for some recent brush-ups and additions. Taylor Graham, for example, often sees snakes in her travels, and consequently she has devised the Slither: xxxaxxxa/xxxbxxxc/xxxcxxxb/xxxdxxxd/xxxbxxxe, etc., and there's also the Serpentine. TG also is the devisor of the WLT (Weird Little Thing), which is defined as that which is in some sort of form that suits it but doesn’t have an official form title.  

 

However,  I'm not able to include the list of all the forms we've done over the years like I wanted; Blogger says it's too much memory. Darnit! Seems like none of us has enough memory these days.
 

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 recentl-refurbished page-link at the top of the blog 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 Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa, as they muse upon the idea that maybe you CAN take it with you. We start with a Cinquain from Claire Baker:


SWIMMERS ALL
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Swim/float
with the flow, though
flow veers crazy left/right.
Birth named you heroic. So, love,
swim on.

* * *

SON OF A BEACH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Sun and surf are in my blood.
I’m at the beach, and here I’ll stay.

My blanket and umbrella show
my territory for the day.

My surfboard’s ready for the waves.
A sandcastle guards my food and chairs.

While drying off, I’ll play guitar,
and wear a hat from Mexico.

In case I want to play around,
I’ve coconuts and a beach ball.

My suitcase has fresh clothes in case
I decide I won’t go home.

The only thing to make me leave
is if my dog must poop or pee.

* * *

BARREN STRAND
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

A case of labels, sponsorship,
suspected when such scenes are packed;
the rainbow spanning every need,
paraphernalia indeed.

From toe to head, flip-flops, straw hats,
guitar and wireless to annoy,
both food, beer bottles, warm, explode,
when bored the platform, ready, surf.

Shy coconuts, full frontal skin,
sandcastle, intricate design,
ball, book (where’s candle?), exercise,
here even dog gulled and confused.

Unguided tourist, crowded beach,
unguarded props, insurance claim?
Except so little of true worth,
though I see missing, kitchen sink.

A jigsaw of priorities,
or puzzle with too many clues;
the setting, best, for puzzle board,
by barren, sanded, windswept strand?

* * *

ANCIENT RITUAL SACRIFICE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Back when the civilized world was
like a yawning bear just coming out
of hibernation, people did what other
people told them to do, not because the
advice was credible, but because not
following directions would result in
great physical abuse. And people are
still doing that today.

Some folks pull out their bible, cite
chapter and verse, then close the book
as if the argument was won.

Others pull out a microfiche version of
the Oxford English Dictionary, read out
a heading and some text under it, then
close down the reader as if no more need
be said.

And there are those legal wizards who
claim to have memorized all legal opinions
ever rendered by all the courts, and if you
could only devote the rest of your life to
listening, they wouldn’t mind sharing with
you exactly what it is that makes damning
evidence so powerful.

Now, if one visits the beach on a nice, sunny
afternoon, one may see where a “believer”
came out at low tide and put clusters of their
favorite things, art, music, chairs, even their
favorite dog on the shore right near the water
line, reminiscent of the way ancient Pharaohs
equipped their pyramid tombs for the afterlife.

The birds laugh, the palm trees wave, the tall
buildings housing tourists are abuzz with the
aroma of sunscreen and dreams, while the tide
comes back and slowly, effortlessly, gobbles
up the shoreline and all that was left on it.

* * *

Here is a Haiku chain from Carl, who says that today he’s talking about human nature, not nature nature. Nothing could be finer than to show up at the diner in the moooorning... Carl has devised quite a few forms, all of which are in the new list.

