Celestial Music

 —Poetry and Photos by Elizabeth Varadan,
Braga, Portugal

 

 

LISTENING TO BOUZOUKI MUSIC IN
A GREEK CAFE
     (February 12, 2017)

Spirited notes stir memories.
Years peel back in
flames of longing,
glimpses of the wider world
while the bouzouki plays
“Never on Sunday,”
a match setting fire to a paper
filled with dwindling dreams.

The corner curls.
The flame creeps backward
turning the paper to ashes
now borne away
on winds of ignorance.
And we, in this present moment,
read our daily news,
as our universe shrinks.

 

 

 

RETURN TO INDIA

Summer heat, and thoughts stir dust motes of
memory:

Fans whir overhead, displacing the oppressive air.
Through the window, a cacophony of traffic bells
and horns
competes with the kuyil’s insistent, whistling call.
The milk vendor’s spoon clangs against his milk
can.
From the TV, Carnatic music floats, hovers,
the singer’s warble a prelude to the tinkling bell:
my brother-in-law doing Pooja at the shrine.
From the kitchen, aromas of spiced savories
mingle with sandalwood incense.

Again, I walk to the compound wall and see
patterned saris fluttering from clotheslines,
globes of fruit heaped on a roadside cart,
a crow perched on the thin hump of a Brahma bull.
Cement buildings tower behind palm-leaf rooftops,
while ancient, painted temples rise out of the
rubble of broken concrete, like brave flowers
struggling through harsh soil.

 

 

 

Gardens in Braga 

GROWLY MCGRAW                   

Growly McGraw had attitude.
Why, some might call it brattitude!
The boy was rude
And very crude,
Without an ounce of gratitude.

His fuse, they say, had brevity.
His ill will had longevity.
He was all grit
And temper fit.
He had no sense of levity.

Since Growly couldn’t compromise,
He didn’t have a lot of ties.
He was alone,
All on his own,
To deal with any enterprise.

Then Surly Sam came on the scene,
And warned our boy, “I’m full of spleen.
If you don’t move,
I’ll have to prove
To you exactly what I mean.”

Growly McGraw said, “Don’t provoke
Me with your silly little joke.
You’d better git.
If you don’t split,
I’ll give your nose a mighty poke.”

“You don’t scare me,” said Surly Sam.
“It’s clear you don’t know who I am.
I don’t back down
For any clown.
I think it’s you who’d better scram.”

Growly began to feel irate.
“Look, here,” he said, “I’d hesitate
To say that stuff.
I might get rough.
My buddies here will set you straight.”

Surly Sam pulled on his ear,
And gave our boy a spiteful leer.
“I think you’re wrong.
Now, run along.
Your buddies aren’t exactly near.”

So Growly slowly looked around.
The others all stared at the ground.
“Speak up,” he growled.
“Tell him!” he howled.
But no one made a single sound.

Surly’s laugh was like a bray.  
“Growly, it seems they’ve had their say.”
And all agree
they felt such glee
when Growly had to run away.

So if to threaten is your game,
and that is how you make your name,
you can be sure
it won’t endure:
One bully can erase your fame.

 

 

 

Concert in Braga

CELESTIAL MUSIC
          
An orchestra of stars
thrums to the fine-tuned ear.
The solitary moon sings her aria
in early twilight.

Listen! Can you hear
the music of galaxies
humming through space,
silvery and bright,
 
while the soprano moon,
high above our stratosphere,
sends staccato notes
into the coming night?

___________________

 

Today’s LittleNip:

This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.
     I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence. Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art.

---Toni Morrison (Courtesy of Elizabeth Varadan)

__________________

Elizabeth “Mitty” Varadan, a long-time resident of Sacramento, CA, says she is “a happily married author who recently moved to Braga, Portugal with my husband. We also like to travel to Galicia, Spain, just a couple of hours north of Braga. We used to travel to India, where my husband is from, originally, although he has been a U.S. citizen for 44 years. I blog about the many things I uncover in my research and travels. I write mysteries, historical fiction, poetry, and children's books.” Elizabeth’s "Return to India", posted here today, was selected as an International Merit Award winner in the Atlanta Review 2017 International Poetry Competition.

