Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker,
Caschwa, and Joyce Odam
WILD IMAGININGS
Where snow meets pavement on the mountain drive, we wandered, my dog and I, his wild blood turning my thoughts wild as we printed our tracks among tracks subsiding to snowmelt. This track, barely legible— field guide useless as tracks lose their contours under spring’s noncommittal sun. A vanishing print as big as my fist—the stuff of myth.
snow lets its secrets
overflow as pure water—
wild imaginings
Where snow meets pavement on the mountain drive, we wandered, my dog and I, his wild blood turning my thoughts wild as we printed our tracks among tracks subsiding to snowmelt. This track, barely legible— field guide useless as tracks lose their contours under spring’s noncommittal sun. A vanishing print as big as my fist—the stuff of myth.
snow lets its secrets
overflow as pure water—
wild imaginings
What the heck? A mysterious find from TG~
WINTER ASHES
On woodstove’s hearth stands a 3-legged
cast iron kettle with lid and ring
for tipping and pouring. I don’t know
which side of the family passed it
down to me. Impassive as a dour
grandmother. On cold mornings I scoop
ashes from the stove and close the lid.
Later, in daylight, I lug it down
to the ash heap. Wild turkeys love it
for dusting. I collect a little
in a spice bottle to carry with
me on the trail, and for scent training
with my dog—a handy way to check
wind direction and velocity.
So I give ashes back to forest
they came from, in thanks for trees now passed.
__________________
GROCERY CHECKOUT
He overflows his mechanized
shopping cart pulling another cart behind
like a pack horse on expedition.
How many days, weeks, months is he
provisioning? or does he feed a whole crew?
They’ve called another checker
to reload everything from conveyor belt
to cardboard boxes, and back to cart.
Meanwhile at checkout, he’s trying
to remember his PIN. Three strikes and
you’re out. Everyone in line
behind him is hoping, cursing, praying
he’ll get it right. Checker refreshes
her patiently encouraging smile.
TRIBUTE TO HOUSE SPARROWS
The Safeway entrance overhang overflows
with birdsong on this cold March morning
as shoppers wing their raincoated ways
from cars to automatic doors never meant
for sparrows, who dare not venture forth
in such rude weather in search of breakfast
scraps. Best to huddle under manmade
shelter and sing the chipping song
that’s spilling over with hints of spring
and sometimes summons sun.
The Safeway entrance overhang overflows
with birdsong on this cold March morning
as shoppers wing their raincoated ways
from cars to automatic doors never meant
for sparrows, who dare not venture forth
in such rude weather in search of breakfast
scraps. Best to huddle under manmade
shelter and sing the chipping song
that’s spilling over with hints of spring
and sometimes summons sun.
STRIP MALL IN MARCH
this frigid morning
fresh white petal drops on blacktop
mixed with fallen hail
overhead more birdsong
than in the woods—those sparrows
singing out the storm
shoppers dash from cars
to supermarket—wind makes
wings of their raincoats
this frigid morning
fresh white petal drops on blacktop
mixed with fallen hail
overhead more birdsong
than in the woods—those sparrows
singing out the storm
shoppers dash from cars
to supermarket—wind makes
wings of their raincoats
LOST ON THE TRAIL
Poem written
by a young heart that’s smitten
and overflowing in pink
ink.
But midnight
turned everything to frostbite—
poem under hail like lice,
ice.
Poem written
by a young heart that’s smitten
and overflowing in pink
ink.
But midnight
turned everything to frostbite—
poem under hail like lice,
ice.
Today’s LittleNip:
ROSEMARY TEA
—Taylor Graham
Rosemary is just delighted
coming in out of the rain.
Lover of warmth and of dryness,
shadowless, a sunny plain
is she. But these winter days she
soaks and lets her savor drain
into my cup, a warming pleasure.
Memories stir in my tea.
Need I say, in this kitchen is
just the place she ought to be?
____________________
Taylor Graham has greeted yesterday's Equinox with swallows and rosemary tea today, and our thanks to her for her fine poetry! Forms she has used this week include a Haibun (“Wild Imaginings”); some Normative Syllabics (“Winter Ashes”); a Tribute Poem (“Tribute to House Sparrows”); a Haiku Chain (“Strip Mall in March”); an Irish Deibide baise fri toin (“Lost on the Trail”); and a Decannelle (“Rosemary Tea”). One could also say that her “Grocery Checkout” is a response to our most recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Overflowing”.
This Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features Wm. O’Daly and Indran Amirthanayagam in Camino, CA. And 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 such events and 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!
ROSEMARY TEA
—Taylor Graham
Rosemary is just delighted
coming in out of the rain.
Lover of warmth and of dryness,
shadowless, a sunny plain
is she. But these winter days she
soaks and lets her savor drain
into my cup, a warming pleasure.
Memories stir in my tea.
Need I say, in this kitchen is
just the place she ought to be?
____________________
Taylor Graham has greeted yesterday's Equinox with swallows and rosemary tea today, and our thanks to her for her fine poetry! Forms she has used this week include a Haibun (“Wild Imaginings”); some Normative Syllabics (“Winter Ashes”); a Tribute Poem (“Tribute to House Sparrows”); a Haiku Chain (“Strip Mall in March”); an Irish Deibide baise fri toin (“Lost on the Trail”); and a Decannelle (“Rosemary Tea”). One could also say that her “Grocery Checkout” is a response to our most recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Overflowing”.
This Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features Wm. O’Daly and Indran Amirthanayagam in Camino, CA. And 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 such events and 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!
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 |
Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo included Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker, and Caschwa:
THE DISAPPEARING ACT, OR
HOW TO STAY HAPPILY MARRIED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
He hears her huff and drop a spoon.
It’s an incoming honey-do.
Before she takes her apron off
and stomps into the room,
he’s out the door and hiding
in his workshop in the shed.
He tinkers, fixes broken stools,
repairs toys that don’t work.
He tightens screws
and hammers wood,
and he feels pretty good
that he can fix what’s broken
in a world that tosses out
the things it can’t control.
By sunset, he is satisfied,
and walks into the house.
She hugs him, pecks him on the cheek,
forgetting honey-dos.
* * *
HIS SHED
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
He stands back and surveys it all.
There’s everything in there.
Everything
for a lifetime of jobs
around the house
where nothing stayed
the same for long.
Everything
for a lifetime of car repairs,
in every spanner a story.
Too much of a wrench
to part with any of it,
those nuts and bolts of a life
well lived,
its tools
well used
well ordered
and tidily placed
so that every screwdriver could be found
except the one he’s looking for.
* * *
TIRED AND WORN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What’s clocked, like time, just hangs around
but takes its toll on what before.
Electric, not the mood conveyed,
essential though, in past connect;
tied flex, clog coiled, white lasso hooked—
for speed, a spanner in the works.
But this, once proud, with gadget trace
in place, a workshop, mencave space?
Mauritius, Netherlands seem flagged
by orange screen, these cupboards blue,
but maps of world far flown from here
where rust scars what was once pristine.
Invested stock, tools of a trade,
devices, instruments on shelf,
the apparatus of employed—
put on their mettle, workers buoyed.
Alone, that red fire fixture bright,
where power source once circulate;
that energy that drove, exhaust;
but what the motive to retire?
So why abandoned, leaving all,
a wrench to leave, or not at all?
This mirror finds the cost, years passed,
both tired and worn, flexed muscles borne.
But duck if surface dusted down;
no eider, feather duster known.
* * *
Claire Baker had a different take on last week’s Ekphrastic photo:
THE CURIO SHOP
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
It’s roomy, but hardly Rumi-esque:
No Afghany rugs where he might have sat
Before whirling in a Sufi dervish.
There’s an ancient Philco radio. Or is
That black box a floor heater?
Mysteries stump, clump one’s curiousity.
What a mess! Worthless junk.
And some junk maybe priceless.
Lacking curio smarts, I wax impatient.
But, ah, there’s a nurse-call buzzer.
Mine seldom or maybe DID work?
I learned QUICK I’m not the only patient.
Is that dangling rope for a daredevil
To hang loose off the Golden Gate Bridge
Pretending to be an elongated gull?
Suddenly thirsty, I scan cans in fish tank.
Are colas cooling there? Could I ask
To buy one? But what about their age?
We’re out west: I stumble into a pan
For swishing pebbles into gold dust.
A guard-cat, yellow eyed, stares me down.