 

 

 
INDENTURED SERVITUDE
—Caschwa

had some breakfast out
tipped the waitress well, plus some
she couldn’t keep it

the manly owner
snatched it from her pocket and
took it as a fee

for the privilege
of working for him daily
she had to abide

or lose her little
opportunity to work
it was all she had

sure, this was wrong, but
I had no authority
to bust the guy’s nose

and no proof to give
to the proper agency
that has the purview

the longer this man
gets away with these bad deeds
the greater the urge

to expand his scheme,
set up a brothel of these
very same young girls

who will get tipped well
and have it taken away
by their mean owner

we are a nation
of laws, or so it is taught
but with all of that

our laws don’t seem to
have the reach they need to have
to right all the wrongs

* * *

 

Today we have two Limericks from Newcomer Mitali Chakravarty. Welcome to her, and check into the Kitchen tomorrow for more from Mitali:

 

 

DINING NORMS IN OTHER PLANETS

—Mitali Chakravarty, Singpore

1
In a planet called Tango,
Inhabitants relish the mango.
They crunch and they munch,
Juicy fruits for dinner and lunch.
And, at breakfast, dance the zambo.

2
In the distant planet of Ropest,
They lived only to loudly protest.
As they sat down to a meal,
With unchallenged zeal,
They shouted at the food with zest!
 

* * *

These three SbakePals have sent us another of their Rengay (Revised), in which they followed the line count but not the syllable count. The Rengay was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week. Some of these lines have to spill over, given Medusa’s narrow margins, but that doesn’t mean the original line lengths were incorrect:

 

 

 
IT’S SOMEBODY’S FAULT
—Melissa Lemay, Barbara Leonhard, and
Nolcha Fox

I finally sit
after serving everyone breakfast
The cat drank my coffee

The dog steals all the chocolate
and drinks my coffee while I clean up the
wrappers

The parrot’s watching my fresh cup of coffee
and will tell me who empties it if I give her
some gluten-free crackers

I taught her to say, “She did it!”
It only bites me in the ass sometimes

Crackers, chocolate, pizza
pancakes, fudge, cherry pie
If I eat it, it sits on my ass or my thighs

When my husband asks who ate his bag of
Snickers
I say, “She did it!”

* * *

Josh Frank sent us an Ekphrastic response to this painting:

 

 

 

THE FREEZING ARTIST  
—Joshua C. Frank

Based on the painting “Starving Artist Getting Warm by a Painting of Fire” by Teun Hocks (1990)

I’m warming my hands by a make-believe fire—
I hope to fend off old Jack Frost by a feint,
Pretending that somehow I’ll sate my desire
By staring at yellows and reds mixed in paint.

I can’t sell my paintings, I’ve nothing for spending;
I can’t keep a job, so I’ve nothing to eat,
And somehow, I can’t just warm up by pretending—
I’d rather burn wood for some actual heat!

But wood can’t be had, so it’s back to the acting,
Imagining warmth on my freezing-cold hands.
I’ll soon paint some food and some friends for distracting
Myself from my life in these cold, windy lands.


(First published in New English Review)

* * *

Today we end with am extra bit of class and food for thought in response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Lust. Here is Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 129”, and Stephen Kingsnorth’s response to it:

 

 

SONNET 129
—William Shakespeare

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

* * *

BLOKES
After “Sonnet 129” by William Shakespeare
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Uneasy page for any age,
as ethics swirl in gender’s plea,
the more, permissive uncaged stage,
our terms transformed, LGBT,
with Q, plus questions followed, delved.
As powers hold, castle keep, Kafka
and Dewey triggers volumes shelved,
near bonfire, Alexandria,
abuse of folk and fears awoke.
When self-confessed loss of control,
how stands the mastery of bloke—
from hinterland, man-kind blamed rôle?
Today Will’s witness words assured,
that social media storm procured.

____________________

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 sink our teeth into a Duotrain:

•••Duotrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/duotrain

•••AND/OR something dreamy (see Taylor Graham’s example above):

•••Dream Poem: https://www.bing.com/search?q=dream+poem+form&pc=cosp&ptag=C999N1234A316A5D3C6E&form=0A1010&conlogo=CT3210127&showconv=1

•••AND/OR in the mood to try a Limerick? They're not as easy as they look:

 

•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick

 

•••AND/OR feel free to Dribble:

•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Lust”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Dream Poem: https://www.bing.com/search?q=dream+poem+form&pc=cosp&ptag=C999N1234A316A5D3C6E&form=0A1010&conlogo=CT3210127&showconv=1
•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble
•••Duotrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/duotrain
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick

•••Rengay: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay
•••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.)

