Pokin' With That Ol' Proboscis

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox,
Joe Nolan, and Medusa

 

 

TOO MUCH NOISE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Silence hid in the linen closet,
behind the towels and mildew.
So much safer, safer
in the shadows than reduced
to tears, exposed to slaps of
whack-whack-whack from
ceiling fans, to crackling static
cackling lights. Too loud,
she said, to hear me whisper
of the summer fading into
slant-light autumn, whisper
of the maple leaves adorned
in early lipstick red.
You can find me in the shadows,
cuddled up with hope that winter
chill will stay outdoors
and snowfall will be brief.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

A SAINT FOR A SEASON
—Nolcha Fox

Saint Audrey of Autumn
leaves miracles of color
on every horizontal
surface of the day.
Trees shiver as she ambles
into sunlight that grows softer,
and leaves shadows
in the meadows where
the dandelions once swayed.
The days grow sad and shorter,
and her amble turns to hobble
when the winds cool hours
into winter snow.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNDER SURVEILLANCE
—Nolcha Fox

Deer jump the fence to criticize
the taste of leaves and flowers.
Rabbits check the greenness
of the grass in our backyard.
Wild turkey promenade the street
to check our curb appeal.
Our nosy neighbors tell us
everything we need to know.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE PARKERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Proboscis—they won’ understand—
the name by which I knew them when
they watched, while looking other way,
pretending focus not on me.

By greenhouse glass, or upstairs, house,
through mirrorwork in lawn art piece,
reflecting on what might have been,
the scene they hoped to see unfold,
muck spreading, me by compost heap.

As I drew in sweet-smelling grass,
the cuttings laid on fungal rot,
they peered, as if at mushroom plot,
sure my hobby—their horse in fact.

It is obsession, flower power,
the sniffing, nicotiana,
my perfumed garden, on the scent,
weed gathering or at potting shred,
now screened net curtains, prying eyes.

I have it plumbed, extractor fan,
heat, light controlled, experiment,
to test if dreams can be fulfilled,
strangers grown in suburbia.

Named Parker, as my neighbour’s claim,
‘keep off the grass’ at entry path,
the vigilantes of estate,
while I feel must not disappoint,
their record sheets help populate.

They really need a uniform,
a standard, cap, brass buttoned up,
and roses, rambling, hybrid, climb,
all thorned to prick self-satisfied. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

NOT ALONE, NOT WOODS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

oh sure, you read history accounts
about European composers, who,
to free their mind and invite artistic
thoughts to prevail, take a stroll in
the woods alone

and here you are glued to one spot
in a megalopolis, separated from the
closest forest by hundreds of miles,
perhaps thousands of dollars, and
the luck to reserve a ticket to enter

your best bet is to find a quiet park
where leash laws are strictly enforced,
where children are meek and mind their
parents, where it is just a few steps away
from your normal milieu, where your
knowledge of edible plants can sustain
you for a whole day, where??

I was fortunate to find such a park when
I worked at a savings & loan on Wilshire
Boulevard’s Miracle Mile. At lunchtime,
I and my packed lunch would leave the 27-
story edifice with a helipad on top and
stroll down the street to the La Brea Tar Pits.

Though I was definitely not alone, and
definitely not in the woods, my mind was
a world away from the megalopolis in
which I was otherwise entrapped 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

AFTER GRADUATION
—Caschwa

I know full well that I was
presented documents saying
that I had successfully completed
one or another course of study:

my high school diploma, my
college degree, my Paralegal
Certificate, my teaching
credentials, swimming classes,
CPR, Driver’s License, my Mule
Skinners recognition from the
Grand Canyon, etc.

What I do not have is a photo-
graphic memory of every word
or phrase used on those documents
so I can’t tell you specifically
whether that good news was
declared, certified, or just written
down.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FULL OF SAND
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Everything
Is full of sand,
Lost to reason,
Beyond command.

The sand inside
Has lost its soul,
Fallen into granules
Beyond control.

Your only chance
Is to bag it up
Lest it slip
Its way
Through your fingers.

Once it’s bagged
It might be useful
To stack around a home
To keep away a flood.

Even just a handful
Will teach you many lessons
About impermanence
And the dull, dreadful ways
Things fall away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE PROMISE OF CALIFORNIA
—Joe Nolan

The promise of California
Is a soaring hawk
In a cloudless,
Bright-blue sky

With every assurance
It will be like this for months
While the grass turns brown.