In leaving the curious shop, I shake dust
From my hair. It filters through the air
Looking like, unless I imagine, gold dust.
* * *
AFTER THE IRON AGE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
man fashioned tools to make his life easier
while foreign made junk got cheesier and cheesier
there were whole shopping days when
men crowded the aisles in the hardware store
building up nice sets of hand tools, then
displaying them at home, what a thing to adore!
screw drivers, saws, all kinds of wrenches
bounty from shopping days spent in the trenches
now they’re at home, a true piece of heaven
yardsticks, rulers, and measuring tapes
to help ensure that cuts come out even
strong bonding materials named after apes
* * *
Here is a Nonce from Carl: 3 quatrains; Rhyme scheme aab ddbc eebc
Syllables in each quatrain: 1st line – 5; 2nd line – 7; 3rd and 4th lines – 9:
to part with any of it,
those nuts and bolts of a life
well lived,
its tools
well used
well ordered
and tidily placed
so that every screwdriver could be found
except the one he’s looking for.
* * *
TIRED AND WORN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What’s clocked, like time, just hangs around
but takes its toll on what before.
Electric, not the mood conveyed,
essential though, in past connect;
tied flex, clog coiled, white lasso hooked—
for speed, a spanner in the works.
But this, once proud, with gadget trace
in place, a workshop, mencave space?
Mauritius, Netherlands seem flagged
by orange screen, these cupboards blue,
but maps of world far flown from here
where rust scars what was once pristine.
Invested stock, tools of a trade,
devices, instruments on shelf,
the apparatus of employed—
put on their mettle, workers buoyed.
Alone, that red fire fixture bright,
where power source once circulate;
that energy that drove, exhaust;
but what the motive to retire?
So why abandoned, leaving all,
a wrench to leave, or not at all?
This mirror finds the cost, years passed,
both tired and worn, flexed muscles borne.
But duck if surface dusted down;
no eider, feather duster known.
* * *
Claire Baker had a different take on last week’s Ekphrastic photo:
THE CURIO SHOP
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
It’s roomy, but hardly Rumi-esque:
No Afghany rugs where he might have sat
Before whirling in a Sufi dervish.
There’s an ancient Philco radio. Or is
That black box a floor heater?
Mysteries stump, clump one’s curiousity.
What a mess! Worthless junk.
And some junk maybe priceless.
Lacking curio smarts, I wax impatient.
But, ah, there’s a nurse-call buzzer.
Mine seldom or maybe DID work?
I learned QUICK I’m not the only patient.
Is that dangling rope for a daredevil
To hang loose off the Golden Gate Bridge
Pretending to be an elongated gull?
Suddenly thirsty, I scan cans in fish tank.
Are colas cooling there? Could I ask
To buy one? But what about their age?
We’re out west: I stumble into a pan
For swishing pebbles into gold dust.
A guard-cat, yellow eyed, stares me down.
In leaving the curious shop, I shake dust
From my hair. It filters through the air
Looking like, unless I imagine, gold dust.
* * *
AFTER THE IRON AGE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
man fashioned tools to make his life easier
while foreign made junk got cheesier and cheesier
there were whole shopping days when
men crowded the aisles in the hardware store
building up nice sets of hand tools, then
displaying them at home, what a thing to adore!
screw drivers, saws, all kinds of wrenches
bounty from shopping days spent in the trenches
now they’re at home, a true piece of heaven
yardsticks, rulers, and measuring tapes
to help ensure that cuts come out even
strong bonding materials named after apes
* * *
Here is a Nonce from Carl: 3 quatrains; Rhyme scheme aab ddbc eebc
Syllables in each quatrain: 1st line – 5; 2nd line – 7; 3rd and 4th lines – 9:
RAMPANT ABUSE
—Caschwa
bird feathers, sea shells
party napkins, lizard scales
all have colorful stories to tell
about how badly they were abused
taken for granted
as shelter for augmented
life forms that were quick to let them fall
see them trailing and just be amused
humans were the worst
spared no harm to be the first
to have their tales be all that is swell
left underfoot, where nothing’s twice used
* * *
This is an Unrhymed Villanelle from Joyce Odam:
—Caschwa
bird feathers, sea shells
party napkins, lizard scales
all have colorful stories to tell
about how badly they were abused
taken for granted
as shelter for augmented
life forms that were quick to let them fall
see them trailing and just be amused
humans were the worst
spared no harm to be the first
to have their tales be all that is swell
left underfoot, where nothing’s twice used
* * *
This is an Unrhymed Villanelle from Joyce Odam:
WHAT YOU BURIED
—Joyce Odam
It is about to speak.
