Scattered Clouds

 —Poetry and Photos by Douglas Richardson,
Santa Ana, CA

 

 

ANOTHER SUNDAY’S SCATTERED CLOUDS

Another Sunday’s scattered clouds
and fifty miles to the Lancaster poppy fields—
the poppies are in bloom, but
the poppies are not the reason.
Driving into the high desert is the reason
listening to music is the reason
and afterward sitting with black coffee
and a maple bar in a Palmdale doughnut shop
where I can be alone with my ghost
for two or even three hours
and the doughnut lady won’t say a thing
    because
she has a day of the week
and a place of asylum just like me.

 

 

 

 

HOBO

A field of straw a foot high in the summer dirt
the heat of the day lingers here
in the windless twilight of a seaside town
of tents and newsprint
across the field all the lights of a
traveling carnival come to rest
all the moving lights
and what must be smoke
though it tastes like dust
and I know nobody there
and no one knows I’m here

 

 

 

 

LAMPS BURN ALL NIGHT

Lamps burn all night
in the estate sale company store
from Palm Springs to Singapore
the deceased all reached that point:
the ambivalence of last suppers
in the face of the unknown
lives well-lived
traveled to London, Paris, Bangalore
philosophized
partied all night
“A thousand square miles of fine furniture,
jewelry, movie memorabilia, and more,”
says General Manager Candy Jean, burning bright

_________________

SHE’S TAKING ECSTASY

She’s taking ecstasy and
   Pushing ice
      Along a stranger’s spine

The morning comes with spikes
   And suspect images
      In her mind:

A peacoat nightmare, a handbag
   Lost on god-knows-where stairs,
      A million lanterns on Broadway

Today is a sick day
   An omelet and hash browns day
      In a Divisadero diner
         With insomniac eyes, then

An afternoon alone:
   A Tom Collins on the windowsill
      Of the light well:

The shady light well, the
   Tranquil light well, a cabinet
      With the right pharmaceuticals

 

 

 

A MAN LIES AGING

A man lies aging
in his bed

his toe is black
it’s going dead

but
night air
comes through
the open window, cools
his face and lungs

and
clouds go by
quiet and low
lit from below
by the city lights

 

 

 

YOUR RESURRECTION

Your resurrection is complete
The vultures lie dead at your feet
In an otherwise empty field
So now what?
Are you still the same human
Dying to make a million?
Are you still the same frivolous Roman?
Or will you sit in a tree and strum a guitar?
Or hide in a library and plot against a tyrant?
Will you protest, demonstrate, crusade?
Be the savior and the saved?
Play the mensch and invite an enemy
For coffee?
And don’t trouble yourself about those birds
Their energy was conserved, and whatever
They’re doing now beats pecking
At the eyes of their fellow creatures

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BEGINNINGS
—Douglas Richardson

People sit in crowded restaurants
pretending they don’t hear the song
but nine years later
alone in a drive-thru
they’ll hear it again
and let it all go
right there in the car
they’ll let it all go

___________________

Newcomer Douglas Richardson lives in Santa Ana, California, with his wife, Jen, and cat, Wes. His poetry has been published in The American Journal of Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, Black Poppy Review, Cajun Mutt Press, The Ekphrastic Review, Hobo Camp Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Nervous Breakdown, The New Verse News, Straight Forward Poetry, Trouvaille Review, Poetry Super Highway, and others. In 2013, he won the Poetry Super Highway contest with his entry, “Notes from the Graveyard Shift.”  In these work-from-home years, he likes to watch Big Bang Theory reruns during his lunch hour. Welcome to the Kitchen, Douglas, and don’t be a stranger!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Douglas Richardson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Andru Defeye’s
First Church of Poetry meets
at noon on Sundays
during April and May in
McKinley Park, Sacramento, CA,
starting today. 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!

