Moments of Surprise

 

The Rabbit On Black

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

BAD MEMORIES 

—Joyce Odam

Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.

And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,

a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments

until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….

                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21;
4/16/24; 5/28/24)

 

 

 

The Designer

 

THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam

To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—

or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,

and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :

should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,

a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18; 5/5/20;
4/16/24; 7/30/24)

 

 

 

The Curator

 

THE SCRATCH OF A DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam  

Outside in the garden, only the
morning—the sheet of plain paper, the
birds in blue feathers.

The hum of the laundry, the comfort of
dishes piled up in the kitchen—the short list
of something to do before nighttime.

The plain sheet of paper. Eight birds
in blue feathers.
                             

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/23; 11/26/24) 

 

 

 

The Dream in Black and White

 

SALOMES
—Joyce Odam

Ladies of dark dresses,
what do you know of
our naked dance;
what do you know of our
delicate fat under the music?
The music is upon us
and we are free for it.
How we shimmer and bounce.
We do not need makeup and bindings.

Ladies of dark dresses,
your eyes so frozen,
what do we care that you tell on us
or that you stand at our windows with
whispers and cameras.
We look at our hips in the mirror,
our round bellies,
our round legs.
We love the feel of our heavy breasts
in our own hands.
We are sensual at last.
We let the hair grow under our arms.

Ladies in dark dresses,
we do not approve of you.
We are the nudists of self-pleasure.
We do not have to be young to dance.
What do you know of our husbands
who weep with praise
and regret for all time wasted?
We are their lovers now.
We are safe for them at last.
They hold us when we dance.
They let us go
when we demand it.

             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/21/10)

 

 

 

Her Cat

 

  

OLD WOMEN IN A GARDEN
—Joyce Odam

After supper
the old women will walk
through the garden,
limping their way
over the knobby ground
in search of beauty.

How wearily-content
their bodies
take to evening pilgrimage
so they can stand in color
and in fragrance
in an easy wind.

One will gather
a bright bouquet of duty
for the complimenting guest.
The other will accept
with thin protest.

And for the long,
gaunt moments that they
linger, they hang
like scarecrows on their bones
and watch the Iris
bending in September.
                 

(prev. pub. in Poet and Critic,  Fall, 1966;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/18/12; 5/6/14) 

 

 

 

Her Ghost

THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam

the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .

the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .

the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .

but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)

 

 

 

A Distant Relative

THE VISITOR
-—Joyce Odam

She lifts her sanka-cup
to her prim-worded lips
and sips.
Her eyes smile narrow too.
And the sun
thins down
behind the window
of her mind.
Her passionate disasters
must unwind
to gray forgetting,
more unkind
than rich untelling.
She is wary of confess.
She nips
a cracker
with her careful teeth.
Taste must abstain
from eager bite.
Her blue-vein fingers
tense their grip
on life.
Her hair wisps thinly
in a trick of light,
mending her movement
still
again.
What was said
she does not hear.
Her gaze is razor thin.
She lifts her sanka-cup
to lukewarm lips
and primly sips.
             

(prev. pub. in Kansas Quarterly, 1971-72)

 

 

 

Her Story

 

HER BROKEN HOLD
—Joyce Odam

She was the pretender
of all roles,
invincible puppet, strung
to her own
manipulative hands.

Those days when she
was mother
she destroyed her children;
those nights when
she was wife
her husband cried.

She was the sadness
in the old guitar she strummed.
She plucked discord
and hummed herself
through all the listening air,
then sang the words:
Are we not happy?
Are we not aware?

She frowned. She put
her silence down and was
Child’s black crayola,
holding back
tomorrow’s undrawn art.
She made a scribble in her mind
and brooded in her heart.

That’s who I am, she smiled,
each time someone familiar
came and called, not seeing her
as some receding echo
in the haunted rooms.
That’s who I am, she purred, and was
the cat
beneath the visitor’s uneasy hand.

But once she was a dancer,
wearing motion like
a bird escaped to its lost wilderness;
and because she leaped and whirled
beyond the edge of sound
the drums were rolled—
a curtain stirred—
and music caught on time
and all her strings
were frayed and tangled
in her broken hold. 