It has revisions you can do without.
What it brings is memory.
You try not to listen.
Yours is the only version.
It is about to speak.
Whatever you thought was truth
is about to be taken from you.
What it brings is memory—
this inevitable intrusion—
this sound at the edges, and all around you.
It is about to speak.
You can close your eyes. You can close your mind.
You can try to hide in your silence,
but what it brings is memory.
(Is it the wind . . .? Yes, it is the wind . . . )
Tell yourself that, then.
The inner sound is about to speak.
What it brings is memory.
* * *
And this poem from Stephen Kingsnorth is a response to a once-upon-a-time Seed of the Week from Medusa’s Kitchen:
—Joyce Odam
It is about to speak.
It has revisions you can do without.
What it brings is memory.
You try not to listen.
Yours is the only version.
It is about to speak.
Whatever you thought was truth
is about to be taken from you.
What it brings is memory—
this inevitable intrusion—
this sound at the edges, and all around you.
It is about to speak.
You can close your eyes. You can close your mind.
You can try to hide in your silence,
but what it brings is memory.
(Is it the wind . . .? Yes, it is the wind . . . )
Tell yourself that, then.
The inner sound is about to speak.
What it brings is memory.
* * *
And this poem from Stephen Kingsnorth is a response to a once-upon-a-time Seed of the Week from Medusa’s Kitchen:
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
TRIKES AND BIKES
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Took three to free me from my fears,
crashlanding from two wobble wheels;
so tired of freefall, wheals from slabs,
those kneecap scabs of preschool tears,
the trike sufficed to carry through.
Freewheeling without chain of doubt,
that I had linked, unbalanced ride—
derailling gears a distant skill—
equipment then not known about,
I rode the sidewalk, prams beware.
Two sisters, I, in rubber burn,
to my back bar, lashed skipping ropes—
they skated on their rollers, powered
my pedals, pressured in their turn,
as weaving, cleaving, gossip knots.
My rickshaw Wallah, twenty more,
stood straining on Calcutta streets,
foot bridge where wiry figure weight,
force driving over Hooghly bore;
what span between my life and his?
His leathered skin as hard, his nails,
sole purpose peddling means to move
for hale and hearty passengers,
now following their tourist trails,
whose backpacks filled way more than he.
Derailleur never his for ease,
nor skipping through suburban streets,
or playing trike with working bike;
just money seized as teased for pleas,
his rental told a privilege.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Took three to free me from my fears,
crashlanding from two wobble wheels;
so tired of freefall, wheals from slabs,
those kneecap scabs of preschool tears,
the trike sufficed to carry through.
Freewheeling without chain of doubt,
that I had linked, unbalanced ride—
derailling gears a distant skill—
equipment then not known about,
I rode the sidewalk, prams beware.
Two sisters, I, in rubber burn,
to my back bar, lashed skipping ropes—
they skated on their rollers, powered
my pedals, pressured in their turn,
as weaving, cleaving, gossip knots.
My rickshaw Wallah, twenty more,
stood straining on Calcutta streets,
foot bridge where wiry figure weight,
force driving over Hooghly bore;
what span between my life and his?
His leathered skin as hard, his nails,
sole purpose peddling means to move
for hale and hearty passengers,
now following their tourist trails,
whose backpacks filled way more than he.
Derailleur never his for ease,
nor skipping through suburban streets,
or playing trike with working bike;
just money seized as teased for pleas,
his rental told a privilege.
____________________
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!
____________________
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!
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••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 “New Neighbors”.
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Decannelle: darksideofthemoon583.com/2018/01/26/10-line-poem-challenge-15-decannelle
•••Deibide Baise Fri Toin: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/deibide-baise-fri-toin-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tribute Poem: https://allpoetry.com/poems/about/Tribute
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
__________________
—Medusa
Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
* * *
—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain
Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
* * *
—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain
For info about
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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!
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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!
