Five Quadrilles & a Little Poe

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

These first four poems from Stephen are Quadrilles: 44 words (not counting the title), including one word the host provides. These were written while Stephen was in the throes of what he calls Quadrillitis. In an effort to cure this Q-itis, I sent him five cue-words, which I’ve highlighted here, hoping he would overdose from flexing his Quads. This final poem of his is a nod to the US on today’s Fourth of July. Note Stephen’s wink to tea parties…


WAS, IS, AND IS TO BE…?

Who reads the news, paper today?
Too broad to handle, thinking sheets;
wrapped fish’n’chips, rue redtops’ stain.
Their stop press columns ceased express,
swift, wall to wall, Fleet’s cover blown;
print press, by net, hung out to dry,
while Wall Street’s rôle, wallpaper trail.

 

 

 

 

GOURD HELP US, SQUASHED

Your zucchini, courgette is mine—
is your rootstock, mafia style,
while my corvette, French ship derived?
Unless outgrown—on marrow dine—
that starter dish for slug or snail,
and nothing slow when dining out,
for small tip left by them consumed;
Cucurbitaceae, family.

 

 

 

 

COT OBSERVATIONS

Once stropped on leather, lathered, soap,
Dad’s cutthroat blade would bristle, swathe.
And Mum could curl, recall her perm,
spiked rollers under net as temp.
For but a day, ahead of hair,
their pillow wresting follicles,
what made my eyes think rollerblade?
Associations codified.

 

 

 

SOUTHERN STRESS

A southerner near Roman spa,
as city, Bath, was overdrawn—
‘Barth’—theologian I approve.
Our offspring, as the grandchildren,
are northern-raised, more tap than tarp.
So I would turn my gravest face
when barth-time tapped out bathtub sound.
My mother, car-crash, simply crȇche.

 

 

 

 

DRAFT CURRICULUM

May quadrillitis sound diseased,
parading, marching on the square,
though compass not so secretive—
but nation ready, youth prepared.
The sense of service I applaud,
as citizens should contribute
so learning ethic, give if take.
I am unsure that discipline,
good learning being uniform?

 

 

 

 Poe Returns to Boston
—Statue by Stefanie Rocknak

BOUND BREAKS FREE

Spilling volumes, strapped leather case,
how could the raven be contained,
enclosed in baggage, papers, page,
bursting, such larger life than he?
Poe returning, ghosts break free,
homeward, bound like trail of texts
left in his train, from station walk,
marking steps since he first left.
Adoptive, in short story form,
consumptive for child cousin bride;
patina, Verdigris of bronze,
once journeyman, now sett apart.
It’s no tea party, reading fear—
a nevermore. Finality.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom, must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.

—Thomas Paine

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to BritPal Stephen Kingsnorth for sending us Yanks all these wonderful poems over the years! Hands across the sea~~

For more about Poe’s statue in Boston, see https://bostonlitdistrict.org/venue/poe-returns/.

 

 

 

May we all find some sort of compromises

in these troubled waters, both at home 

and over the sea~

And may you find some peace

this Fourth of July.

 

 —Public Domain Photo 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winking at the Woodpecker

 —Robert Witmer
—Poetry by Robert Witmer, Tokyo, Japan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

WEED WIDE ENOUGH TO WRAP A FAIRY IN
 
I watch her weeding. I suppose the flowers like it, not having to share the sun with inferior plants. That afternoon in the museum, as we hurried past the Masaccios to the Masters of the High Renaissance, I followed her like a bloodhound. Iron bars on the windows. Those painted pines in the distance, like green steeples reaching for the light.

 

 

 

 

the moon slips
behind a cloud
angels undressing the stars

* * *

ceramic cats
and plastic flowers
the widow's garden

* * *

old yearbook
a cheerleader smiles
at the teapot's lonely whistle

 

 

 

 

EVIL SPELL
 
I thought ewe were joking about the guillotine. Sushi for breakfast. A strip stake when the son goes down. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Count Dracula and then start looking. And now fare queen my doubt comes dew. Mourning in the roses. Thorns in your crown. A-tisket, a-tasket. My head in a basket.