Nothing at all
To get in your way
On any given day
Until the winter comes.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WHEN IT’S TIME TO GO
—Joe Nolan

Well, you know,
It’s only a
Question of time
Until you let it go.

Even your dog,
Who loves you so,
Can’t hold on
Forever.

One day
Her arthritic shell
In which she limps, along,
Will cry out to be gone.

Such a sad day,
Such a sad day,
But later, in your dreams,
Later, by months or years,
She will say she loves you!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

EXEMPLARS OF COURAGE
—Joe Nolan

Winners go up high
Higher and higher
Straight up to the sky
Where they melt or fry
Or freeze
On top of Everest.

We all applaud
Such brash displays of courage
Their motivation
Their masterful achievements
Examples to us all
Not to have a downfall.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The nosy navigate life like it’s an open book and they’re the editors.

—Anonymous

_____________________

Welcome to another Monday in the Kitchen, and many thanks to today’s contributors! You’ll see whiffs of recent Seeds of the Week from them, including our two most recent: Nosy Neighbors (animal and otherwise), and Alone in the Woods—not to mention tidings of Fall. Autumn photos are so seductive…

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Hey—the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—for poetry, that is! When was the last time you sent your poems to the Kitchen? 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. You, too, can be a SnakePal! The world is waiting…

Check out last Thursday’s Sacramento Bee article about the 1997 Royal Chicano Air Force mural at Washington Neighborhood Center in Sacramento—muy bueno! It’s at https://www.sacbee.com/news/equity-lab/representation/article292935904.html/.

Placerville’s Mountain Democrat has published its Poem of the Month, “The Forest is a Graveyard” by Ellen Osborn. Congratulations, Ellen!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the GTFO Collective will read
tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 Monday Mood 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diogenes' Lanterns

 Argyle, Scotland

—Poetry and Photos by Maureen (Mo) Hurley
(1952-2024)

HAND TOOLS

There was an old pruning saw
I favored that folded in two
with a wingnut hinge
curved handle and blade
two crescent moons
that hung from a rusty nail
on the wall of the back porch
of my grandmother's house.

The saw curved like a comma
and I could pull down hard
on it with my 12-year-old arms
and cut the slender branches
that threatened to pull me
from the back of my horse.

No one else to do it for me
I made do as best I could.
Like the time the Toby's Feedstore
driver delivered a ton of hay but
dumped it at the bottom of the hill
because he couldn't be bothered stacking it
assuming there was a man about the house
to take care of such ordinary things.

I was faced with hefting hay bales
a tenth of a mile up to the old barn
and the sky spitting, rain was coming.
No matter that it took me most of the summer
babysitting to earn enough money
to buy that ton of shining oat hay
for my old glue factory rescue horse.

I wailed, wiped my nose on my sleeve,
jabbed rusty hayhooks into a bale
and frogmarched it to the barn.
Then another, and another.
It was hard work for a child.
It was the only way I knew how
and I was never going to make it
before the rains came.

 

 

 

 

 

MY GRANDMOTHER’S HANDS

My grandmother’s hands
were torn and speckled with pigment:
fair northern flesh burned by the fierce California
sun.
A rebellious knotted vein rose up like a stone.
Souvenir from a strand of barbed wire
strung to keep the deer out of the garden.

Her freckles were an archipelago of islands
adrift on a moon-milk sea.
They were Brendan voyagers in curraghs
headed for the New World
with a warrior phalanx of shields
raised up against a common enemy, the sun.
But they failed to protect her children—
when the melanoma set sail for that country
from which nothing ever returns.

I remember her wide spatulate fingers
that rubbed floursack sheets against the washboard,
that mended jeans, made dresses for first day of
school,
and how I was ashamed they were not store-bought.
I remember the way she weeded the gardens,
dug up the praties, stacked wood for coming winter.

From her, I learned the survival of hands.
No caresses were needed because her love
was as fierce as the sun that burned her skin
as she labored in the garden or at the clothesline.
She kept us safe, and provided when no one else
would.
As she knelt to pray in the Sunday pew,
the sun shone on that knotted vein
and it was so beautiful—the scarring and the freckles,
a skin painting of faith and tenderness.