 

 Poppies are in bloom. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bustling in the Kitchen

 —Poetry by Yongbo Ma, Nanking, China
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

MY OWN DARKNESS

Midnight, in the vacant courtyard  
I listen to my own darkness  
long gazing at the starry sky  
while stars are particles shedding from coarse
    sandpaper
 
The Earth is rising  
boundless as conscience  
I clap, hearing curved echoes from every path  
this ripened darkness is a black angel  
erect in the shrine of shrubs  
quieter than truth, purer than death  

Starlight falls into eyes no one can find  
eyes gradually paling, like frozen wooden buckets  
while the Earth, nearing the stars, trembles with
    fear  
there my unfortunate joy grows transparent

 

 

 

 

PROPHECY WRITTEN ON THE SIDEWALK

Separate the throat from the voice  
separate love from the body  
separate blue from the sky  
separate distance from the remoteness  
separate Heraclitus from the river  
separate the door from the knocking sound  
separate the gesture suspended in mid-air from
    the hand  
separate the gaze from the eyes  
separate prayer from the snow pouring out of
    the church  
separate age from a word that cannot be bitten  
separate footsteps from the road  
separate death from the corpse  
separate cold from ice and snow  
separate heartbeat from silence  
separate thought from the brain  
separate wind from the air  
separate the halo from the saint  
separate fantasy from imagination  
the former is the overly trusting child  
separate me from you—  
you, the poem that is slowly separating  
from the paper and my hand  
you, the blackbird marking the white house

 

 

 

 

MERELY WORDS

They are light switches, illuminating the dark of
    things,
or the withered tips and handles of things.
Between the fermenting dough of desire and the
    dry bread of facts,
they are an array of flames slanted in the furnace,
carving peaks, passes, and fissures on the dough’s
    surface.

Some words lie docile like the fur of beasts under
    stroking hands
trembling variegated stillness, others arrive unan-
    nounced,
as fragments of an exploded whole,
unable to reassemble the original cause or glaring
    force.

Not even Pygmalion’s or Midas’ fingers
could soften or harden them.
They bring the mysterious breath of all existence,
a life we’ve never lived,
even the people there cannot escape death.

For example, when I arrange these words,
the osmanthus tree outside the window grows taller,
    for example,
a student’s leave-request note from a long-ended
    semester
somehow kept in my drawer, stating:
“The organization has important matters.”

And as a drained structure, it always reveals
on the damp bed of a ditch a snail’s slow
    confidence.

 

 

 

 

A PRAYER AT THE END OF THE DAY

The night grows deep, the starry axis spins, and
    I am still alive 
The world is destroyed anew every night  
but we pretend not to know  
The coolness we draw from the dead  
like a family crest, like a soft kiss, pressed on a
    burning forehead 

If the earth still rises toward the heights  
if new life fills the footprints  
if the beach drags out the darkness
from the depths of the sea and hangs it to dry  
if the swallows still bring rain to the ruined brows  
then you can live namelessly  
then you can, in advance, become  
a member of that eternal jury  

Profound happiness, you burst forth
like flame from the top of the skull  
you rise like ash in the air, building a leaning tower  
That person with a face full of dead chess moves  
the racing rain, the marking of time  
the tyrant's stiff black collar cannot destroy you  
For you, you are gazing at the heavens  
from the whale’s belly of language

 

 

 

 

A MORNING PRAYER FOR MY MOTHER
ON MY 55th BIRTHDAY

Through you, He brought me into this world, you
    virtuous woman 
I miss you in the intimate darkness of midnight  
in the early morning with light rain dampening
    the clothes
In the curving sleep that seems never-ending in
    the afternoon
The woman born of water, nurtured by
    earth, shaped by wind, extinguished by fire 
I miss you, and for today, 55 years ago  
the suffering you endured, the grace you received  
crying, giving thanks, praying, may my voice  
reach the farthest heavens, to be heard by the
    Most High 
May I be with you, sheltered in His shade  
May you sleep in the embrace of the Father, like
    a child 
You blessed woman, my mother  
please wait for the day when I shall dance
    with you in the circle of happiness 
reuniting, rejoicing, and praising

_____________________

TO MEDUSA’S KITCHEN
—Yongbo Ma

I watch you bustling in the magic kitchen,


preparing feast after feast for friends,


tables stretching to the horizon.