 

 

 

 

a breeze flutters
the torn screen
sunlight in a well

* * *

tiptoeing across the street
to a seedy hotel
the puffed-up pigeon

* * *

the hitchhiker's thumb
tucked in his mitten
a four-leaf clover

 

 

 

 

PUT IT ON A POSTAGE STAMP
 
In 1946, the Belgian poet, anarchist, surrealist, and civil servant Louis Scutenaire wrote: “A commendable activity would be the reconstitution of extinct species … It would only take courage, patience and science, and some genius.” 2024. Check. Done, or rather, in progress. Courage. A vexingly subjective judgment. Patience. Well, yes. Sands through the hourglass. Degrees. Experiments. Breakthroughs. Breaking news. Some genius. Determined it was a good thing to do. Big to-do. Making the news, with something old, something new. Nothing new under the sun, saith the Preacher. A game “mixing the rules of chess with those of blindman’s bluff.” A hidden door. Back to the past. The chance of a lifetime. To repeat our mistakes.

 

 

 

 

swinging
with her mom
baby gibbon

* * *

class reunion
everyone looking
like someone else

* * *

grandmother's yarn
the world she weaves
with her soulful voice

 

 

 

 

AUGUST
 
I was Zorro on the carport roof. I always liked black. The handle of my toy gun was black, with a long silver-colored barrel. Kenny was calling from the fort by the swing set. The summer sky was a deep blue, the backyard all green grass. Up on the roof a warm breeze blew. One tiny cloud, slowly disappearing. Kenny kept calling. They were coming.

 

 

 

a little boy
alone in the park
tossing a ball
as he whistles
to the blind dog

* * *

our conversation lapses
a failing light
slants across the dusty piano
between us
the keys you leave behind

________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):
—Robert Witmer

birds hush
and like the evening seem to know
why she cries

* * *

growth rings
in the oak
by the fireplace

* * *

knock on wood
another year
winking at the woodpecker

_________________

For the past 46 years, Robert Witmer has lived in Tokyo, Japan, where he served as a Professor of English at Sophia University until his retirement in 2022. He still teaches a course in Creative Writing at the Japan branch of Temple University. He has also had the opportunity to teach courses in poetry and short fiction at a college in southern India. 

 

Robert's own poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies. His first book of poems, Finding a Way, was published in 2016. A second book, Serendipity, a collection of prose poetry pieces and haiku sequences, was published in March 2023. Besides these original works, he served as the lead editor for a series of translations of contemporary Japanese plays, Half a Century of Japanese Theater. Welcome to the Kitchen, Robert, and don’t be a stranger!

_________________

—Medusa

—Robert Witmer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Fading Eloquence of Desire

 First Light

 —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

A COLLAGE OF LONGING: ANOTHER
BLUE NUDE 

—Joyce  Odam

She is untitled as usual. She is too blue for explan-
ation,
as if left between dances, or looking to be forgiven
for one of her follies.

A figure comforts her, sad and ugly, left over from
some
dark thought in a self-hate mirror, finding its way
back
to her—a collage of longing. The poor artist

struggles between them—growing insignificant at
the
power of his art, having lost control of his creation.
Only now there is this terrible love

that will face every barrier of shock and disapproval.
Only tragedy will result. How can he save them
now?
Their eyes have made the connection.
                                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/16/19)

__________________

THE IRRATIONALITY OF DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

They leave her standing at the window, trans-
lucent and yearning after them, or staring at the
moonlight, the gray lake lapping at the night
with silver flickerings. It is not even a goodbye.
The boardwalk echoes with the lonely sound of
footsteps where even the shadows seem to make
a sound—the window candle burning down—
the receding men but slow depictions of each
other.

The men walk away from her in the moonlight,
into the perspective that disappears before they do.
Their blue shadows lag behind. They pass another
lighted window and look in. A lone chair on the
boardwalk on its shadow with no thought or
memory. No meaning. It is only a chair.

The night is only as old as it remembers. Everyone
is young. The quiet lake lies silver and green and
moves closer and closer to the boardwalk. The con-
jured nude at the window reaches out her hand to-
ward the opalescent moon and watches the men
enter the fading eloquence of their desire.
 
