Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Joe Nolan, and Caschwa
PARCHED JULY
at the Fairgrounds
Old boots
not at pasture—
where are their old cowboys?
Boots gathered here to grow new life
but those sprouts have withered.
Boots wait for seeds—
next spring?
at the Fairgrounds
Old boots
not at pasture—
where are their old cowboys?
Boots gathered here to grow new life
but those sprouts have withered.
Boots wait for seeds—
next spring?
TRUSTING HOPE
Consider the legends of glory—the quest
for gold between uplift and erosion, a land split
by so much natural trauma and the wilds
of weather. It’s summer verging on triple digits.
Those old adventurers didn’t have air
conditioning. This is the cool of morning,
set to rev up the heat. I’m busy locking things up
against the sun—windows, curtains—
trusting in ceiling fans and ice-maker, hopeful
of making it through this day without
the power going out.
Consider the legends of glory—the quest
for gold between uplift and erosion, a land split
by so much natural trauma and the wilds
of weather. It’s summer verging on triple digits.
Those old adventurers didn’t have air
conditioning. This is the cool of morning,
set to rev up the heat. I’m busy locking things up
against the sun—windows, curtains—
trusting in ceiling fans and ice-maker, hopeful
of making it through this day without
the power going out.
OTIS AT HOME, SUMMER
Is he grumpy or just bored? Another day
of summer-on-steroids. We call it climate change,
but what does a dog know about that? In the garage
I discovered a stuff-bag of old dog & puppy gear,
with a fuzzy squeaky ball for our tiniest pups.
Otis is no puppy, but he’s bored or wiped out or
just grumpy. Give it a try. He’s infatuated.
He wants to squeak it to death. I toss it,
he brings it back full-speed gut-level, drops it
in my hand. He could keep this up until
I’m tired, bored, and grumpy.
FREE FOR THE PICKING
How luscious these black berries
in trailside bramble—
oh yes, they have thorn-guards but
don’t let that stop you.
These berries won’t wait,
they’re ripe and
sweet!
BILDUNGSROMAN
odd occurrences
felicitous failures
curious coincidences
tragedy traversed
serendipitous sidetracks
happy happenstances
change a life
MORNING DOG WALKERS
Humans with partners
purebred or mongrel, each one
sniffing out Sunday.
Work-week starts with dog-
duty before the commute—
just follow your dog.
No more wildflowers,
it’s sultry summer—Rover
lifts leg on dead weeds.
The week’s heating up,
put your palm down on pavement—
too hot for pooch paws?
You’re trying out yet
another collar-harness-
leash rigging—good luck!
From above, Raven
comments on how you’re dancing
with that wild young pup.
Saturday brings out
more dogs tugging their partners
on adventure rounds.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OAKS IN JULY
—Taylor Graham
heat dome has settled
over the trail—look ahead
blessed pool of shade
____________________
Taylor Graham is parched in July like the rest of us here in California—even her pal, Otis!—fried to the gills from ten days of record-breaking heat. No wonder we’re grumpy… But in spite of it all, TG has sent us fine poems and pix to help get past this hottest of months, and thanks to her for that.
Forms TG has sent this week include a Dribble (“Bildungsroman”); a Haiku (“Oaks in July”); a Word-Can Poem (“Trusting Hope”); an Eintou (“Parched July”); an Epulaeryu (“Free for the Picking”); and an Ethnographic Haiku chain (“Morning Dog Walkers”). The Epulaeryu and the Ethnographic Haiku were last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and mentions of grumpiness here are in response to last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week, Grumpy.
Tomorrow night in Placerville will be Third Saturday Artwork Authors Night, 4-8pm, with local authors (including some of our poets) signing their books at various businesses around town. El Dorado County also has a regular schedule of workshops, weekly and otherwise; go to Medusa’s link, UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) and scroll down to the section on workshops. For more 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.
And now it’s time for…
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. 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 photo brought out several responses to this yummy photo; we received Ekphrastic poems from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Joe Nolan:
SWEET MYSTERY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Strawberries hide
the sweet treat inside.
I confess, I can’t guess.
Just a taste, I won’t waste
this surprise.