Vibrant fields of all seasons spread like a
    tablecloth—


waves of guests come and go:


feathered ones, fur-clad ones, those with fins…


Here, some timid fawns arrive now,


peering curiously into the house.
Happy spring—Medusa’s serpent locks


must be turning emerald too.

______________________

 

. . . only green with envy because there is so much fine poetry here, today and every day! Thank, you, Yongbo Ma, for these sprightly poems today (and for your fine letter-poem about Medusa bustin' a move or two in the Kitchen)!

 

_____________________

 

—Medussa, the girl with the bright green hair~

 

 

 

 

A note that
Sacramento Poetry Center’s
National Poetry Month celebrations
begin today with
an open house at noon,
then a reading at 2pm with
Clarence Major and April Ossmann;
and Truckee Literary Crawl takes place
in Downtown Truckee today, 1-8pm.
For more 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 hears his own darkness~
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dream Garden

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Sarang Bhand, and Christina Chin

 

 

DREAM GARDEN       

It was a garden I dreamed, a work
in progress—some metal supports needing
to be assembled with no instructions.
Atop the partially installed supports was
a sheet of fabric (temporary) holding
a plethora of plants arranged to be planted
on the empty metal supports.
Wildflowers beyond imagination, and forest
greens. Sanicle blacksnakeroot,
soapweed of wondrous properties I hadn’t
guessed. All this was mine to nurture
and enjoy. If only I could make it happen—
which never occurs in my dreams.

 

 

 

 

INTERESTING, BUT WHAT IS IT?

Is it a prince’s dark turban
lost in the woods, for wood fairies
to festoon with oak leaves?

Or is it the crown
of an empty stump lording
it over a forest of peaceful trees?

Or perhaps a wood sprite’s
version of a faraway
viewing stone?

A something you saw
while walking a familiar trail
that loops around the pond

remains
a beautiful
mystery.

 

 

 

 

OLD GOLD MINE IN THE CANYON

The mouth is a black emptiness.
Adit is its name, gullet of a hunger for quartz,

its hopes of gold abandoned long ago.
Its tongue—a wooden walkway—beckons you

to walk inside, with neither lantern
nor canary. No one dares you. You stop just

at the entry. I snap a photo as proof
you went that far to witness emptiness.

 

 

 

 

EMPTY

The rocks are rising into emptiness
of air. Not empty. Just look at the grass
pushing out of soil greening so it grows
heavy with rain and dew that wishes to
cling like birdsong unseen among branches—
Indian lettuce raising its tiny
white flowers on impossibly thin wires
of green turning yellow and blush-fleshy.
And what shall I do with all this rising
reaching for air—I with power mower
buzzing like an insect that never will
pollinate the spring but disturbs the rocks.

 

 

 

 

LEAF-HOPPING
 
I was walking the west hillside
ID’ing a wavy-leaf soapweed among
fields of montia going to flower
and new live-oak seedlings—and HOP
an old brown oak leaf leaped
out of my way more suddenly than
a dead oak leaf should. It was—
at a glimpse I knew—a small frog.
What species I couldn’t tell you.
Was it a prince in disguise?
More to the point, I must be very
cautious in weed-eating this high hill.

 

 

 

 

DON’T PICK THE FLOWERS

Underfoot these tiny pink star flowers—
everywhere walking I crush a native,
this endemic undiscovered spring world.

Puddles on the trails, and a spinning world
bursts with claytonia gone to flowers
where salad greens flourished free and native.

I’d name the petals if I were native
to this fertile wildland, cyclical world
that glories in springtime greens and flowers

as flowers seed again their native world.

_______________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

CHANTICLEER
—Taylor Graham

It’s spring, with blossoms on the ceanothus
beyond the fence. But what does a barnyard cock
know of the wild? His own wild heart, his comb
corpuscular red, and oh those spurs! He’s well
fed, and not on turkey mullein, weed of poor soil.
In his wildest dreams does he imagine chicken
barbeque with cheesecake for dessert?