Follow Elizabeth in her travels and see a list of her books on her blog, Elizabeth Varadan’s Fourth Wish, at https://elizabethvaradan.wordpress.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Mitty, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 Elizabeth Varadan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

Listening to Celestial Music

 

Come With Me~

 

 Horsey
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

GO WITH ME TO THE MOUNTAINS 

—Robin Gale Odam

I will paint them here, at dusk.
At bleed of sunset I will dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

I will sweep the trail with ashen grasses,
dry from the parch of arid devotion.

We were young—you said we would go—
you said you loved me—now I am old.

Now I paint them here at dusk—
here at the fracture above the foothills.
I lick the brush and paint with saliva—
the rock is thirsty. The slate is black.

I am old and the summit is silver.
Come to the mountains. I paint with starlight.
At bleed of sunset, I dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

The summit is silver. I paint with starlight
and I am old—come to the mountains.

 

 

 

 I Call Him Horse

                                  

THE HORSE IN THE FIELD   
—Joyce Odam   

the polka dot horse in the field
the black and white
only polka dot horse in the world
(at least in this field)

his name is not known to me
so I call him Horse
and say to him
Horse, you are so beautiful

and he does not lift his head from the ground
for he is
shy
and he does not know me

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Sunrust, Spring-Summer 1989; 

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/20/21) 

 

 

 

Blue Horse

ON MY BLUE HORSE
—Joyce Odam

I come from time
on my blue horse.
See me ride on the horizon—
all distance and compression.

I take forever.
There is no hurry or despair.
I am riding to meet my mother,
who is that slow light in the east.

I am bringing her
stars for her lack of stars
to put in her blue vase
on the windowsill of morning.

I am returning
from the journey
I began when we were children.
I was a child with her.

We played
in the little box of sand.
I was her doll.  She lived for me;
she said so.

Now I can’t wait to tell her
of my journey,
how night
is a land between us,

and my blue horse
is one I am bringing back to her.
She will touch its sides
with her hands

and look at me and smile;
and I will get off,
and she will get on, and ride off,
back the way I came.

                               
(prev. pub. in The Power of the Moment chapbook,
Red Cedar Press [of Colorado] Poetry Series #1, 1998;
Mini-Chap, 1998; plus self-published, illustrated by
Charlotte Vincent; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)

___________________

AWAY FROM CHILDHOOD
A Fantasy, 1925
—Joyce Odam

After Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin (1876--1939)
The Russian Museum, Leningrad

In the red horse dream, there is no fear;
they fly—over the small village
that holds them away from the sky.

In the dream, the red horse
is afire with muscled energy and light,
with the love of flying,

and the man looks backward—
backward—to where
the night is too slow to stop them.

In the dream, the boy is the man,
gripping his knees to the horse
and locking one hand into its mane;

the horse has no wings, but they fly
into another waking and whatever
follows is too slow . . .  they escape . . .

 

 

 

 Carousel

MERRY-GO-ROUND
—Joyce Odam

The dark horse whirls. The lovers cling.
    Forever is a game they play.
        The other horses blur in tune.
             The children seem to disappear.
                  The lovers grow too old to care—
                       they’re drawn too quick to be aware
                          of all but holding on to time—
                           in rhythmic pull the horses lift
                           and try to win the fastened race.
                         The platform strains against itself.
                    The colors fade to black and white.
             The time is day. The time is night.
          The horses creak, and rear, and bring
     the circles back to where they were.
The dark horse whirls. The lovers cling.
 

                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/16/16;
4/6/16; 8/3/21) 

 

 

 

Out of the Dream

A HUMID NIGHT—

—Joyce Odam

I go with this,
just what I need:
a thought
to proceed on.

(A red horse named Fear
that flies you to safety.)

A humid night—
dark with heat,
the room shrinking inward,
breezes searching the room.

(You are too far under them
the fan keeps them to itself.)

A humid night—
however you mean this,
there is no relief.
The red horse is made of blood.

(Pounding with your blood
as you enter the dream of escape.)

A humid night—
you are awake under the dream.
One is the other.
You make yourself drift.