* * *

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

 

A reminder that Sac Arts presents
Art, Poetry & Jazz Night in
Carmichael tonight, 6pm.
For more 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!

 

 

 

Letters From Home

—Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain 

A TASTE OF HOME

BLACK CAT

Dad points to the shadow
of a boy running
in the dazzling afternoon sun
around the neighbourhood
in ragged clothes,
hair covered with dust,
limbs full of life,
chasing a black cat.  

This could be your life:
indulging in small happiness,
an instant pleasure,
a lifelong regret.

Instead, you’ve chosen this life:
eyes glued to books, mind
travelling thousands of miles,
observing other people’s lives,
feeling their happiness.

The difference is:
you’ll travel far and dream big,
attending university in a city,
having a splendid future; That boy
will stay here, in this town all his life,
becoming a farmer or mechanic,
worrying about daily meals and bills.

Dad’s smile lingers
in the bright future
he’s designed for me.

My heart follows
the little boy
and the black cat. 

 

 

 

 

BLESSING

Mum gave me a prayer card when I left home.
A small, thin piece of glittering golden plate,
a good luck charm: Buddha on one side,
Sanskrit text on the other, which I can’t read.

Take this with you, Mum said,
the buddha will be with you,
protect your safety,
bless your prosperity.

I’m not religious, and have often laughed
at Mum for being superstitious.
The card in my wallet has travelled with me
from one country to another.

Mum, it’s not the magical power
of the Buddha that I believe in.
It’s your warm gaze that accompanies me
on every step of my journey. 

 

 

 

 

SUMMER

I visit family in China every summer
when the moon is as red as a hot sickle.  

Mum turns the aircon to its maximum
capacity, a continuous current of cool air.

Dad takes out watermelon from the fridge,
white frost on red cubes.

Sister throws all my clothes into the washer,
and hangs them up like festival banners.

The big, white, fluffy Samoyed sits
on my feet, head rubbing against my legs.

I think of home in the UK, the cool, damp English
weather, the lonely, sleepless nights, and smile. 

 

 

 

 

A TASTE OF HOME

It’s the third time this week I’ve been
in this restaurant. Spring couplets
on the doorframe. Red lanterns
above the window. Cherry blossoms

on the wall. I sit down at a corner table,
select a Moo Shu pork dish from the menu:
golden omelette adorned by green
cucumbers and black wood-ear mushrooms.

A middle-aged Chinese woman speaks
to the phone in broken English.
A girl, perhaps a university student, scurries
around with plates in her hands.

People, old and young, are soaked
in the white steam of Hot Pot, the spicy
aroma of Kung Pao Chicken, the heart-
wrenching canton pop from the nineties.

Please don’t blame me for frequenting
this place where many other restaurants
are nearby. The place feels like home:
its sight, its sound, its flavour, its taste—

 

 

 

KNUT

I call him Knut.

He’s not that cuddly, white bear from the Berlin Zoo, a media celebrity. He’s from the North Pole, living in a hostile environment covered by ice and snow all year round. I don’t know where his habitats are, or whether he has a family. I imagine there must be someone else living in this ice-bound territory, someone he cares about.

When I saw him that day, he was walking along a stream. The sky was azure, and the water was crystal. One could see the white clouds on the mirror-like surface and the rocks at the bottom. Suddenly he stopped. Something in the stream caught his attention. Was it fish? Or was it his own reflection? He sat by the stream for some time. Motionless. What was he thinking about? Did the white polar bear in the water remind him of someone, his parents, his friends, or perhaps his own youth, the lost happy times?

I didn’t know how long I had been watching him. He was still standing there, by the stream. I could hear the wind blowing and the river murmuring. In this white, frozen world, there were just the two of us. Did he know I was around? Did he know I was watching him? That didn’t matter. He was the sovereign in his own world. But what a life would it be if he were the only being in that world?