________________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s poetry and pix from the Sierra foothills! Forms she has used include a Tritina (“Don't Pick the Flowers”); some Blank Verse (“Empty”); and a Response Poem to our Triple-F Word-Can and Ekphrastic Challenges from last week (“Chanticleer”). (Chanticleer! Of course! How can we see a rooster and not think of his famous predecessor!) TG’s poem, “Empty”, is also a response to our Seed of the Week of that name.

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 about these ladies and their cock o’ the walk: Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


GONE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

We ladies feast on sun and seeds
to keep our girlish figures,
until a cocky male comes out
and struts his manly stuff.
We flock to him and cluck
to call attention to our yearnings.
Look at me! Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.
We‘ve all gone to the chickens.

* * *

THREE HENS AND A ROOSTER
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Three hens and a rooster—
A happy cock, for sure.
He’s only there
To make them lay,
All his eggs
Taken away
For someone else’s food.

* * *

THE GREAT DICTATOR
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

He thinks he’s so fine
resplendent
well groomed
perfectly dressed
strutting and tupping
to trump all their tricks.

He’s an early riser and cocky as cluck
his voice always loudest above all the rest
his promises always fatter and juicier
soon they’ll be kings of their castles, he says.

Then he calls them to roost
in the little shack that is their home.
His roost is grander.
He rules it now
and with his bone sharp spurs,
he’ll defend it to their death.

They’re all listening now,
the powerful, the powerless
obediently following his orders
but one day all those fluffy chickens
will come home to push him off his perch.

Then they’ll take him home.

* * *

CHICKEN RUN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

In pecking order of the day,
some clucking ’bout the way ahead—
free ranging questions have their say,
as battered farming rears its head,
does Chicken Licken have appeal?

Like fluffy chick, this Easter lamb,
mistreated, game for slaughterhouse;
yet eat from tup, the breeding ram,
refuse farm standards to espouse
as fettered, leg, swung upside down.

Enraged yet caged for breakfast yolk,
for Benedict with sauce and ham,
choked and poked as if a joke—
abused, like us, green labelled scam—
in dreaded sheds where bled till dead.

So scratch the surface, find the grain,
intended pattern for our seed,
beyond pollution, needing drain—
but act quickly, of essence, speed,
respecting fellow creatures, earth.

Where daily diet might too spring,
so easy, kick into long grass,
as hen’s young sheltered beneath wing,
our fodder of a better class?
World citizens need sacrifice.

* * *

Here is Joe Nolan’s Response Poem to our Ekphrastic photo from a past week. There are no deadlines on any of our challenges:

 

 

 

AT THE A-HOLE MECHANIC’S SHOP
—Joe Nolan

Down at the A-Hole Mechanic’s Shop
There’s a sign outdoors that says,
“Pieces of junk turn us on!
Drag it in, push it in, tow it in,
We’ll give it the Lazarus treatment
And get it back on the road.”

It goes on to say,
“Our motto is our commitment.
We can, we will, we may.
We’ve had good luck in the past.
There’s no telling about the future.
We’ll go through it
From top to bottom
Until all the parts are replaced,
If need be,
To get your old beast running.”

* * *

Here are some collaborative verses from Christina Chin and Sarang Bhand:

 

 

 

ORDINARY DAY
—Sarang Bhand (plain text), India
—Christina Chin (italic text), Malaysia

drying clothes
soaked in rains
failed judgement

stuck in the traffic
rising flood

morning breeze
skirting through
swarm of legs

women
at the boiling pots
stirring curry

salesman at door
or lover in guise

night till dawn
yowling cat fights
competing for love

* * *

Here's a  Sestina from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), a response to one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges:

 

 

  

OOPSY OUTCOMES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

my age was tender, lower than adult
when parents took me to a hall of oils
the nudes were shocking, parents’ jaws would drop
parental discipline had been stricken,
communication just gone with the wind
as ancient art intruded on their views

not yet mature, I stumbled with those views
took an eternity to reach adult
as tedious as clocks you have to wind
they wouldn’t let me touch their cooking oils
or matches that were so ready to strike
or biscuits patiently eager to drop