 

 

 

The Elephant in the Room

 

HAPPENCHANCE
 —Joyce Odam

We met in a mutual memory—

stranger to each, but familiar,
one of us told the other why :

as if ordained . . . there was
a sort of sadness we shared,
tears came to our faces—

we
held
each other
in mutual sympathy.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/5/22; 9/20/22;
11/26/24)

 

 

 

Someone Knocks

 

THE UNEXPECTED WEEPING
—Joyce Odam

tears came to my eyes
and I marveled

that they were for
a fox in a poem

that got hit
by a car,

and I wept and wept
to myself

in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of

                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24) 

 

 

 

 The Sorrows

 

THREE RIVERS
—Robin Gale Odam

three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour

offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows

the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing

blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer

holding my heart
and keeping them here  

an empty page
three blank lines


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)

 

 

 

The Architect

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WINDS OF CHANCE
—Joyce Odam

That balloon lost in the sky . . .

That kite stuck in the dead tree . . .

                                    
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/17/24)

 

 

 

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry and photos on our Seed of the Week, An Unexpected Guest. Our new Seed of the Week is “Bugs”. 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 poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

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

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that 

An Evening Honoring Joan Didion

takes place in Sacramento tonight;

and Sue Norman & Moira Magneson

read in Placerville tonight, 6pm.

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.

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 at 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!

 

 

 

Unexpected Guests

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

 

 

COMPLAINT TO A POLICEMAN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

There’s a weird old lady in my mirror. I have no idea where she came from or who she is. She stares at me like she knows me. Come on in, take a peek!

Do you see what I mean? That weird old lady stole my reflection! I should press charges for kidnapping a minor.

Here, you stand in front of the mirror. Tell me if I’m crazy or what. Hey, that doesn’t look like you at all! Your face is so fat! And the real you is taller.

Ewwwww, creepy.

Thanks for breaking the mirror with your shoe! That’s one way to get rid of those strange people. But how do I get my real reflection back now?

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

HELLO, MR. PARKINSON
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

A visitor, unwanted, knocks,
not mine the choice of whether stays,
eviction can’t now be achieved,
so how to greet this one at door,
now stepping, uninvited, hall?

A protest vain—why scream or shout,
frustrated voice but wears me out—
but gracious host as I was taught,
accommodate, and treat as guest,
adjust home life as best to suit.

Folk ask how he has made his route,
but unknown journey, travel path,
the fact that he arrived, suffice,
acknowledge presence, like my wife,
discover more about his style.

I learn his nature, Mitty-like,
inconstant in the face he bears,
for other hosts tell storyline,
unlike my own experience,
though common features shared by all.

I do check some things, family,
his tree so little understood,
but basically he remains,
so little point in fighting back—
relax, find advantageous ways.

He’s forced to join me in my quests,
write poetry, and ballet dance,
those roads not followed, searched before.
as rise, recline as is my wont,
surprising him by driving on.

My greatest fear, demented friend
may choose to join him, as is trend,
but if so, not control the grace
that governs space I’m living in.
Except that I’ll not know he’s here.

Of course prefer if left this house
or better still, had not arrived,
but now he’s here, don’t curse or rant,
acknowledging his influence—
though keen should know on borrowed time. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BEWITCHED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

In the master bedroom rests a dresser
set with a large mirror that sees all and
tells all. Our house rules are shredded to
pieces and sent back in time to when
meteors and asteroids collided with the
Earth causing a massive ripple effect
that destroyed the dinosaurs.

There is no hope to negotiate or to win
an argument with this bewitched piece
of furniture. It will only laugh at our
mistakes, and then the mirror image will
laugh doubly at our attempts to remedy
them.

Cleansing the mirror is sure to put irritants
in our noses, and if we leave the room
without bidding it goodbye we will return
to find our darkest secrets spread all over
the house.

When we directed the movers to put that
dresser in the master bedroom, we had
no clue that an unexpected guest was all
packaged up in that furniture. And now
that we know this, there is nothing we can
do to change its course.