* * *
BUT A TRIFLE?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
There is no common language here;
one shortcake is another’s fare—
an iced confection, fruit atop,
not Scottish crumbly biscuit form—
for that is shortbread, not a cake,
as if what’s ‘short’ is pastry bake?
It can’t be size that’s so adjudged—
this more than bitesize for the mouth;
the lexicon has whipped cream top
while I see icing, sugar rich.
I knew not, till today’s frame came,
that this concoction carried name.
Its unseen neighbour, drizzled brown,
some syrup, maple, chocolate,
or coffee, mocha (enzyme prompt—
I feel erupt, juice under tongue).
A weighty subject here, it’s clear,
cholesterol, insulin fear.
It was Dad’s birthday, end of June,
tradition in our family,
first strawberries in England’s year—
’fore foreign plastic punnet turned.
How did this kid eat sprinkled fruit,
save English berries sour to boot?
Here’s achene, rarer pillowed seeds,
embedded, floating sea of red,
and passed, nay soiled, if luck prevails—
far distant from its manger straw.
It’s just desserts for ripe repast,
concluding dish quite unsurpassed.
Our global appetites at stake—
some rotten fish, delicacy,
so rat and dog, or locust, worm;
as buds bloom, varied ways to flower.
Survival does not feed our taste—
no trifle that much goes to waist.
* * *
FORGIVENESS WITH A CHERRY ON TOP
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Forgiveness
Is so much easier
With a giant dollop
Of sexy cream
On top
Of a hot-fudge
Ice cream sundae
Or three-scoop
Banana split
Who could ever refuse it?
After all,
We all need to eat.
We all need
A special treat
Something cool and creamy
To make us
Appreciate heat.
* * *
Here is another Ekphrastic from Stephen Kingsnorth, this one based on this photo which was posted in the Kitchen on Monday, 7/15:
CLAPPERBOARD SCENE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
If anywhere, surely it’s here—
expect a road of yellow brick;
between two rows of petal fall
from roses, some ‘Good Morning’ call.
Yon primrose cott of clapper board,
like hanging gardens, Babylon,
with white frames, angled architraves,
a counterpoint to golden blooms.
A broom, maybe, cleared channel through—
and, by the way, that’s yellow too—
but are they pruned, as ladder used,
both bushy shrubs and garland swags?
When winter comes and these retreat,
as arbours necklaced jasmine gems,
do bloomers rise, like Christmas rose,
or is that Lenten, Easter pose?
* * *
Like Taylor Graham [see above], Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) tackled the Ethnographic Haiku, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and sent us a chain of them:
—Stephen Kingsnorth
If anywhere, surely it’s here—
expect a road of yellow brick;
between two rows of petal fall
from roses, some ‘Good Morning’ call.
Yon primrose cott of clapper board,
like hanging gardens, Babylon,
with white frames, angled architraves,
a counterpoint to golden blooms.
A broom, maybe, cleared channel through—
and, by the way, that’s yellow too—
but are they pruned, as ladder used,
both bushy shrubs and garland swags?
When winter comes and these retreat,
as arbours necklaced jasmine gems,
do bloomers rise, like Christmas rose,
or is that Lenten, Easter pose?
* * *
Like Taylor Graham [see above], Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) tackled the Ethnographic Haiku, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and sent us a chain of them:
NOBODY WINS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the fastest pitch by
Nolan Ryan: one hundred
point eight miles per hour
a pitching machine
hurls the balls 29 to
146 mph
Donald J. Trump spits
lies out faster than
a pitching machine
bat readied, sweet spot
carefully aligned to hit
the pitch, feels right, now!
swing! miss! over and
over, there is no chance to
repel all the lies
one can only watch
them gather on the ground till
they’re carted away
no contact at all
no roar of the crowd, just left
smelling the resin
* * *
Carl also used Joyce Odam’s Three Moon Pattern:
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the fastest pitch by
Nolan Ryan: one hundred
point eight miles per hour
a pitching machine
hurls the balls 29 to
146 mph
Donald J. Trump spits
lies out faster than
a pitching machine
bat readied, sweet spot
carefully aligned to hit
the pitch, feels right, now!
swing! miss! over and
over, there is no chance to
repel all the lies
one can only watch
them gather on the ground till
they’re carted away
no contact at all
no roar of the crowd, just left
smelling the resin
* * *
Carl also used Joyce Odam’s Three Moon Pattern:
THIS IS NOT THAT
—Caschwa
No, this is not political
no flags were burned in the first draft
on one side is the Gun Lobby
notching lots of wins in the shaft
On one side is the Gun Lobby
funneling tons and heaps of dough
They’re not playing penny ante
like the Secret Service, so slow.