 

 

 

 

DUN I, IONA
    (after a translation from the Ohlone)

I dreamed you were a sliver
of light glinting on the curve of the sea.
On the machair, the rabbits
cleansed their scalloped sand porches
while amid the lambs, the hares stood sentinel.
I dreamed of you dreaming me
on the granite dome of Dun I,
... at the center of the island
between a rowan and an oak
in a crevice at the well of age,
the falcon's eye, a distant sun
dancing on the edge of the world.

 

 

 

 El Dorado Del Mar, San Felipe, Mexico

 

13TH WAVE

When I was a child at Venice Beach,
floating in the calm sea beyond the surf,
out of nowhere, rogue waves rose up
like translucent jade knives, formed crests
against the throat of the deep summer sky.

Out of my depth, I swam to greet them.
That was the drill if an Outsider appeared—
Swim to meet the wave before it broke you.
Dive through the crest to avoid its force.
Swim and dive, swim and dive. Deflect the blow.

Rise and fall, rise and fall. Far from land,
I watched the blond shore grow ever distant.
The waves played me—like the father I never had—
tossing me up to the roof of the sky. In terror,
I waited for the right wave to bring me in.

But I grew numb, the sea sapped my strength,
I was too far from shore for lifeguards to see.
When would my crazy mother—sleeping it off—
stone-deaf to my brother's wails, realize I was gone?
I was a child alone in a vast sea. Breathe. Breathe.

Out of nowhere I heard my grandmother's voice:
"Always count the waves," she said. "Find the set."
9, 11, 12—I counted, but couldn't find the pattern.
Then, on the horizon of a wave, the fin of a dolphin.
A break in the set. He looked me in the eye. "Now!"

We caught the 13th wave toward the safety of shore.
I lay facedown in the sand, too tired to be amazed,
or say "Bye." Who'd believe a child's tale, anyway?
I said nothing about the waves and the sea that day.
It was my secret—a matter of survival, at best.

 

 

 

  El Dorado Del Mar, San Felipe, Mexico

A FIFTH OF BEETHOVEN

Yesterday I told my students a story
about Gustavo's crazy cockatiel,
how Kirk the musicman tried to teach it
the opening to Beethoven's Fifth
& how it couldn't get that last chord right,
no matter how much they both practiced,
how the note always fell flat, but the bird
would say entonces, or coño, and include
all the tape recorder clicks & whirrs.

Every time I went: DA-DA-DAA Dum,
the class bird catcalled and wolf whistled,
dirty danced on his perch, bopped his
head,
puffed out his orange cheek patches,
and crested like a Mohican. I was
explaining how some words fall flat,
the poet's job to seek the music of words,
was a matter of practice, like doing scales.
Unfortunately, the bird got so worked up
he catcalled the entire poetry hour.

I was hoping he'd just take the Fifth
(or maybe down a fifth) and shut up
before I threatened to squeeze
his sorry yellow ass into a tequila sunrise.

 

 

 

 
TO MY POETRY STUDENTS

            —The foundation of every state
                  is the education of its youth.

First, do not be offended if I don't remember your
names.
My children are as varied as the voices of the wind.
Do not assume that because I don't call you by name,
that I do not know you. For I remember all of you,
the poems you write & all your faces shining
with the first faltering words of hope.
Do not rage against the wind or lack of memory
as if the sun had risen prematurely at daybreak
painted with rosy yearning, only to find the clouds
had forgotten how to properly mourn the tragedies
of a world drowning in the vagaries of the heart.
For once I stood alone with the voices of the wind,
my own song hanging at the end of its chord,
like Edvard Munch's silent scream echoing off the
canvas,
a nocturne of loneliness, an etude seeking rebirth
before I called it poetry, before it called for me.
Sleep returns lost memory in minute increments
of time swaddled in the supplication of blue solace
unburdened by prayer or the length of the road
set adrift in the traceless grasses' slow current.
To love words requires only the longevity of a mind
that is part redwood, & part bristlecone pine
& a threshold for a mouth that is part estuary,
& part river to address the worded islands of the
world.
Remember to write of what is visible and seen;
pay homage to the slender names rooted in oak,
lichen & moss, reed & bracken fern, lupine wolf &
moon.
Treat your poems like long lost kith and kin.
Then, someday when you can forgive their way-

wardness
they will be Diogenes' lanterns on dark, restless 

nights.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

______________________

Today’s Kitchen is devoted to Maureen (Mo) Hurley, who passed away this summer. Mo visited the Kitchen for a while back in 2010-2012 with her photos and poems, and I thought it would be an appropriate tribute to bring some of those back, fine as they are. Rest well, Mo—we all miss you.