                                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/12)

 

 

 

Serene

TIMEPIECE
—Robin Gale Odam

how you guard me with your passion,
your weapons, your tools of trade, your
dangerous stare, the timepiece under your
sleeve—

the day will come for the welling of the
wells—how tears rise with no indignity—

how you will be gone, and then my
heart immortally filled at the welling—
tears to spill over the course of time

____________________

I MUST UNDERSTAND THE WORD
—Joyce Odam

Though I know the word
and I cannot reach the word
and I must undertake the word
to know beyond
the normal knowing
and my dismay
that I go fancy
when I try to stutter my way
through talk to say whatever
is the pure say instead of some un-
comprehensible reach through language,
that tool of words to define my
question or the simplest thing I try
to say when all my meaning goes awry.                   
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/4/22)

 

 

 

Writing The Letter

 

PAUL
—Joyce Odam

You lay on the couch.
Asleep.
I drew you.

I traveled each line,
filled in each contour,
and you never knew.

I will be
an artist, I said
to my beginning self.

Your name was Paul.
Once you
watched me sleep.

I awoke and found you
looking at me.
Strange that I remember

your name—
that much of you.
You were helpless,

asleep.
I drew you:
asleep, helpless, vulnerable;

I stole you,
never gave you back,
never kept the drawing—

no proof
for the poem
I would later write.

__________________

YOU NEVER KNEW ME
—Robin Gale Odam

Charcoal and umber, ivory and
bronze—you painted from memory.
You never colored my lips.

                         
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22)

 

 

 

Whoever She Is

 

I DANCE WITH THE GHOST OF MY SISTER
—Joyce Odam

I dance with the ghost of my sister
she is me
I am one

it is summer
and childhood again

we play catch
we play hide and hide
in seeking twilights

we laugh together at secrets
we sleep together in dreams

when I am angry at her
she disappears
I cannot punish her

only I am punished
by my envy
by my only-childedness
by our tearful mother
who lives only for me

I twirl in the fates of my sister
who is featureless
and has no existence
except what I give her

I pull her after me
in homesick years
in worlds where I am a stranger
and she has outgrown me

                          
(prev. pub. in Calliope, Fall/Winter 1990)

 

 

 

Undersong

 

 
ghosts of old stanzas
now a mesh of random noise
flowers at the door

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)

 

______________________

  

SHADOW LOVE
—Joyce Odam

It was love, I swear, emergent
in the stricken world
into which I hurled
my broken self
and marveled
that I fell
so far—so near,
the marred perfection
of the one
who beckoned me
with longing look.
I did not care how long it took.
The hand reached up
as mine reached down.
How easily a soul can drown
in hope’s reflection—
shimmering within the mind
with no reunion—still entwined
in shadow’s promise.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/14/17)

 

 

 

 Boundary

 

WHAT IS NOT SEEN
—Joyce Odam

What is not seen is vital to our memory.
We call it ghost.

I no longer wish for saltless tears, but
let my eyes burn.

The cloud of knowledge : texture and
longing, ever-re-forming.

My mind flares up, caught again,
in violent description.

Now, to waken, is not to give in,
but to remember.

Lapses crowd in, little descriptions and
floundering, ‘the self’ forgotten.

Notes to myself
flutter neatly around me, like visions.

Hurt cries pain to sensibility,
caught on a thorn, pulling.

It’s all right, we murmur,
it’s all right.

Baying at the moon again,
my silent voice in patient bewilderment.

How can such a swirl make sense,
such a delirium become permanence.

 

 

 

Night Bird Sings

 

IT IS THE MUSIC
After Blue Mozart by Raoul Dufy
—Joyce Odam

It is the music, soft and sad, that leans forever
on the light—the ambient shadows close and
listening. It’s but an echo, a recall, the room

defining what you hear, the ghost that listens
by your side. Note the dust on time’s piano,
how the light leaves nothing there, how the

pale light from the window shines upon
the keys. Dusk is always full of longing.
You must bear it. Close your eyes against

the heavy, heavy, yearning. In the corner,
out of hearing, sorrows magnify. Let them
have the thoughts you send them—blue and

lovely in the gloaming—out of time’s own
voiceless praise. Time continues. Music stays.
                                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/16/18)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

VISCERAL
After Green Landscape by Marc Chagall, l949
 —Robin Gale Odam

The tiny boat, the sea of green, the
bloom of indifference, and these
shadows—just one kiss.
                      

(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2017)

___________________

Lust. What can I say? The Odam Poets (Joyce and Robin Gale) have plenty to say about it— our Seed of the Week—and we thank them for today’s fine post.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Compromise”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Blue Mozart
—Painting by Marc Chagall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Poets and Writers Workshop

meets in Cameron Park today, 5:30pm.

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!