Surely, removing the dresser to a dumpsite
would leave a place in the room to put in
a less dominant dresser. But how can we
know that a different piece of furniture
won’t take over the same way? 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MY BIGGER BRAIN
—Caschwa

On a typical day in the back yard one may view
the casual wanderings of squirrels and kitty cats
along the fence tops and rooftops, which provide
them a cozy safety zone quite impervious to the
show of teeth, claws, barks, and growls issued
by some territorial neighborhood dogs. My
bigger brain tells me that I should totally refrain
from accessing fence tops and rooftops myself.
And I happily comply. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

DIAMOND NECKLACE
—Caschwa

each special crystal loves its neighbor
and pledges allegiance to the string of jewels
of which it is part, adoration of this kind of art
all the brilliant light to keep secrets hidden
what better showpiece to shield the forbidden?
when fastened around your soft, tender neck
palatial fantasies arise in great surges
no walls or sentries deny its safe passage
regret and remorse are the first things it purges
the necklace may get more compliments than
you, yourself can draw, while neither will betray
the least of any flaw 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A SUBSTITUTE’S DILEMMA
—Caschwa

It finally came! the bell introducing that
brief interim between 4th and 5th period
when teachers of all sexes can visit the
restroom; could be called rush break

ahead of me an English teacher leaving
a trail of metaphors and expletives on
the hallway floor, almost ready to lose
her pants

alongside of me a math teacher shedding
his binomials, exponents, and New Math
pop quizzes

and there I nervously await that dreaded
moment when a crowd of females will
swarm into the men’s room ahead of me,
shut and lock the door, while my precious
time and bladder control can no longer wait

a sad fact, outside is not a tropical forest,
but is merely a few random pieces of
shrubbery, not nearly enough to enable a
guy to sneak behind an ample bush and pee
without a thousand adolescent eyes keenly
training on him from all different angles
and calmly recording the whole event on
their cell phones 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BEFORE TALKING TO YOUR DOCTOR
—Caschwa

thoughtful poets will check to see if
their pause is planning to become pregnant

fully disrobe and take inventory

be courteous when all the gatekeepers ask
you for confidential information

enlarge those gruesome photos of your skin rash
so the doctor will not have to squint

be early so staff has time to awaken the doctor

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WRITING LESSON
—Caschwa

(Things I Should Be Grateful For, But Am Not)

Syntax: the people cry out for change and Congress
hurries to put new rules of order on the books.

Semantics: Congress takes centuries to fine tune
and explain what all these rules really mean.

Examples: Blacks are now free. Free to be lynched
in the public square if they violate the old rules
separating Blacks and Whites.
Women now have the right to vote. As long as their
voice mirrors what White men demand.

Democracy: Babe in diapers. Watch us grow!

 

 

 

 Shiva and Devyanshi Neupane

FERRY
—Devyanshi Neupane, age 5
Melbourne, Australia

I was with Daddy
When I was on the ferry,
I saw a big ocean,
Which I liked very much.
And I wrote a poem about it
With Daddy on the ferry. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SEAMUS’ PEN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
(In memory of Seamus Heaney)

Seamus said he’d dig with it,
Like a spade with which
To cut and shovel
Sod out of a bog.

Digging and digging
From day to day,
Mining for some silver words
To craft something to say
With wit and skill
To make his readers
Appreciate the play
Of thoughts, feelings,
Images,
Irish scenery and things,
Well enough
To make a living
Through his mining days.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT IS THAT?
—Caschwa

Just $19
daily, truck, new front bumper?
that’s rental implants.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors for their fine work as we move into the Easter season. Some of today’s work is based on our Seed of the Week, An Unexpected Guest.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be featuring Wang Ping
tonight, 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.

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!

 

An Unexpected Guest!

 

Why Isn't It Over?

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Jefferson City, MO
—Art Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THE WHITE FLAG

1.

The white flag is not colored red for a purpose
nor is the red cross of the Red Cross two black lines
or the rip of bone near the heart an explosion of
    halos and wings.

The lemon ice on the waffle cone fell to the cobble-
    stones
joining the pools of blood and debris, and one white
    flag
no longer white, but speckled now—no, splotched—

like a nose bleed on a clean white shirt, on a pair of
    new shorts.

2.

In this field we played
moving small pebbles into shallow holes
one piece, two, three at a time
across what is now blood mud, Aharon Zisling,
the last memory of my mother.

 

 

 

 

BONE FRAGMENTS FOUND BY THE PLUMBER YEARS LATER

The flesh and wood effect,
a lack of bone—
roof and walls,
a Jericho revisited.
A home stolen
is a home stolen
and a ring from a finger
still attached to a hand
is a ring stolen.
Perhaps there is a difference,
Aharon Zisling,
when the house has been vacated,
when the finger is no longer
attached to a hand,
when the rapist is of your army
and the girl not one of your own.