For more about Mo, go to https://www.adobecreekfuneralhome.com/obituary/maureen-hurley/.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 Mo Hurley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the final
ForestSong will take place in
Lotus, CA today from 1-5pm.
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!

 

 

Until Her Tattoos Fall Off~

 —Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock,
Antioch, CA

 

 

MERDRE!

I awoke to a dream
of a missive from Dada
written automatically
to my exquisite corpse

 

 

 

 

SPOILER

Too many chiefs
and not enough cooks
to spare the rod
and the victor’s child
from the broth of war

 

 

 

 

LET US PRAY

God is great
but God’s a goof.
We are thankful for our roof.
Amen.

 

 

 

THE WILD WOOD

down the hill
from Villa Montalvo
and the carriage house
there’s a bench
in a little grotto
hung with ferns
where I first read
The Wind in the Willows
from cover to cover
and I never came back

 

 

 

DEAR BOBBY,

You’ve got to find
that thing you love to do
then do it harder
until Mama takes your car away
and even the dogs won’t have
anything to do with you.

And find that woman
you love to love
then love her longer
until her tattoos fall off
and she sings for your
supper door to door.

And don’t be afraid to
climb that pile of empty
crates you’ve stacked up
over all these years
then peek in the windows
and you’ll see me dancing.

And damn it Bobby
never forget to dream.

Love,
D.R.

 

 

 

 


Today’s LittleNip:


THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT
—Robert Lee Haycock


Art is long and life is short?
I should hope to snicker and snort!

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to prodigal Robert Lee Haycock for his return to the Kitchen with his fine poems and pix! Robert Lee has visited the Kitchen off-and-on since 2010. He says these offerings are “written with invisible ink”, so I guess we’d better hurry up and read them!

 

 

 

 Robert Lee Haycock

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be at the
Oak Park Literacy Festival
today, 10am-1pm; then SPC
will feature Tom Crawford’s
Be Broken to be Whole
tonight, 6pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Skeletons in the Woods

Otis Confronts the Woods 

 

* * *

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Caschwa

 

 

ALONE IN THE WOODS

Or maybe not. Oh where
shall we walk today, my dog and I?

I’ve been checking the internet
for forest and city news.

Mountain lion sightings—
home-security & game-trail cams:

Big Cut, Cedar Ravine, Greenstone,
Green Valley, Newtown, Forebay...

How refreshing is a walk alone
with my dog in the woods.

Just the two of us, and deer,
birds, squirrels; with luck, no lion. 

 

 

 

 

GHOSTLY SKELETON

Queen Anne’s Lace still stands
in a dead-dry field, sovereign
in the march to fall. 

 

 

 

MORNING ON THE PAVED TRAIL

She walks
like it hurts
I say “brava!”

subsolar
clinch-enrichment

That guy
arm-pumping
eyes on pavement

blind
optical trickery limits
bird carillons

I say “good morning!”
silence.

consecrate
or gravitate
don’t trip 

 

 

 

 

A SHADY SPOT

Beside the gurgling creek’s a micro-park,
a place for moment’s rest off the main street—
one black travel pack, a pair of black boots,
blue sleeping bag (occupied) in an arc
of comfort in September noonday heat—
if he’s not supposed to, who gives two hoots?

__________________

FUTURES

Is there a stockbroker for
seed pods? We must have a fortune
in them here, offspring of weeds.
They’re everywhere.
They know no limits, no maximum.
The stickery ones especially keep multiplying.
Just look across the field,
all the little parachutes, the hang gliders
on the wind that carries some away
and brings us more, that gives them wings. 

 

 

 

 

IN THE WOODS ALONE

without my dog. Is this the nature area
I’ve known for years, and often get lost in?
a maze of trails, some with signs at junctions
but no arrows pointing which way
to where or what? At trailhead, a new post,
glass-encased flyer on mountain lions.
Down the trail between fields of blackberry
bramble. What species of aster is this,
taller than my head? My plant-app won’t say.
And this leafy tree? not a clue. Here’s
pine I don’t recognize? the app tells me
Pinus (pine)—big help! And here, what kind
of plant is this? app tells me it’s a sapsucker—
bird!? My dog might be a better guide.
A vulture flies high and silent overhead.
I’ve reached the creek. I’d best just
keep my bearings and enjoy the moment
among willow, tule, bramble, and all the un-
nameables. Is that the magic of the woods? 