They’re not playing penny ante
they own the house and set the rules
use the latest technology
leaving the rest of us as fools
* * *
And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth, about pulling poems from one’s “hoard/horde” of memories:
HOARD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I hanker for the early days;
though recognise not so for all—
the privilege when love enwrapped
such busyness which filled my life.
Now space allows recall of scenes,
crown jewels of coronation years,
before her advent, spouse beside—
she cannot know those wistful hoards.
Now time hangs free, so much I see—
and hear, feel, sense was close to me—
the songs we sang that lifted hope,
associated props, key prompts;
brief glimpses, momentary clues,
exemplars of new learning gifts
that drew me to a further stage,
with retrospect, the pilgrim root.
That trove was never buried deep,
but even shallow soils need spades
to scrape or dig, so free the tilth
that covers, now reveals the chest.
Like pumping heart beneath the cage
that pulses blood, sets rhythmic breath,
those furrowed grains brought sprouting life
so needs must graft the future stock.
But when is hoard, a horde in fact,
a treasure, dormant, brought to life
by storing notes as sounding board
so holding what we knew before?
Sheet music, scale, chromatic chords
we sang around piano stool,
the colour of old melodies
when family sang harmonies?
Forgotten instruments of pledge
that held us tight through listening
to tones, for our task, partner tune.
You think nostalgia everywhere,
but hearing, taught that we should care
beyond expected boundaries,
to rhythms foreign to our ears,
find our nation shared commonwealth.
___________________
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!
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I hanker for the early days;
though recognise not so for all—
the privilege when love enwrapped
such busyness which filled my life.
Now space allows recall of scenes,
crown jewels of coronation years,
before her advent, spouse beside—
she cannot know those wistful hoards.
Now time hangs free, so much I see—
and hear, feel, sense was close to me—
the songs we sang that lifted hope,
associated props, key prompts;
brief glimpses, momentary clues,
exemplars of new learning gifts
that drew me to a further stage,
with retrospect, the pilgrim root.
That trove was never buried deep,
but even shallow soils need spades
to scrape or dig, so free the tilth
that covers, now reveals the chest.
Like pumping heart beneath the cage
that pulses blood, sets rhythmic breath,
those furrowed grains brought sprouting life
so needs must graft the future stock.
But when is hoard, a horde in fact,
a treasure, dormant, brought to life
by storing notes as sounding board
so holding what we knew before?
Sheet music, scale, chromatic chords
we sang around piano stool,
the colour of old melodies
when family sang harmonies?
Forgotten instruments of pledge
that held us tight through listening
to tones, for our task, partner tune.
You think nostalgia everywhere,
but hearing, taught that we should care
beyond expected boundaries,
to rhythms foreign to our ears,
find our nation shared commonwealth.
___________________
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!
•••Eight-ette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/eight-ette
•••AND/OR first, last, and always:
•••First and Last (devised by Rebel Coyote): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/first-and-last
•••AND/OR maybe give a Feghoot a shot (for those who love puns and shaggy dog stories):
•••Feghoot: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/feghoot
•••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 “Mama Doe and her two fawns stole my tomatoes”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble
•••Eintou: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/eintou
•••Eight-ette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/eight-ette
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Epulaeryu: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/epulaeryu.html AND/OR https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/epulaeryu
•••Ethnographic Haiku: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/ethnographic-haiku
•••Feghoot: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/feghoot
•••First and Last (devised by Rebel Coyote): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/first-and-last
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Three Moon Pattern (devised by Joyce Odam): Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a | BR c DR c | DR e x e | DR e x e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
▪ Opening line introduces an idea.
▪ Second line extends the idea
▪ Third line introduces a new idea
▪ Fourth line brings first three lines together
•••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
Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
* * *
—Public Domain Illustration
For info about
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!
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!