 

Lust in the Afternoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lust in the Kitchen

  “Lust”
—Illustration by Nolcha Fox
(w/Microsoft Image Creator)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Michael H. Brownstein,
Sayani Mukherjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

UNDYING PASSION
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I don’t lust for money, sex,
fame, power, or legacy.
I yearn for Italian food
I ate when I was young.

Pizza, lasagne, fettuccini,
Italian wedding risotto,
spaghetti, meatballs,
parmigiana, gnocchi,
ah, the list goes on.

But no, I must eat
heart-healthy food
to live the perfect life.
But is a life
with no real passion
a perfect life at all?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

THE AH PROMPT (a Triolet)
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

The prompting in the air is Lust
that once was pan for gold.
Ah, think of want-to more than must
when auras in the air bring lust—
and not a power-play, or bust
a rib from passion’s hold!
Medusa’s tricky prompt is Lust.
For nuggets I pan for gold.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SENSUAL
[After this orange iris posted on MK 6/25]
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Voluptuous, as silken bait,
how strange to name, like circus act,
this bearded lady eye attracts,
a lovely señorita which
arises from bared rhizome base.

A complement to be the bee—
no honey trap that I can see
beyond the norm of any bloom
that sets its dress to best effect,
awaiting pass of matador.

A bullseye for the quiver fan,
that golden cape of shoulder length
and rich bronzed fall as swirl of skirt,
a ruby russet lustre furled,
as carpal waits with stigma, style.

So here she stands, a him as well,
both ying and yang genetic codes,
an episode for birds, those bees,
a thought to plant where black and white,
the palette range for rainbow tastes.

Now there they grow, put on a show,
that visitors may pollinate,
deep orange, burnt, with tangerine,
the German flag Linnaeus knew,
a hybrid x, as many are.

So where are we, Germanic Spain,
both señorita, matador,
a mix of genders, bearded girl,
this Carmen with a carmine hue,
a sensual beauty to behold. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

MUSCLE BEACH
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

used to bicycle quite a lot
had legs like a football player
the rest of me a Raggedy Ann doll

loved to cycle down to the beach
salty-air smell, plus lotions, and
fresh-made sandwiches

a bicycle path, ideal in intent, but
shared with pedestrians, roller
skaters, skateboarders, mopeds

one of the features was Muscle Beach
bodies beyond believable, like having
a shiny, bold, Excalibur pull up beside

my faded ’60’s Dodge Dart, silently saying
no amount of paint, or chrome, or effort
would ever transform my car to that …

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WORKPLACE MEMORIES
In response to old prompt, “You are what you drink”
—Caschwa

next cube, right
fresh battery
back from lunch

next cube, left
old hattery
all past tense

next cube, behind
a flattery of
flatulence

delayed delivery
a misery of
patisserie

was that coffee?
if you savor
charcoal flavor 

 

 

 

Serpent Log

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AND THEN IT DISAPPEARS
—Caschwa

many woodwind instruments
have a handy octave key, the
player just puts their finger on
the octave key, applies the necessary
air pressure, and the pitch changes
accordingly

when the player removes their
finger from the key, the key
remains right there, ready for
use again and again

in the garden I have a special
tool to punch a hole in a hose
in preparation for plugging in
an irrigation line

once the hole is established, I
set the tool aside because I need
both hands to continue the job

Unlike the octave key, my hole
punch does not remain where I
can readily grab it to use again,
it wanders off into some box or
bag or crawls into a tight space on
a cluttered shelf and disappears

Then I have to go to the store
and buy another one.

 

 

 

Sand Dragon

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

IN SEARCH OF A BETTER WAY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

Hamas is not allowed to sit at the table—
nor is the Israeli government—
except for the one reserved for cowards,
liars, thieves and the evil in murderers.
Our table is set for a meeting between
the good people of Gaza, the good
people of Israel. Both people deserve
a right to strive and thrive, pray to their God
for peace. Does Hamas not know
their holy book? Do they not know
the Jewish prophets Abraham, Isaac,
and Moses are in their book? Do they
not know there is a place for Jesus?
Has the Israeli government forgotten morality?
Ignorant, inability to comprehend
their holy books, and stone stupidity
is not a reason to kill, wound, and destroy.
Bring on the good people of both lands.
Together we can take away Hamas’ power.
May peace regain its foothold.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