 

 

 

 Prayer Flag

Today’s LittleNip:

NATURE WALK
—Taylor Graham

unknowns before us
on trail leading who knows where—
leaves fall from the twig

_____________________

 

Otis and Taylor Graham are out in the woods again today, making the most of the autumn weather and braving the ghosts of lace and leaves and whatever adventures they can find, and we thank them for reporting back to us in fine poetry and photos. Forms TG has sent us include two Haiga (“Nature Walk”; “Ghostly Skeleton”); a Word-Can Poem (“Futures”); a Just 15s (“Alone in the Woods”); a Rengay with a random-words partner (“Morning on the Paved Trail”); and an Italian Sestet (“A Shady Spot”). The Italian Sestet was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week, and Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was “Alone in the Woods”.

TG makes a note that the prayer flag is from local artist Andie Thrams's ForestSong project—this one was from the Somerset event September 22; the final event will be Sept. 29 at Camp Lotus (including poetry writing with Moira Magneson). El Dorado County’s ForestSong is an art project by Andie Thrams which centers on painting Forest Prayer Flags to deepen appreciation of and connection to forests, address environmental loss, and celebrate biophilia. Info: https://www.andiethrams.com/forestsong-events-and-more/. Open mic 3:15-3:45pm!

Writers whose mailing address is within El Dorado County are encouraged to submit to the new Slope and Basin literary journal before its Oct. 1 deadline (that's next weeek!). Info: https://artsandcultureeldorado.org/slope-and-basin/.

Coming up in El Dorado County in October (10/11-12) is Tahoe’s first-ever Tahoe Literary Festival, with workshops, panels, and key speakers in Tahoe City, CA—including an Ekphrastic workshop with Lara Gularte. $35 for the entire festival, or $15 to hear just the keynote speaker, Obi Kaufmann, on 10/11. Info: https://yourtahoeguide.com/2024/09/tahoe-literary-festival-workshops-panels-highlight-inaugural-festival/.

In El Dorado County Poetry this week: In addition to ForestSong this Sunday, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html).

For more news about EDC 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/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!
 
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.)


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 Ekphrastic Photo

Last week’s photo brought response-poems from Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


CORNER SHOP
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


The Gould’s had the corner shop
opposite the church.
You could buy anything there,
at a price.
Row upon row of tinned goods,
sliced ham and spam
at double the price.
You could buy anything there
any time,
even on Sundays,
especially on Sundays,
when the queue snaked outside.
It was a gold mine, everyone said so.
They sold everything there
at double the price
always
without a smile.

* * *

SOME THINGS CAN’T BE FIXED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She thought she could wind him
around her ring finger,
turn him into the prince of her dreams,
remake him from a manly man
into a simpering shadow.

He opened up his simple heart
to let her have her way.
Inside she found his valves were full
of chewing tobacco, motor oil,
and ten-year-old cans of beans.

No need to wreck her manicure
to clean up such a mess.
While she drove off, he popped
a beer and turned to watch
the playoffs on TV.

 

 

 

TINS CAN?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The window dresser’s rôle is shelved,
for who’s attracted by the brand
(save holder of some shares, I’m bound)—
all gold, bold blue, full coloured hues,
though green’s ironic, just fake news.

A garage lot, though bikes the plot,
a recipe for dirt bike gas—
or this the cover to the guide,
the key to making engine run
on two stroke fuel, without the knock.

It’s gas and oil in ratio
that’s poured into container, sealed,
then shaken with all energy,
both ‘violently’, with ‘vigour’ too,
before its destined gas tank home.

Now burning rubber’s not my thing—
nor threadbare tread, exhausted clouds,
the playground of sand devils’ whirl
through gritted teeth, a dusting down,
adrenalin enough and more.

Some pedal work without the gas—
I’d guard against rear geyser mud;
had ‘Three in One’, a trinity,
(though perplexed what, why made it so)
to oil the chain—saw hanging loose.

Recall behind the saddle, bag.
my thin tin tiny puncture kit.
Now when do tins become a can—
perhaps when they are able to,
with prospects of retailing charm? 