 

 

 

 

HOW THE WESTERN WALL BECAME THE WAILING WALL

1.

How do you question
one so young sobbing against brick
and mortar, blood licking
their skin, the scent of gunpowder
and bone fragments in the dust
on their hands and faces.
Have you ever looked in the eye
of the dead who go on living?

2.

So let me create a refrain:

They dumped the children
before the western wall
and that is how it got its name.

Slip a piece of paper
in the wall for me
for each of the children.

 

 

 

WHEN YOU DIE, CAN YOU STILL SEE THE MOON?

You told me graveyards are that loud
and you were right. Noise skittles over crab grass
and dandelion greens, over locust stone and
    devil’s claw
thick with spikes and wooden lures bloody for light.
Passageways of water flow beneath them,
and the voices flow with them gray and waterproof,
overcast and significantly silent. We are a people
of mourners. Hire us. We cry on cue,
like vultures at the edge of the Sinai frontier,
like elephants leaving their path to caress
the bones of a sister. We can scream like war 

    planes,
rend our clothing into scars, draw tattoos of death
exactly as a battle begins. Remember it was us
who fire-bombed the cafés of Jaffa
and it was us who people-bombed
the villages near Jerusalem.
We are one-hundred-sixty pounds of manure,
blood, gravel, fog—not enough
to cover all of the newly dead, but enough
to ensure there will never be silence in the
    graveyard.

 

 

 

 

THE SOUND OF FEAR LATE IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

We talk about everything I don't want to talk about,
    and that is enough.
Quiet sings from beyond widowed walls
and earth does expose children gone to pieces.
It's just that machine-guns really are that loud
and there really is intrinsic value to pain.
My daughter asks if blood washes vegetation,
if words can come from soil when it rains.
I'm afraid I do not know if I will ever understand
    the answer.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RETURN
—Michael H. Brownstein

Now I climb the stairs,
enter the bounty of my home,
cracked plaster, broken glass,
a presence of eyes no longer present,
stilled, and heavy, almost sacred,
the war unable to end.

___________________

—Medusa, with season's greetings on this Easter Day, and thanks to Michael Bernstein for poetry from his new book, Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah, which is available online at https://booksonblog35.blogspot.com/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Day W/Medusa & Pals

 Arshi Mortuza
—Poetry by Arshi Mortuza, Toronto, Canada

 

 

EVE GETS EVICTED
 
To Him, it was just a terrarium on a countertop.
But for me, it was Eden in a glass bowl.
Finding home within his home décor.
He preached about shame.
But I only knew it by name—
Finding modesty in nakedness.
 
To Him, it was a pet worm
That had gone astray.
But for me, it was a monstrous serpent.
He watched it slither into the terrarium
And whisper sweet nothings in my ear—
Waiting for just the right moment
To banish me from here.
 
You see, he preached about knowledge—
But I am only rib, and no brain.
Yet when I gave into temptation,
I was the first to get blamed.
 
Now my sins are smeared
All over the page.
I’m an open book, really.
Feels like I’m back in his terrarium
All over again.

 

 

 

 

CLEOPATRA LIES


I laid down to die among snakes
Spawn from the severed head of a
Serpent-haired monster.
Feeling less alone with their slithers across my skin.
Using their coiling icy bodies for warmth.
They lie to me if I need them to;
Hiss lullabies in my ear of how
I am goddess Isis incarnate—
Healing. Magic. Life.

 

 

 

 

HERA GOES TO THE SUPERMARKET


She checks the expiration dates
on the organic ambrosia and gluten-free nectar
    before tossing them in the cart.
She buys them in bulk to avoid returning soon and
    to save herself the humiliation of grocery
    shopping for an infidel.
And if that’s not bad enough,
Every now and then she would run into one of her
    husband’s conquests.
One time, there was Leda scanning the poultry
    section.
Ganymede holding a box of Trojans.
Worst was when Semele was caught buying some-
    thing for indigestion.
It was obvious Zeus had fed her a heart.
A performance mortal bimbos seemed to fall for.
“One day you’ll see him for what he really is,”
    Hera warned Semele that day.
“He is just gaslighting you!”
Today she bumped carts with Medusa, who was
    in to pick up Snake Oil for her hair.
Hera grew suspicious of Medusa’s averting gaze
    and let out a laugh.
“You too?! You with my husband?!”
“No, but his brother—“ Medusa started in a raspy
    voice and reluctant tone.
“Oh! That makes sense. I mean I get the women,
    and even those men—but picturing him with
    a creature like you?
That would have been rock bottom for me.”

