—Painting by Sandro Botticelli, mid-1480's
* * *
—Poetry by Timothy Sandefur, Phoenix, AZ
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
THE BIRTH OF VENUS
Of course I’d seen
it all before. But never known.
When she tossed her T-
shirt on the sand, flaming
flowers burst from stems
raked on black like lightning
through a void. They
changed this benighted son
in the twinkling of an eye,
yet, too, infinitely
long ago; the atavistic
memories
of aeons—of flame
and gold and blood—roaring
in my brain, foreordained.
But this ancient stirring
was also soothed by something
fragile, yearning,
like the shadows of eve-
ning flirting with our fire.
Above the beach
at the gloam,
a sole star emerged beneath
the moon, and, like the foam,
whispered secrets long
hinted, now realized—but oh,
so far beyond.
Of course I’d seen
it all before. But never known.
When she tossed her T-
shirt on the sand, flaming
flowers burst from stems
raked on black like lightning
through a void. They
changed this benighted son
in the twinkling of an eye,
yet, too, infinitely
long ago; the atavistic
memories
of aeons—of flame
and gold and blood—roaring
in my brain, foreordained.
But this ancient stirring
was also soothed by something
fragile, yearning,
like the shadows of eve-
ning flirting with our fire.
Above the beach
at the gloam,
a sole star emerged beneath
the moon, and, like the foam,
whispered secrets long
hinted, now realized—but oh,
so far beyond.
THE FIRST TIME
“…what I chiefly remember is the feeling of atavistic fulfillment. Yes, of course, this is what it was always going to feel like. This is the way it was going to be from the beginning of time.”—Richard Dawkins
Tell me, was it always so?
To unfold and find that every petal
peeled away reveals another?
And witness every proven thing
pale as the world turns
and turns again, to yield more
and more profusion still:
to watch as dawn curves into dawn
the ordinary trees stretch out
their twenty thousand fingertips
to catch their fill of life?
Walking through this new dimension
where the sky is shaped to fit
between the leaves,
I sense beyond my senses wanting;
a different kind of fire.
It isn’t like that other light.
It burns the world pure.
STARDUST
Past ethereal space
I see your face and see
the spectrum of
infinity in that
tiny light that shines in
your eyes from a star
ten million miles
far—and now so near.
I savor the nebulous
sigh of your breath; feel
your radiant flesh
against my chest; detect
your heart’s pulsations within.
My Venus, your
measureless marvelous
smile’s an horizon
that draws me eternally
heavenward. Let
me seek the dawn in
endless orbit about your
center; tonight let’s
find the secrets of
the sky, and in the darkness
fuse anew in life.
A WINTER SESTINA
Spring had gone—taking along its violent
flooding; its force that yearly drives the red
bloodroot’s budding; its powers, hidden in blue
behind new clouds to blast its storms and
generate the weather’s wind; and green
apples hosting companies of yellow
bees who, seething, fabricate their yellow
honey—and yielded to soothing violet
blooms on summer picnic fields, green
lawns beneath us where we lay and read
and ate and let ourselves believe that more and
just as good remained. We ached as blue-
bells waved beside the crooked rose. The blues
were playing somewhere far away, and yellow
sunlight burnished August peaches’ orange
flesh. What joy to be alive. “Oh, let
it last forever!” we‘d cry, and how we’d dread
the first cooling breezes. We were green
and golden. In September, we thought the green-
ing still to come, and went about our sky-blue
trades. When days grew long, we would play Red
Garland’s “Autumn Leaves,” and watch as yellow
burned the tips of trees like flames, violet
sunsets framing skies of sultry orange.
Since you went away, how sweet or strange
it’s seemed to see the way the shades of green
succumb to grey. The spectrum fades; the violent
gloom gathers again, and when the blue
descends to find the farm is fled, its yellow
lights remind me how I once so read-
ily believed that we’d somehow be spared.
Still, the heavens tick around, and the orange
gloaming that reveals Venus’ yellow
stillness says the force that through the green
fuse once drove life—now frozen blue
beneath the snow—awaits inviolate,
ready for the thaw. And while it,
like a beast or angel, sings old winter’s blues,
a yellow dawn stirs the budding green.
THE SHADOW LEFT BEHIND
The shadow left behind in dark
is far too fine for sight to mark.
It takes the shape of imagining.
It sounds like silence, echoing
through vacant chambers of the heart.
Like a touch an inch too far
away, you sense the contact start
in dreams before awakening.
The shadow left behind
throws its shade on every part
of you. Someday when you aren’t
expecting it, some little thing
will cause a subtle darkening:
an eclipse cast by a single spark;
the shadow left behind.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Venus favors the bold.
—Ovid
____________________
Timothy Sandefur is an attorney and author living in Phoenix; he used to live in Placerville and Rescue, CA, and has appeared in the Kitchen a number of times since 2012, most recently in October 2023. Welcome back, Timothy, and thanks for the fine poems, including your noble Sestina!
____________________
—Medusa
throws its shade on every part
of you. Someday when you aren’t
expecting it, some little thing
will cause a subtle darkening:
an eclipse cast by a single spark;
the shadow left behind.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Venus favors the bold.
—Ovid
____________________
Timothy Sandefur is an attorney and author living in Phoenix; he used to live in Placerville and Rescue, CA, and has appeared in the Kitchen a number of times since 2012, most recently in October 2023. Welcome back, Timothy, and thanks for the fine poems, including your noble Sestina!
____________________
—Medusa
Timothy Sandefur
A reminder that today is a busy day
in NorCal poetry: Mosaic of Voices
presents Kim Addona & Bob Stanley
in Lodi at 2pm; readers from
Voices 2024 will be featured at
Sacramento Poetry Alliance, 3-7pm;
Proxy Moon & Poetry Fundraiser
for R25 Theater Complex
with Candice Lamarche & Bob Stanley
starts in Sacramento, 7pm; and
Moira Magneson and Robert McNally
will have a conversation in Placerville
about his new book, 7pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
in NorCal poetry: Mosaic of Voices
presents Kim Addona & Bob Stanley
in Lodi at 2pm; readers from
Voices 2024 will be featured at
Sacramento Poetry Alliance, 3-7pm;
Proxy Moon & Poetry Fundraiser
for R25 Theater Complex
with Candice Lamarche & Bob Stanley
starts in Sacramento, 7pm; and
Moira Magneson and Robert McNally
will have a conversation in Placerville
about his new book, 7pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
