—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.
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!
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!