I felt my frozen hands. I felt my stiff face. I felt the moisture in my eyes. I saw myself in him. A younger self, a self I had a complex relationship with, a self I had decided to part with. 

 

 

 

RAPESEED FIELDS

On my recent visit back
to the hometown, My cousin
points to a gigantic hole in the ground,
half-surrounded by blue metal barriers
and grey concrete barricades:

This is the foundation for a twenty-
storey high tower block, The first
phase of an eco-friendly residential
complex, surrounded by green
lawns and rose gardens, Lotus
ponds and pavilions. Sports facilities
in front of a kindergarten.

Following his flourishing
arm and empty gaze, I see myself
seated in the pavilion, a gentle
breeze brushing my face, small
waves rippling in the pond,
goldfish playing gleefully
with waterlilies.

In five years, matchboxes of lights
will twinkle in the dark evening sky.
In ten years, the stars will hide
behind radiating city lights
amid thickening white fogs.  

The only thing that connects
me to this place will be the name
of the metro station, Rapeseed Fields,
reminding me of my childhood self
roaming and vanishing
in a vast sea of golden waves.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

—Maya Angelou

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Hongwei Bao for his fine poetry about home today, and hopes that you have some sort of safe place in your life~

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 Letters From Home

Muggins & The Fog Man

 —Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson,
Downers Grove, IL
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

CROWS


Tired of hunger
tired of emptiness
late February winter snow—
crow claws locked in
on my condo balcony
steel railings.
Their desperate eyes
focus in on my green eye
sockets—
their search begins,
I go to bed, no ruffled feathers showing—
their imaginary dreams of green—
black wings fly flapping—
the hunt, scavengers, over barren fields—
shadows in the way
now late August
summer sun
bright yellow
turning orange—
hard corn.

 

 

 

 

FOG MAN
 
There is a stranger in the fog
screaming into this harbor tonight.
A lonely son-of-a-bitch without
a mother or a lover.
He screams obscenities
with bad breath.
There is a way the moon
investigates a sailor in fog
at night, sheltering no one.
Hungover in the lead piping
suffering from myopia
but downing in pride,
hyperopia magnified.
These memories are distant.
A lady now of a dream
still walker on sliding sand
near that beach, leaving
sounds of her own
where winds tell the
fog man where to cry.
Life a saint in blue mist
a roller coaster, thrill
master-slave driver
of its own.

 

 

 

 


LIKE ZEN

This version
is tacitly the best.
I am in the morning sun
when the artist arrives.
My pair of pajamas
sleep in frozen-still patterns.
I turn my face oriental with my poems.
Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out
light pink to white, brevity, for a short
time then walk alone, then die.
I hear the sound of notes in my ears
approaching on silent footprints.
I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely
meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette,
toss garlands, toss racy clothing,
abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors.
I leave all sinful shadows behind.
But I am of this world, not out of this world.
I swear way too much and pray too little.
The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match.
Crack and smack a curse—
twigs break silence.

 

 

 

 


I DON’T MIND, MUGGINS

Hello Muggins,
my babe,
I don't mind you if—
crazy Persian cat,
copper eyes, emerging
from Britain, ancient Persia, & Turkey
you are a sabotaging, spoiled little brat.
sniffing, shanghai glue,
& that old Skoal snuff box
left wide open again.

Sneezing as if,
spirits your way,
red peppers, peppers
Carolina Reaper plants
scarlet insane chilies
stuffed in your
pink nostrils.

Your life is now set on fire
overboard abandon my computer
keyboard, you leap for safety,
scammer, slide those kitty feet.
Kitty's feet slide skimmer
across newly waxed
Brazilian Cherry
hardwood floor—
you pole vault, ground floor
pussy cat style leap
into my open left side,
over-sized, bib overalls pocket.


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I have cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.

—Jean Cocteau

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Johnson for today’s fine poetry, and for sending photos to accompany it!

 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!