(Inward—outward—
seeking another dimension.)

The horse is real.
You grip your knees.
You cling to the whip of its mane
as it carries you into a poem of its own.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/9/13) 

 

 

 

 Bridled

THE HORSE SHOW WINNER
—Joyce Odam

The horse jumps the red gate poles
with ease, and being proud,
holds himself there
while the cameras take his picture;

and the rider, high and weightless
in the stirrups,
feels the held moment
and balances with the horse;

and the white flag holds its flutter
in the breeze, and the halted shadow
on the ground waits to reconnect
when the hooves come down.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/20/2021)

 

 

 

 Amity

THE CONNECTION
—Joyce Odam

After Cover Image: “Pegasus” by Dick Schmidt,
photographed on Kanai after Hurricane Iniki, 1992

 

The horse races along with a white bird
as companion.

They follow the urge of the free spirit
that flows between them.

The green trees
blur past.

The brown horse stretches out his lean length
into the rhythm.

They are in a race for existence,
they do not care who wins.

The free spirit urges them on—
the trees blur—and the horse reaches—

and the white bird is wing-close—
they share the same distance.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019)

 

 

 

 Watching

THE BROWN HORSES
—Joyce Odam

The horses come to drink in the quiet hour—
all sound hushed to fill the long moment
as the horses bend to the water—
beautiful to watch.
I am here with my midnight pen and paper
imagining them, though I don’t know
how many they are—if they are
only two. I settle on two.
The horses are brown and glossy
in the low summer light.
I make the shadows long
and the woods behind them deep.
I watch the water after they have
finished drinking, how undisturbed.
I watch a white butterfly insert itself
upon the scene, becoming translucent
and pure with its briefness. I hold my breath
as it drifts into a white moment that sparkles
like the light upon the water. But the butterfly
has startled the horses and they snort and quiver
and work their way across the field toward a fence.  
I think I see a figure there...   but no...
I choose not to.  I will leave them alone now.
I yawn and close my eyes. I am out of paper.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/28/11;
6/7/16; 9/28/21) 

 

 

 

 The Starkness of Dark

THE LAST HORSES
—Joyce Odam

The last horses
are caught up in the mountains
by the last stream.

They are looking at themselves
in the thin water.

Their hooves
shine in the sunlight
as do their backs
when they shift position.

They are becoming photographs…
they are becoming murals…
they are becoming thread
on vast embroidered panels…

Now they are fading out to shadows.
The trees are closing around them
like pieces of camouflage

until we no longer see the horses.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/7/16) 

 

 

 

 Aaron’s Wooden Horse

HOOFPRINT
—Robin Gale Odam

Black ribbon-clouds
cut the sky

Trails of heartbreak
twine through mountains

Ice crystals before sunrise,
memory at low hills

Through tangles of branches,
the tailwind of a storm
          

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen , 3/5/24)

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE FIERY SUNSET
—Joyce Odam

a horse on fire, streaking across
the horizon, its red mane whipping
behind it, and the dark sand burning
like a mirror under the igniting hooves


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Jan. 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/24/10; 9/24/13; 8/8/23)
 
_________________

Joyce and Robin Gale gloriously illustrated our Seed of the Week, Horses, in poetry and photos about the lovely beasts, and we thank them for that. Nobody’s on their high horse here; they’ve sent us horses of a different color. (I think we’ve covered most of the horse clichés in the last week. Got any more?)

Our new Seed of the Week is “Coquette”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on Calliope’s Closet, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

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

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Flirtatious Moment
—Hushcha Studio

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
John Shoptaw & Murray Silverstein
will be reading in Modesto
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!

 

 Coquette

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quitcher Horsin' Around!

 Horses in Pleistocene Park in Russia
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleistocene_Park)
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Michael H. Brownstein, Taylor Graham, 

Michael Ceraolo, Joe Nolan, Caschwa,
and Devyanshi Neupane
—Photos by Stephen Kingsnorth, Taylor Graham,
Caschwa, and Shiva Neupane
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa 

 

 

HEDGE YOUR BETS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m not horsing around.
Hold your horses
and listen a bit.
Don’t back
the wrong horse.
You think he’s
a dark horse,
a winner of the race,
but he’s a gift horse,
a Trojan horse,
He means to deceive.
Anyone who rides
can look good
from a distance.
If you don’t use
your horse sense,
you’ll be covered
in horse***t.