Medusa sighs.
“Screw it” she mutters—
and looks Hera in the eyes.

 

 

 

 

MEDUSA’S SPA DAY


Cover her eyes
with cucumber slices—
It would be inappropriate to be stoned during 

    the job.
 
Give her an anti-aging facial—
as victim-blaming and
slut-shaming
have really become quite archaic.
 
Recommend a hot stone massage—
just for the irony.
And for Zeus’s sake—
the woman is due
for a new hairdo.
 
Remove that serpent mane—
and preserve the snake extensions
for our next client, Athena.
 
Weave Medusa any hairstyle she likes—
pixie-cut blonde,
wavy balayage,
layered brunette
or perhaps red ringlets.
 
Tell her she looks beautiful—
Without holding up a mirror
to her face.
Pamper her hands with
Moisturizer and a manicure—
for they will need their strength
to carry the heads
of Poseidon and Perseus.

 

 

 

 

MEDUSA CHECKS INTO A WOMEN’S SHELTER

She walks up to the counter—
barefoot and battered,
refusing eye contact with the receptionist,
sporting a fresh hairdo from Slither Salon.
The serpent weave feeling tight and itchy,
spirit broken,
a baby bump forming around her neck,
eyes secreting pebbles in place of tears.
Should’ve prayed to Aphrodite instead.

 

 

 

 


GHOSTED BY THE COLOR GREEN
 

I took a walk with the color green.
She led me through lush fields.
In casual, calculated ways,
Tried to make sense of my blueness.
 
I searched for common ground
By recounting times I’ve felt
Inadequate or replaced and summoned
Flashes of emerald in my eyes.
Green couldn’t relate.
 
Her fingers grazed the shrubs as she
Harmonized with the songs of birds
Whose names I’ll never learn.
Her zest for life made me green with
Nausea, repulsion, and cringe.
I’m zesty too, but like lime.
 
She scattered hydrangea seeds
As we cut our walk short.
In desperation, I tell her of starchy

Unripe apples I’ve bitten into.
If they all saw it the way I do,
We might still have paradise.
 
I mention my gangrened loves—
Clotted wounds I keep recycling.
She nodded like the shrinks
Who have made crispy, green bills—
Thanks to my blueness.
 
Green is diplomatic, demure—
As we part ways, she says
“We should do this again sometime.”
I instantly know that nothing green
Stays for long and I am about to be
Ghosted by the color green.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Sometimes, not even folding yourself into the smallest, littlest shape is enough. So you might as well stay the size you're supposed to be.

―Jessie Burton, Medusa

____________________

Newcomer Arshi Mortuza, a Toronto-based poet with roots in Bangladesh, holds a BA and two MAs in English Literature. She is the author of One Minute Past Midnight (2022) and is currently working on her second poetry collection. Welcome to the Kitchen, Arshi, and don’t be a stranger!

“Medusa’s Spa Day” was previously published in the comic anthology, on:LINE (#4), and “Medusa Checks into a Women’s Shelter” appeared on 50-Word Stories (50wordstories.com/).

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Arshi Mortuza

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Zoe Byron will read in
Salida today, 12noon;
and tonight, 6pm,
there will be a tribute to
Phil Goldvarg at
Sacramento Poetry Center.
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.

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!

 

LittleSnake & Pals

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imploring the Heavens

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddler’s Friday, with poetry
by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Caschwa

 

 

WATERCOLOR

Muted pinks and aquas of day
dawning after storm, she chases
puddles splashing a smiling sun—
little girl in rain boots.

 

 

 

 

THE DARK CAVE

Just off the track, a rough dirt path climbs above RR grade, drops into hollow—cold this time of year, muddy, mostly underwater. A natural cave just big enough to shelter a single human, and a dog if he has one. Someone built a sort of vestibule with branches broken off in storm; someone stripped the bark and with skillful knife carved a girl, a church. But that was last year. The vestibule is gone, with any trace of human habitation.

a dark little cave
keeps its art anonymous
as the seasons pass

 

 

 

 

ANECDOTE

A ghost pine lay athwart the track
till they cut trunk from root-crown—whack!
hauled it off to who-knows where,
doesn’t matter, they don’t care.
Train’s stopped running thru this lair
while trees go on cleaning air.
A ghost pine lay athwart the track
till they cut trunk from root-crown—whack!