OpEds caught their eye, each and every drop
of news now covered with their own, odd views
folks drove family car till it got struck
Dick and Jane books were replacing adult
wore painter’s smocks to check the auto’s oil
percussion taboo, it had to be winds

was no easy place for me to unwind
no maids-in-waiting to easily drop
by to sit still while a painter picked oils;
cameras too fancy, need human views
babes wear diapers or less, why not adults,
fear that our hormones fair game for a strike?

lots of pressure on batter to not strike
out because nobody hung any wind
chimes at the plate; if you’re seeking adult
entertainment, look for a painter’s drop
cloth and listen to curses and mad views,
impatience found less with canvas and oils

retire the oils, painters going on strike

their views not appreciated, bad wind

caused a drop in sales, poor fate for adults

* * *

Closing with an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

 

MIND THE GAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I see it daily underground,
that subway train with gap between
the carriage, platform, landing stage,
a warning sign o’er sliding door.
To strike the balance, stark, polite,
avoid courts, sued, law suit pursued,
each word to count, colloquial,
red letters highlighting what’s said.

Its style so vital, it is clear,
make no mistake, writ large enough;
but should it be reversed in verse,
the ditty in another case?
Define the poem; assigned, resigned,
though wasted words the mark of fail?
So counted terms for rhythm plus,
as pulse essential, pressured lives,

But there I go, as trap is sprung,
for can’t escape the stanza taught,
that discipline of formal lines,
though rhyme for reason, populist.
It’s easy in the public space,
a reading at the open mic,
light-hearted observations, note,
the common sights of every day.

My standard, flag in every work,
though others, conversations float;
I do admire their easy talk,
no less considered as rehearse.
My words concise, and neatly packed,
no room for slacking, so devised,
as levers, with some prise intent,
without frivolity (the waste?).

So, no, cannot convert my ways,   
start talking in more common phrase,
try reaching wider audience
by loosening structures of my trade.
Let others practice in said says,
accept the skills and gifts deployed,
while I committed, classical,
traditions that have proved their worth.

Old order changeth, yielding new,
and Muse entrusted to fulfil
whatever custom corrupts world.
What is counted, a musing style,
of syllables in rhythm check
in case some fibrillation there.
This ars intended, ‘use new tools’,
but muse insisted ‘keep your rules’.

____________________

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.) Why don’t you follow Taylor Graham’s lead and do a Tritina?

•••Tritina: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/tritina.htm

•••AND/OR nothing says Spring like a Sonnet! Write us a Sonnet (any kind) based on the old ditty, “sumer is icumen in…”, one of the oldest songs in the English language:

•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet

•••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 “Sheer Poetry”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••Tritina: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/tritina.htm
•••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/.
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—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
 
 
 

 
 

National Poetry Month events

begin at Sacramento Poetry Center

tomorrow; for info abou

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comfort Blankets

Quilt by Denise Kingsnorth

—Quilt Photos by Stephen Kingsnorth

* * * 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

COMFORT BLANKET

Are dreams affected by our wrap
as it enfolds us, doze to sleep,
especially if be a quilt,
together sewn, unique design;
those patches, squares, a gallery
of import, story hinterland?

Does it awaken, as we dream
the theme we worked on during day,
kaleidoscope of oeuvre, work
in telling words, scenes, images;
here laid out round our body form
the warming tales that dominate?

That quilting takes us to the quill—
so here’s some writing on the wall
as if those pictures spread the word,
a night-time whisper, Morpheus;
thus fall asleep beneath our stars
those stellar highlights, life’s parade.

A string from mother’s apron scraps,
a pleat perhaps from favoured dress,
old drapes drawn where the window framed,
the fabric furnished, childhood Ted;
material can touch us too,
bring closer fragrance from our past.

When covid scare brought facemask ware,
so quilts unpicked to wear instead,
those geometric patterns, taped,
a measure for our safety set;
were our mouths draped, symbolic signs,
specific comfort blanket bound?