 

 

 

Stephen during his cowboy days~

—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

ON THE HOOF
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Until I walked Kentucky fields
with bluegrass horses (no longer film),
I never knew that beast as farmed,
still less unharnessed, on the ranch.
I reached the stirrup, cupped friend’s hands—
a drink before The Hunt in mind—
my cowboy hat, hands on I fear,
both man and beast at one (not so).

A nightmare, as four horsemen stir,
apocalyptic in their fright,
would Pegasus take flight indeed,
a bridge from ground to heights unknown?
No knight time in the tilting yard
(joust horseplay, lance, shield, spurs in play),
nor windmills, as Cervantes’ case,
would ride be more a carousel?

Far from gymkhana of the Raj,
(or vaulting over horse in gym)
those polo pony thoroughbreds,
or point to point, for fox, stag, drag;
his rider, he knew, not a clue—
so saddled with unstable ass,
though heel, reins there to shift then steer,
he headed home with English load.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

A CANOE TRIP WITH MY SON AT DAWN
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

I am lost in a mermaid of color
silver streaks across the swamp lands
a moon lit fog filling in space between cypress
Okefenokee shadow and alligator.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

SUGAR SKULLS ON MAIN STREET
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

She sits in midst of her ofrenda
marigolds and butterflies, no doubt
a sugar skull, and photos—who is
she mourning here? as we walkers pass
between gallery and bell tower
where tonight there stands a gigantic
skeleton in poncho and flowers,
his sombrero’d skull to touch sunset
clouds; and deep music—La Llorona,
La Zandunga—as daylight turns to
dark of the night. Who or what is she
mourning on the curb with her altar?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FREE SPEECH CANTO C
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

He considered opposition to himself as subversive,
if not tantamount to treason itself
And the man's name was Woodrow Wilson
And the first group opposed to him
was the woman suffragists
They had been picketing
even before he took office
(Wilson opposed woman suffrage at the time)
He ignored the picketers for three years,
but when war was declared
the suffragists were suppressed
on various dubious grounds
In January 1918
Wilson came out for woman suffrage
as a war measure,
                            but
the suffragists, over a hundred-fifty of them,
remained in jail, or were not pardoned
if they had already served their sentence

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

SMASHED IDOLS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The sad history
Of toppled idols
Whose feet of clay
Turned into dust
Before they rolled away
Down the sides of mountains
To crash upon
Sharp boulders by the sea.

No longer hailed
As, “Majesty,”
Their honor wrecked by
Truth,
Their lies revealed,
Their natures, wretched,
Idols smashed, alas—
All too human.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MENTAL ILLNESS
—Joe Nolan

Tragedy,
Like Lot’s wife
Turned into
A pillar of salt,
All life removed
By a vengeful god.

Mental illness
That turns us into
Horrid goblins
None can tolerate.

Make a padded room
To put them in.
Preserve our sanity
From the influence of sin.

It seems there is
No way to win,
Only to sustain
And remain
In our earthly shells.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FLOSSING
—Joe Nolan

Each morning,
I scrape the corners
Of my teeth
With a string

The better
To leave
A smiling corpse
As an offering,

Should anyone
Care to look,
Well-after
I am gone.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

FLOATING MAN
—Joe Nolan

You’ll never quite
Be here
Among the
Humans on the planet.

Distant stars’ gravity
Pulls you up
From so, so far away.

Thus, you’re
Nearly weightless,
Drifting between
Fields of gravity,
Influenced
By cosmic forces
None of us
Can see.

Thus, you are
A mystery—
A natural conundrum,
Defying explanation,
Resisting definition.

