Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
TURNING LEAVES
Autumn twist, book turning leaves,
couched low, cup at lip,
wright reading, transforms my sight.
Outside green turns yellow, red,
dead brown come to life,
dry scraping brush will sound.
Volumes call from bowing shelves,
season’s cycle, nestle, turning leaves.
Autumn twist, book turning leaves,
couched low, cup at lip,
wright reading, transforms my sight.
Outside green turns yellow, red,
dead brown come to life,
dry scraping brush will sound.
Volumes call from bowing shelves,
season’s cycle, nestle, turning leaves.
BLUSH
Juicy packs need friends about,
with laughter dripping, dripping mash,
strands and stringy orange pulp,
sip slipware sliding uncontrolled.
It’s no wonder there’s blush,
hard stone hidden, brown gold;
ways to eat mango—cold
and frothy, mush-filled lassi glass.
Juicy packs need friends about,
with laughter dripping, dripping mash,
strands and stringy orange pulp,
sip slipware sliding uncontrolled.
It’s no wonder there’s blush,
hard stone hidden, brown gold;
ways to eat mango—cold
and frothy, mush-filled lassi glass.
MOUZEL
A Cornish village, Mousehole is,
though Mouzel how the name pronounced;
there is a plaque by lifeboat hut
for whole crew lost, rescue attempt.
’Twas ’81, Union Star
had lost her engines, heavy storm;
the Solomon Browne, Mousehole’s boat,
based Penlee, station on the bay.
They rescued four, but after, lost
both ship and boat with sixteen men,
all hands including volunteers,
the eight, lifeboatmen of Penlee.
‘The greatest courage ever seen,
or ever likely see again,
that dedication of Penlee
in breakers crashing sixty foot.’
‘The truly bravest men I’ve seen,
the highest standards, institute.’
So said the pilot, ’copter flight.
Those bodies, they were never found,
but ferried, way across the Styx,
that boatman knowing seas, the cost.
Within a day disaster struck,
folk, Mouzel, formed another crew.
It made its mark, my thirty years,
as Penlee, Mousehole made its call,
a nation stunned but so enthralled—
those lives laid down for sailors, all.
But more, that within twenty-four,
those volunteers, with gear, were there.
You’ll see, if you go Mouzel way;
it is the RNLI way.
A Cornish village, Mousehole is,
though Mouzel how the name pronounced;
there is a plaque by lifeboat hut
for whole crew lost, rescue attempt.
’Twas ’81, Union Star
had lost her engines, heavy storm;
the Solomon Browne, Mousehole’s boat,
based Penlee, station on the bay.
They rescued four, but after, lost
both ship and boat with sixteen men,
all hands including volunteers,
the eight, lifeboatmen of Penlee.
‘The greatest courage ever seen,
or ever likely see again,
that dedication of Penlee
in breakers crashing sixty foot.’
‘The truly bravest men I’ve seen,
the highest standards, institute.’
So said the pilot, ’copter flight.
Those bodies, they were never found,
but ferried, way across the Styx,
that boatman knowing seas, the cost.
Within a day disaster struck,
folk, Mouzel, formed another crew.
It made its mark, my thirty years,
as Penlee, Mousehole made its call,
a nation stunned but so enthralled—
those lives laid down for sailors, all.
But more, that within twenty-four,
those volunteers, with gear, were there.
You’ll see, if you go Mouzel way;
it is the RNLI way.
TURNING BY DEGREES
It used to be a signing off,
a complement to what had been,
the carpet sweeping clean of leaves,
and curling twirl of bonfire burn.
It was when neat seemed nature tamed,
before it turned to show who’s boss;
now fall down left to compost worms,
and longer grass for insects, blooms.
A compact found with greenwood trees,
xylem, phloem, like rushing streams,
no more than trample flower beds,
impacted roots, tread lighter touch,
mycorrhiza warning sounds.
Earth less shafted, less undermined,
fossil fuels left underground—
subversive talk not heard before,
as the ice clinks in my gin.
MAPPING MYCORRHIZA
The greenman, sage, cork cambium,
sad, melancholic, sapped of bark,
that wrinkly, crinkly autumnware,
long-aged, verdigris, a type,
lead splintered stab, gnarled finger scabs,
will no one hear, see what’s before?
Bridging cultures, common weal,
content in mycorrhiza maze,
phloem, xylem, symbiotic flow;
it’s more than dermal wear, skin deep.
What riches lie beneath our feet,
not undermined by industry?
These carpet tiles, leaves’ annual lay,
through work of auxin, sacrifice,
a compote turning clay to tilth
is seedbed, mycorrhiza spread.
Subversive fibre networks tread,
our pithy grounding, underworld,
fresh saprophytic fungi flush
that speaks with willing trees above.
This globe has lived holistic,
although we never knew—
for cut lawn crying out its pain,
is mown scent that we love.
It is in symbiosis
the future may be found—
a pantry, carbon storage, rife
mycorrhiza, underground.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It is in symbiosis the future may be found—
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It is in symbiosis the future may be found—
—Stephen Kingsnorth
_____________________
Many thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry about autumn, including fresh peaches and the blooming of the mushrooms. It’s that time again, when we talk about that grand network that is mycorrhizae, and watch for its mushroom-blooms from that vest symbiosis.
Another of Stephen’s poems today is also about symbiotic connections, about the 1981 sea disaster off the coast of the Cornish town of Mousehall in England. About Mousehall, Stephen writes: “Two nights before the disaster, Charlie Greenhaugh, who in civilian life was the landlord of the Ship Inn on the quayside in Mousehole, had turned on the village's Christmas lights. After the storm the lights were left off, but three days later his widow Mary asked for them to be repaired and lit again. The village has been lit up each December since then, but on the anniversary of the disaster they are turned off at 8:00 pm for an hour as an act of remembrance.”
This poem was inspired by our Friday Ekphrastic Challenge on Aug. 30, a mouse peaking out of his hole. Stephen is a champion at writing responses to challenges, Ekphrastic or otherwise, and we thank him for his on-going participation in our shenanigans!
_______________________
—Medusa
Many thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry about autumn, including fresh peaches and the blooming of the mushrooms. It’s that time again, when we talk about that grand network that is mycorrhizae, and watch for its mushroom-blooms from that vest symbiosis.
Another of Stephen’s poems today is also about symbiotic connections, about the 1981 sea disaster off the coast of the Cornish town of Mousehall in England. About Mousehall, Stephen writes: “Two nights before the disaster, Charlie Greenhaugh, who in civilian life was the landlord of the Ship Inn on the quayside in Mousehole, had turned on the village's Christmas lights. After the storm the lights were left off, but three days later his widow Mary asked for them to be repaired and lit again. The village has been lit up each December since then, but on the anniversary of the disaster they are turned off at 8:00 pm for an hour as an act of remembrance.”
This poem was inspired by our Friday Ekphrastic Challenge on Aug. 30, a mouse peaking out of his hole. Stephen is a champion at writing responses to challenges, Ekphrastic or otherwise, and we thank him for his on-going participation in our shenanigans!
_______________________
—Medusa
Lifeboatmen of Penlee who perished
near Mousehall in 1981
A reminder that
Joshua McKinney and Susan Kelly-DeWitt
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.
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!
Joshua McKinney and Susan Kelly-DeWitt
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.
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!
to the rescue~