 

 

 

 

TRAIL OF THE OLD RAILROAD LINE

This walk is a protest.
Just look around—trees raising
their leafy placards high as green
can reach in this narrow strip of land
left deserted after the train quit running.
Trees as if imploring the heavens
to step down onto this mortified earth
drilled and paved, polluted
in the name of progress ratcheted
by craftily masked hubris and corporate
greed. Watch your step. Even the rocks
are rising from their quiet home,
our natural foundation. Will all these
rocks and trees join our march?

 

 

 

INDOOR-OUTDOOR

The cat
wants out as was
his wont, to roam catlike
thru the neighborhood, preying on
smaller
critters as cats will do. But now
he’s locked up tight against
lion who hunts
here now.

 

 

 

 

A WALK ALONG SLATE CREEK

Creek runs easy
after winter
flooded in falls—
now springtime calls
with buttercups
and grassy green.

Seek
the app to ID
legbones of big bird with
huge talons which my dog finds.
App says snake. Not the answer I
seek.

Glorious day but
what’s that trashy stuff I see
out here in the wild?
Refuse
of a camp,
a sign
on cardboard: Please Help God—
No one’s here, camp’s abandoned
and April’s springing.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THESE DAYS   
—Taylor Graham

You hate how fear wakes
with the morning news still dark—
sunless horizon.

__________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham, who has sent us fine poetry and photos today, some of it on the theme of our Tuesday Seed of the Week, The Dark Cave. Forms she has used this week include the Ryūka (“Watercolor”); a Senryu (“These Days”); a Haibun (“The Dark Cave”); a Butterfly Cinquain that is also a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic Photo of last week (“Indoor-Outdoor"); an Octelle (“Anecdote”); and a 3-style* (“A Walk Along Slate Creek”). The Octelle and the Butterfly Cinquain were last week’s Triple-F Challenges; The Dark Cave was our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week.

*About the 3-style, Taylor said, “The 3-style is something I came up with a couple years ago from a Poetry Super Highway prompt to write a Shoa, Ganta, or Koori. I combined them, in any order.” These forms may be found here:
•••Shoa: https://medium.com/@Internationalpoetrynewsletter/modern-shoa-poems-and-how-to-write-shoa-poems-afc5c57d3af9
•••Ganta: https://medium.com/@Internationalpoetrynewsletter/modern-ganta-poems-and-how-to-write-ganta-poems-a6b08b655078
•••Koori: https://medium.com/@Internationalpoetrynewsletter/modern-cbe315b33fb7

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetry in Motion meets in Placerville on Monday morning, 10:30am. And Arts & Culture El Dorado presents Sue Norman and Moira Magneson in Placerville on Tuesday, 6pm. Also, 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!

 

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

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were:Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


THE CAT CAN’T WAIT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Kitty watches out the window
as I drive off in my car.
Tears fall, I’m overwhelmed with cat love
at the sorrow in his eyes.
In a flash, he makes a mess
of sheets and blankets,
destuffs pillows on the bed.
He sharpens claws on
toilet paper, leaves a pile
on the floor.
The box of tissues fares
no better, shredded
blobs adorn the house.
The couch back has
become a cat tree,
slashes in upholstery.
So much work, he falls asleep
in the sun that warms the chair.
I come home, a guilty mommy,
with a toy to bring him joy.
When I find his trail of havoc
I pour myself a glass of wine.

* * *

CATTERY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Take half the screen, this glassy cat,
you capture moggy’s walking air,
his vague acceptance someone’s there
with little more than paws for thought.

Witches the more familiar,
new world view through the looking glass;
these cats eyes say road stud’s abroad,
speed dating what he sees inside.

The tales he’ll tell, tomfoolery,
this cat o’nine with whiplash claim,
though soon to be on hot tin roof—
what will insurers think of that?

In this glasshouse, room with a view,
there is, out back, Old Possum too—
that nom de plume godchildren knew—
is this feline a practical?