Float on,
Floating man,
Between the fields
Of gravity.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

IT’S THE SPIN, STUPID
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

if a human or animal mama pre-chews
food for its tiny offspring,
that would be called love

if the federal government takes a bite
out of our payroll checks,
that would be called taxation

if investors cashed out their stocks
and had to take their payment in trickle down,
that would be a sign that the economy is weak

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo of 

Owl Cookies Courtesy of Medusa

WE NEED DIVERSITY
—Caschwa

if everyone else was just like me:

there would be no new jokes for me to hear

no one could fly an airplane, or sail a square rigger

buses and taxis would have to drive themselves

clothes stores would carry only my size

golf courses would be deserted

there would be no need to bother with all those genders

my appetite would dictate all menus

bowling alleys would have only one size shoe to rent

we’d all be lefties

forget about hiring expert help, or having surgery

nobody is older or wiser than me

if I can’t fix it, it stays broken 

 

 

 

 “The post-it on the fry pan is now decades old,
but I kept it just because.”
—Photo and Comment by Caschwa

THE EGG LADY’S DAUGHTER
—Caschwa

(in response to a past MK Seed of the Week,
“Memories Worth Keeping”)

I like what my mind has done to protect me,
now 13 months since my wife passed away
it has muted the pungent memories of her
constant torture from multiple medical
maladies all ganged up against her at once

and instead restored her in my dreams as
the fully functional woman who is ripe and
ready to make us a delicious holiday meal

starting with the old cast iron fry pan on which
she had posted a note warning of dire, serious
consequences for anyone daring to ever clean it,
she is going to make pork chops exactly the time
proven way her mother, once known as the Egg
Lady of Enid, Oklahoma, had carefully taught her.

I knew to leave her alone in the kitchen, only
visiting by invitation if she needs something,
my key job was to keep the Chihuahua busy,
as her nose would soon fill with tempting aromas
from the cooking

then I awaken, happy to have had such dreams,
knowing that this year I’ll make some kind of
alternate plans for the holiday dinner, not really
expecting to be as pleased at the level I had
casually accepted before as routine

 

 

 

Devyanshi is over the moon~

—Photo by Shiva Neupane

A CHRISTMAS TREE
—Devyanshi Neupane (age 4), Melbourne, Australia

I love Christmas Tree,
In/at my house/home.
Christmas is coming soon
And, I am over the moon.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE KANGAROOS
—Devyanshi Neupane

I saw the Kangaroos
In the park.
They were happy
And, so was I
While looking at them
In the park.

____________________

Our Seed of the Week was Horses, so some of our contributors horsed around with that. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. And you can find all the ones we've done in the past on our Calliope's Closet link at the top of this column.

 

Taylor Graham’s "Sugar Skulls on Main Street" poem and photo were inadvertently screwed up by me last Friday (the photo was left off altogether!), so I present them herewith, with my apologies. Drop by the Kitchen each Friday for more of Taylor Graham’s wonderful poetry and photos.

Nolcha Fox will have a fine spread in the Kitchen for us this coming Thursday. She’s the new editor of Chewers, an online journal by Team Masticadores, and I bet she’d by tickled purple if you’d submit (https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/).

 

Stephen Kingsnorth's poem today tells about his only horse experience, a day when he visited the U.S. and went riding at a ranch in Kentucky. Apparently he survived it; did the horse? (I suspect so.) Along with Taylor Graham, Stephen, Nolcha, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) will be visiting the Kitchen this Friday. Come by, drop in, pull up a stool~and if you send us a poem in any form, you'll see it posted there, too!

Devyanshi Neupane, age 4, is becoming quite prolific, and that’s a pleasure to see! Remember when Rattlesnake Press published Snakelets, a poetry journal of and for the young’uns?... Of course, we’re all young’uns at heart, yes?

Anyway, today’s a day to recognize those who went to the battlefield for our country. Our thanks to them on this Veterans’ Day, 2024.

____________________

—Medusa (Now, don’t you go bein' a horse’s ass today….)