 

 

 

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has been playing with alliteration; he calls this “Alliteration Obliteration”:

 

GARBAGE TIME
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

the politician who has no real plans
for the future will state a platitude
with an attitude, no gratitude

lots of suggestive gestures, backed
by a bought out crowd of brain dead
scarecrows wearing propaganda t-shirts,
hats, and carrying or ferrying large print
signs bearing small minded thinking

yes abortion will kill a fetus, can’t let
that beat us, why must we also off the
mother and her doctors, leaving alive
no proctors to show us the way?

just how, in what strange, deranged new
order is it acceptable to prevent an abortion,
but accept the contortion of enabling hot
heads with guns to invade our schools and
kill masses of people?

Ahh, the golden avenue of a revenue stream,
beaming brightly as consumers stifle their
honey and shell out money to buy big guy
rifles and ammo just to show us how many
people they can kill, to set a new record

shoot, kill, tabulate, celebrate, congregate on
the steps of Congress to confess you’ve had
enough government stuff, but if a woman wants
to terminate a pregnancy because she has had
enough, the wrong answer gong sounds to let us
know she must show us a live birth before long

and so we save the fetus, and it has big problems
like the mother knew it would, but our brains are
wood and fail to process such information in a
nation that just doesn’t care: it only stays well
if it pays well

* * *

And now a Sonnet from Carl:

 

 

SONNET FOR TAILGATE TROMBONE
—Caschwa

the trombone slide is hurtful when it hits
another person sitting in the way
so to avoid all sorts of gripes and fits
we face the rear to lift our horns and play

we feel the beat because we cannot see
the ups and downs of our conductor’s wand
just guided by the drummer’s melody
like even ripples forming on a pond

the road ahead presents a deadly turn
we’ve been forewarned to hold on to our seats
the hard way is the lesson here to learn
just don’t lose sight of any drummer’s beats

and so we bring our slides back to their start
and disembark the tiny apple cart 

 

* * *

 

Here is an Ekphrastic Haiku Sonnet from Melissa Lemay,
based on this woodcut:

 

  

Evening Rain, Shinobazu Pond, 1938

—Woodblock Print by Shiro Kasamatsu (1898-1991)

 

 

EVENING RAIN
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

The sky, a blank white
page covered in thoughts of rain—
it traipses down like

static on a
television set, blowing
this way and that.

I hide my face in
its gentle caresses,
wondering if its

reminiscences
play hide and seek, looking for
me through the broadcast.

Fractured memory lives
inside every droplet.

 

 

(prev. pub. in MasticadoresUSA, September 2024)

 
* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth ("an offering, Calliope..."):

 

 

 Calliope
—Marcello Bacciarelli

 
RHYME AND REASON
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A kingdom in a priceless pearl,
potential in a mustard seed,
infinity for poetry,
a time and space continuum.
By numbers, painting, not my style,
nor black outline to emphasise;
the portrait not a photograph,
unless the mood is captured, still.
A billion texts do not suffice,
poor studios, walls, galleries,
so brochure for the oeuvre range,
used tickets, book stacks, theatres.

More learned, seek answers, than propose,
react, respond to questions posed,
ekphrastic images for work
to delve into the artists’ lives
with gift and curse of mindfulness,
recalling all that passed this way.
My life or ours, for all are mine—
collective book of hours our prayer,
an offering, Calliope,
where sparks ignite flames, fire of words.
So look but see, hear, listen too,
find what is there, discover more.

____________________

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 do an Insane Cinquain:

•••Insane Cinquain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/insane-cinquain

•••AND/OR how about a Haikuette? Can you write without verbs? This one looks tricky:

•••Haikuette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/haikuette

•••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 “Nosy Neighbors”.

____________________

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

•••Alliteration: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/alliteration
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Cinquain, Insane: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/insane-cinquain
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiga: Haiku accompanied by a picture
•••Haikuette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/haikuette

•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Italian Sestet: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/italian-sestet
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Rengay: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••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

 

 

 

 Bangkok Museum
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 Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about this and other
 future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Enigma of Now

  —Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta, Cambridge, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

THOUGHTS ON THE STAINED GLASS IN
KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE

Shepherds, bishops, knights, ploughmen,
preserved in the stillness, the fragility
of medieval stained glass.
When is that sheep to be slaughtered?
When will the page boy be a man?
Caught in the stillness of time,
they live in the enigma of now,
yet the boy is long dead, the knight long slain.