Appointed mayors and astronauts,
a station master in Japan,
Mačak ignited Tesla’s flow—
Ta-Miu is dead but mummified.

With flex and balance, instinct tuned,
traversing gradient aside,
try washer, wipers, cad thinks blade,
just not for me, this cattery.

* * *

This is a Butterfly Cinquain from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges:

 

 

 
IT’S ONE THING OR ANOTHER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Either
It is get up
and do it, claim the day
as your own, get everything done!
or else
rest your eyelids and take a nap
multitasking’s too much
just stay in bed
till noon

* * *

Here’s another poem from Carl:

 

 

ENTRY IN A POLICE LOG
—Caschwa

[upon having a discussion about the true nature
of the Haibun. When is a Haibun not a Haibun…?]

911 Operator, what is your emergency?

    I’ve been a savagely attacked by a prose poem

Are you injured?

    It didn’t draw blood, but got to the core of my
    psyche

Can you describe your attacker?

    metrical, syllabic, repetitious, sometimes
    rhymes, member
    of a terrorist group called the “Haibun”,
    known to associate
    with poets like Robert Lee Brewer

Do you need medical response?

    No, just need to really clear my head

Perhaps a quiet game of solitaire would calm your
    nerves

    Thanks, you’ve been very helpful

* * *

And a Haiku Chain, also by Carl:

 

 

CHANGE
—Caschwa

Spring will slip away
hibernate like grizzly bears
we’ll need some ice cream

***

The lawns are both mowed
the hedges trimmed and tidy
time to embrace sleep

***

My house fully cleaned
if only for a moment
dirt still follows me

***

Good vacuum cleaner
does the work, no complaining
helps in time of need

***

If you can’t handle
farm to fork, maybe try that
drive-thru-to-plate style

* * *

We close with an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth. “Language is my jewel chest…”

 

 

HORDE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Language is my jewel chest
though not an heirloom, familial trust;
mystery that words should move,
poetic use primeval call,
cargoes from Gidding to Xanadu—
diamonds, amethysts, topazes,
and isle emeralds set the lexicon.

The sound and feel, phoenetic print,
homonyms, graphs and synonyms;
these my coinage, currency,
and maybe brain, a growth hormone;
the fabled phrase on bus top heard,
transferred to broadcast, radio.

As scout I was taught breeches' buoy,
though thought them trousers, unlike
trews for girl; broach and brooch then
beech and beach and reach, my lips
and tongue slavered, dribbled more.

Like our people, alloy, medley, assembly,
words, a battle-plan with sound and sight,
carnyx giants win the ground.

Chimaera fish share many names
ghost sharks, rabbit, rat, spook fish too,
as fire mouth hybrid myth-mix
lion head, goat body, snake tail roar.

History's triumphs now lie under foot,
with those whose victories scholars taught,
their golden breastpins for burial bent,
a twisting torque for neck piece ring.

Above the stonechat call, two pebbles dashed;
the falcon's beak in sickle form,
while stupid booby lands and eaten Spanish ship,
puffins, little brothers of the north,
miners using coal tits in narrow seams,
while magpie pica, pied mix white,
money changing chiffchaff, jingling song
and common sparrow flutterers.

Wagtail, dipper, flycatch, puzzle, not at all,
and blackbird not a challenge thought.
There is a deep layered treasure trove,
digging field for seams of etymology;
though as detectorists know, first fruitless searches,
blinded alleys, raised hopes on hearing alert
means tarnished nails, corroded torn tin, uncertain
`    trails,
dead end street, blind pouch, cul-de-sac.

____________________

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.) Stephen says “Language is my jewel chest”, and those jewels are laying all over the place—in newspapers, books, TV— Write us a “Found” poem from bits and pieces of language you find laying around:

•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem

•••AND/OR lighten things up with a Clerihew:

•••Clerihew:  https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/clerihew-poetic-forms

 AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/clerihew.html

•••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 “An Unexpected Guest”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Butterfly Cinquain: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/02/21/butterfly-cinquain
•••Clerihew: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/clerihew-poetic-forms AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/clerihew.html
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••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
•••Octelle: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/octelle.html
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
•••3-Style (Taylor Graham): a combination of a Koori, a Ganta, and a Shoa
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 
 
 
 

A reminder that
Out With Lanterns:
A Queer Poetry Reading
takes place in Sacramento
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.

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!