 

 

 

 Devyanshi visits the kangaroos~
—Photo by Shiva Neupane

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A note that
Poetry in Motion in Placerville
will be cancelled today due to
Veteran’s Day; but
Youth Open Mic will meet tonight
at Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

Tumbling Into Deceit

 —Untitled Painting by American Artist
Ann Leggett (1941-2014)

* * *

—Poetry by Fay L. Loomis
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THEFT

red-orange tulips, purple irises
flung across the canvas

how dare they bloom
on an aqua dappled crest

how dare I long
to pluck the red one

open, black center
daubed with gold

I steal through the portal
gaze at my beloved flower

grasp, mistake my reach
tumble into deceit

tiny globes of white
fall in this forged world

 

 

 

 

SILVERED MADNESS

witches’ fingernails
scrape the edge of the sky

wind howls
through hoary caverns

goblin’s feet relentlessly
drub the earth

window-glass
eyes stare

laser of light
pierces fury

Psyche lifts
translucent veil

softens slivered
madness

 

 

 

 

MY EIGHTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY

it’s a miracle that
I reach eighty-seven years
the whys of it make no sense
the whats not much more

here I am
embracing the flawed
yet shimmering  edges
of my life

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LILLY
—Fay L. Loomis

There once was a girl
named Lilly.   

She lived where ‘tis
rather hilly.       

When she jogged into town           
she bobbed up and down.

Some say she seems           
willy-nilly.

____________________

Fay L. Loomis leads a quiet life in the woods in Kerhonkson, New York. Member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and the Rat's Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose appear in numerous publications; her poems are included in five anthologies, and her first chapbook, Sunlit Wildness (Origami Poems Project), debuted this summer (https://www.origamipoems.com/poets/551-fay-l-loomis/). Welcome to the Kitchen, Fay—don’t be a stranger! (And congratulations on the new book!)

Note that Fay's "Lilly" is a limerick laid out in an alternate form. 

 

For more about American Artist Ann Leggett, see https://www.mutualart.com/Artist/Ann-Vaughan--Leggett/CD4978758E20444D/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Fay L. Loomis

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Katy Brown will be reading
in Lincoln today, 3pm.
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 Visible Is Easy

 —Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Yorkshire Walls Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Is it a bit much for him to say, he wonders,
As he thinks again how to express his admiration
for your talent?
Is it a bit much to allude to Bernhardt as Phèdre,
To Bergman and Hepburn and Dench
At the peak of their respective crests?
And might it be throwing the compliments some-
where overboard,
After capping them and wrapping them in their
collegiate gowns,
All the better to precipitate the drowning to follow,
For him to allude to Helen of Troy when wanting
to say something of your beauty?
Would it even be reasonable to excuse his hyperbole
By noting the insurmountable obstacle of weaving
words
To best describe his regard for you?
For he is not Dickens or Faulkner or Tolstoy,
And he fears that even they would have to get up
well before dawn
To come close to encapsulating all you are to him.
Is it a bit much to be searching for synonyms for
words as yet uncoined

Because he does not want to devalue the three
simple words that
Resonate within him whenever he thinks of you?
Is it?
A bit much?
A surfeit of sycophancy?
A verbigrised wall obscuring the simplicity of the real
feelings at his heart?
Only you can say,
Safe in the knowledge that, when that time comes,
He is bound to have words for that, too.


(Originally published in What is Love to You?)

 

 

 

 

SUNSHINE:
THE VISIBLE BIT IS EASY

It seems so easy, the sunshine through your window,
The speed of your thought as the word comes to
mind.
And it is easy.
Even when considering the 8 minutes and 20
seconds
The light has taken to travel—at 299,792 kilometres
per second—
From the surface of the sun to the Earth.
And it is easy.
Even when considering the tens, or even thousands,
of years
It has really taken those photons to work their way
Through chaotic plasma from the core of the star to
the photosphere.
And it is easy.
Even when considering the impossibility of that star
achieving
Sufficient mass to ignite,
And the third planet being in precisely the right place
For the light to reach your eyes at all.
It is easy.
The visible bit is easy.
The sun in your eyes and on your face.
But then, we both know that, don't we?


(Originally published by Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)

 

 

 

 

NO STREAM OR STREAMING WITHOUT
THOSE WHO COME BEFORE

Without Savery, without Newcomen, without Watt,
without Trevithick,
Without steam, without sufficiently high pressure,
Without irregular motion and torque throughout the
cycle,
There would be no engine, no locomotion, no GWR,
no LMS, no LNER.
Without facsimile, without Bain and Bakewell and
Nipkow,
And spinning discs and Baird and Stooky Bill,
There would be on definition, standard or high,
There would be no BBC, ITV, Netflix or streaming.
Without those who come before, no steam or
streaming.
Without those whose faith makes them grandparents
Of a future they cannot yet envisage,
There can be no further innovations,
No inventions, no progeny.
 