The strange submission of beaded stars
Falls on my back
I surmise a classical music strangely beautiful
Its ringing is poised yet melancholy
The cuckoo’s nest is safe today
A sweet ecstasy of sun-burnt smile
The flagrant dreams keep rolling
Tonight as it is known the songs will pray
For the fall of roman empire
Historic preservation is needed
The aura of narcotic mystery
The same time is preserved
Its calling is a song-perched halt. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Joe Nolan

NIGHT
—Sayani Mukherjee

I upheld the long-haul dream
The topsy-turvy menagerie
Of broken-threaded sweet pearls
That soothe my aching happiness
I dreamt in thee the songs of Paris
When evening comes I love your chestnut-
Brown symphonies raging a thousand oceans
The ukelele of national importance
Do I sing heaven’s ceremonies too?
Or when I plunge my needle I sink a little harder
Over little wishes that once carved your niche
Birds have their nests too
The sweet ocean of peripheral promised land
Come over and play your pulses
The smile is same but magnificent
The golden Gate surpassed us today, night. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

LISTENING TO REPLAYS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

I wasn’t listening.
There was something else
I wanted to say.
It got in the way and
I couldn’t hear
What you wanted to tell me.

What was it you said?
I couldn’t get it.
There was something else
Inside my head
That blocked up both my ears.
I didn’t want to forget it
So I let it do replays.

They say when you play
A record backwards
You hear strange things,
Like, “I buried Paul”
Or, “Paul is dead.”
I wonder if anybody really hears
The replays
Inside each other’s heads?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WHY DO I ITCH?
—Joe Nolan

Why do I itch?
Is it the arrival of a message
That it’s time to switch
Away from
What I been smokin’
Who I been doin’
Or what I been through?

Would it be enough
To just scratch it
To make it go away
Or do I need
Some kinda flea-powder
To shake and shake
Atop the offending place?

Stay tuned for further developments
As I run through the list
Of all the potential solutions
To this perplexing problem
Which might just be a portent
Of a need for change.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LIE LOW
—Stephen Kingsnorth

[a-musing on Joe Nolan’s fleas…]

Do all survive through camouflage,
stark stand out gone, as merge preferred?
We know the smallest, best defence,
adopt their leaf or branch as tent,
just as those fleas, in hair, on leg,
all playing dead, dead cert deployed.
But my red spots are proof they lie,
lowlife, lie low, outlier soon.

_____________________

 

Welcome to the second half of 2024, and many thanks to today's contributors from wide and far! Some of them have written about lust—always fun—our Seed of the Week. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the current SOW.

 

 

 

 Cover, The Cabin at the End of the World
—New book by Douglas Cole (Unsolicited Press)

 

SnakePal Douglas Cole has a new book out from Unsolicited Press by the name of The Cabin at the End of the World (https://www.unsolicitedpress.com/store/p458/theabinattheendoftheworld.html). Some of the work in it was posted in Medusa’s Kitchen once upon a time. Congratulations, Douglas! 

After a lot of nonsense and fol de rol last week, we finally have a shined-up FORMS! OMG!!! page (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/medusa-muses.html), with some dandy brush-ups and additions. I finally was able to list ALL the poem forms we’ve done over the years, with the caveat that you can’t use each poem’s link to get directly to its website; you’ll have to cut and paste. Sorry—Blogger cut me off, memory-wise. It’s still wonderful, though, to see all those forms and all the work Form Fiddlers have tackled so far. Feel free to pick one or two to fiddle with—such as the Toilet poem, maybe—and join us on Form Fiddlers' Friday sometime. (To see Russell Edson's Toilet poem, "With Sincerest Regrets"—yes, it's a thing— go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50780/with-sincerest-regrets/.)
 
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! You don't have to write anything by the 4th, just register.

Three NorCal deadlines coming up soon: Monday (7/15) is the deadline for submissions to Sacramento Poetry Center’s upcoming exhibit of visual poetry (see  https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/events); then another 7/15 SPC deadline, this one for the next issue of Tule Review (https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/publications-tule-review). And 7/18 is the deadline for the annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest (see https://slolowe44.blogspot.com/2024/03/2024-voices-of-lincoln-poetry-contest.html/. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry goings-on in the NorCal area.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that tonight, 6:15pm,
Rivertown Poets & Aqus Cafe
presents a Zoom reading with
Claire Baker and James Cagney;
then at 7:30pm,
Sacramento Poetry Center features
Nyeree Boyadjian and Keith Miller.
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!