In the light of this April evening,
they are resurrected on choir boys,
re-born on the worshippers.
The art of anonymous glass makers,
is projected by candles now burning,
an angel on a boy’s surplice, a king on a man’s coat.

 

 

 

 

BLACKBERRYING

Banks of thorny brambles,
shining blackberries gleam
in the translucent, autumn light.
Fingers already purple-stained,
caught red-handed, picking,
eating the darkly jewelled
wild fruits of this September day.

Jam jars, plastic bags, punnets,
full of dark, woodland fruit.
Mouths, painted that tell
I’m caught red handed as
juice from bursting blackberries
paints my lips and fingers.
feed on the sweet juice of Autumn’s bounty.
Tiny dormice and bolder squirrels,
Carry off their juicy plunder.
Even the old badger roots and scrabbles
through the labyrinth
of twisted, barbed stems.

 

 

 

 

A FAIRY GRANDMOTHER

My grandmother believed in fairies
They lived beneath the silvery foliage
Of blousy, brash, red poppies
Their scarlet, papery petals a hideaway?
A sight on balmy summer nights
When the moon shone softly
Through the sprays of cherry blossom.

My grandmother believed in folk tales
The hawthorn was a magic tree
But the mayflower was cursed
From ever entering the house
Yet the tree was never felled
Beneath it was the mythical door
Opening into fairyland
Secret way to that other world

My Grandmother believed in old spells
No one with an open umbrella
Could ever be inside the house
Bright orange Rowan berries
Not a single one, could come
Over even the humblest threshold
If she ever spilt the tiniest grain of salt,
It was like losing a carat of gold
A careless, unforgiveable fault.

 

 

 

 

THE SHEPHERD’S CALENDAR

On the small hill farms
it’s lambing time again.
Inside the barn it is
breathily warm.
The old smell of dung,
straw and birth returns,
hovering over the pens.
Outside the world is held
in the tight fists of ice and snow,
the lambing pens now islands
of steamy breath and anxious
motherly calls.
These ewes have stood here
for centuries past.
The same who stood on the Judean Hills,
on the fields of Donegal
in the vast Australian outback,
an ancient cycle of birth and death.
A stillborn lamb lies discarded,
its twin totters unsteadily towards
the ewe and life.
Orphaned lambs feed hesitantly
from strange figures holding bottles.

It’s early Spring.
The flock grazes peacefully,
lost lambs bleat pitifully,
until they find the ewe.
The sheep recognise
their public pastoral duty.
Artistically dotted over
rolling countryside,
they pose for photographs
which briefly reassure the world
that while sheep safely graze,
they can forget for a moment,
electric cars, greenhouse gas
and such imponderables.

The whirr of shearing blades
heralds a new phase.
Unshorn sheep protest noisily                                                 
at the fate of their bald neighbours
who splashing through the sheep dip,
skip to freedom.
The shearers expertly grasp each animal.
Held sitting on their haunches, the sheep
are comic, cartoon figures, faintly
stupid looks fixed on their faces,
truly sheepish.
Fleeces, thick and greasy, roll away
like winter suits.

The high hills are deep in snow.
It drifts silently into a lunar landscape.
Sheep are driven down to winter
in the fold.
At first light, shepherds search for
lost sheep in the snowy uplands.
Dogs sniff out the buried animals.
Sheep, safe in the barn, it’s Christmas Eve.
Do they hear the voices singing again
on far off Judean hills?

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

VIEWS OF THE SUBWAY
—Sarah Das Gupta

Subway sub-standard, sub-terranean
sub-marine, sub-siding, sub-merged
Subway wander, wonder, waiver
Subway littered with waste and weirdos
Subway refuge for waifs and wanderers
Home for graffiti, gangsters and geezers
Beloved of beggars, bounders and scroungers
Subway route to the frayed edge of the city
Subway running through greasy urban guts
Subway rattling, racing, rushing, roaring
Subway hot, hateful, hellish, horrific
Subway hasty, habitual, helpful, handy.

______________________

—Medusa, welcoming Sarah Das Gupta back to the Kitchen today with her fine poetry, all the way from the UK!

 

 

 

 Sarah Das Gupta

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Jemi Reis McDonald & Karen Elizabeth Fleeman
will be reading today in Cameron Park
at the library, 5:15pm.
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!

 

LittleSnake in Sheep's Clothing