We must have faith that what we do will pay off in
more than steam.
Real love and care will always produce more than
hot air.


(Originally published by Move Me Poetry)

 

 

 

 

THE RANDOM WASHING OF FRUIT

There are phrases that stay with me,
Things you say that mean more than you know,
Resonating with how this life now is for me,
This existence without solace,
This world without succour,
Because I have shut the door on so many,
Because even grief prevented me from letting in
Those who were still there,
Those who would have been there
For me
If only I had realised.
And so, when you talk of the “random washing of
fruit,”
Because you have been collecting
Because you are making jam
Because that is your world,
I think of what you are doing
By letting me in,
By talking to me after so long,
After the worst,
After my world collapsed,
After I decided I should withdraw.
I am the random, I am the fruit,
And you are there.
How can it be random
When this is meant?
When you are offering me something
You do not even know you are offering?
These words.
This exchange.
While you wash the fruit,
You attend to the shards of my soul,
And I thank you.
You know not what you do,
But I thank you.
This is how I will survive this moment,
And this is why I will be here
For others to come.

 

 

(Originally published in What is Love to You?) 

DO NOT LET GRIEF BEFORE (AND AFTER)
THE EVENT ROB YOU OF YOUR BEST DAY

My favourite day on Earth
Was October 30th, 2023.
I was not entitled to it.
I could not have expected it.
I am sure I did not deserve it.
I have mourned it every second since.

How sad.
How sad to think that the best of experiences,
When all experiences are only ever in the moment,
And are not guaranteed to last beyond this moment,
As our lives are not guaranteed to last beyond this
moment,
And can be devalued
Because these moments will never come again.

We are limited-time offers.
I hate to tell you this,
If you had not figured it out already,
But we are impermanent,
Our lives will end,
And nothing we ever do,
No day we ever have,
Will be forever.

We must—I must—learn to love
The love that lasted only the one day.
We must—I must—learn that if we
Pile on the bitterness and the misery afterwards,
We kill the thing that will be with us forever,
The memory of that which will last forever,
Or until the closing of our eyes for the last time,
anyway:

The joy of the memory.
Every happiness stands against the misery of its
surroundings.
Every joyful experience is distinct
Because of the lack of joy around it.

If we do not appreciate those moments,
Even when they are gone,
It is as if we never had them at all.

I mourn the lack of October 30th in the rest of my life.

But I must celebrate the fact it happened at all.

That is what it means to live.

To never risk the impermanence of the one day…

Is what it means to die.


(Originally published in Know Yourself, Heal Yourself)

 

 

 

LOVE AND DEATH

We speak of the pain of a broken heart,
A broken promise,
Of days to be mourned,
For we know we will never have them again.
For every joyful moment
There are the absences to follow.
For every love, there must be loss,
For everything we treasure, there must be risk.
For, to take the slow path,
We must lose others along the way.
For, to commit is to use time and energy you can
never have again,
And there should be such happiness in knowing this,
As we embrace the knowledge that is the best we
can have now,
As we embrace the temporary release from the
sadness to follow.
It is true that love and death are painful,
But truer still is that between them
Lies the most painful thing of all.
 
Always enjoy this day while you can.


(Originally published in Know Yourself, Heal Yourself)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We do not choose whom we love…We can only choose how well..

—Martha Brockenbrough, The Game of Love and Death

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Mike Hickman for today’s fine poetry! Walls. Love means walls, yes? Either taking them down, or putting them up…

 

 

 

 Mike Hickman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder to check out the

International Peace Festival 

taking place in Rancho Cordova

today starting at 11am;

Christina Lloyd and Alice Templeton

read in Turloch today, 2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
features Josh McKinney and
Susan Kelly-DeWitt today, 4pm;
and Tea and Poetry at the
Sacramento Garden open mic
takes place tonight, 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!