But when we’re wilting, ready bed,
a good read closing by our side,
as wrapt attention sliding fast,
red sun sinks farther to the shades;
then morphs our real to deeper reels,
fantastic dance, thought-buried ghosts.

 

 

 

 After the Walk

by Lyn Aylward (England) 2023

LANGOROUS ?

Languorous, as vowel stretch,
each glyph laid out in sounding shift,
aligned with sleek unbothered reach,
with dreams of scents, encounters, rest,
now prone, exhausted, inked arms linked.

On crumpled pastel, crease and fold,
all pillows, hills of dimpled sheets,
in crevice, blues, pink, yellows, green,
seen stream and sky, buds, blossom, sward,
addressed on fabric, ruffled, flesh.

Carved capitol above slab slump;
a classic wage for time-paid age.
brawn muscles through to knuckle skin,
arch, zygomatic, prominent;
what causes stare in emptied air?

Poole pottery of former age,
a cluttered, indecisive space,
past glories, present to be faced,
what questions posed above the bed
to float around, pets unaware?

This is no more the languid tired,
nor lackadaisical in mind,
dynamic contrast laid to wrest—
so what ensues from contemplate?
What afterthought has walk aroused?

 

 

 

 Green Terrain

by Kelly Austin-Rolo (USA) 2019

AERIAL OVERVIEWS

A candle spilling from wick pool,
or taper dripping while it’s lit,
to fabric of batik in kind,
or blocked ear treated as a child;
but ‘means’, ‘meant’ words, not open minds,
for blue sky thinkers, without box,
or else encaustic not found out,
uncovered, though, but what’s in store?

It takes me to topography,
to architects’ designer sheets,
though colour invests action, place,
a unity within this space.
What shapes this stretch, both up, about,
a drone to figure underground,
the overview for soundings, view
of plumb, dig deeper history?

Both wax and wane of movements, tides,
I dream allotments, footpaths, trails,
haphazard growth, as stories told,
the bold, as earthworks played their rôle.
On common land which time refined—
here shades are buried under land,
of forest lawn and myrtle green—
where pine, mint, pear, lime, sage, and fern.

This crusty slice itself sublime
as clime also in earthy spin,
and like ley lines there’s mystery,
in making mark, encaustic flow.  
Knife cutter bars imagined, swirl,
or mapped contorted isobars,
for whether playing part or not
in how this scape is today’s plot.

 

 

 

 Page from Grimoires Illuminees

by Pierre Richard (France) before 1879

PISTOL COCKED

Now you see it, now you don’t,   
odd pages, scattered leaves, The Fall
a paradisal lost before,
cast spell-book here not lexicon,
or primer, abecedary,
but abracadabra as cabal.

Claiming benefit of age
this syncretistic patchwork quilt,
symbols, sign of codes at work,
for esoteric, in the know;
tried toxic mix in undertow,
a gnostic few tossed in the hue
and cry for burning, which at stake
but jottings, crowded, more provoked.

Glyphs join graphs in saturate,
asylum more in raw art script
than institute for lunatics.
Manic, more researchers’ work;
psalmody, glossolalia,
a solipsistic zealotry,
cross rooster perched with pistol cocked.

Vicissitudes of Lorraine space,
where Magic, Revolution, Church,
chanting prayers not understood,
ritornelles, homophonies,
compete to claim the paranoid,
wettersegen in the storm.
Illuminated manuscript
which it both is, ’ting is not.

 

 

 

 Hamlet Shakespeariana, Serie Heroinas Literarias

by Fernando Vicente (Spain) 2022

BREECHES BUOY

Translate the complement, to be
in roundel gloss, fine fingers, frills,
bone china, zygomatic arch,
inked neck sans Adam’s apple lump.
Scene balcony, scape, nimbus cloud,
but jut of jaw, rouge, ginger flow
cannot distract from focus, skull,
or is it crown draws, overcomes?
To fore lies gothic Yorick script—
not centred so we see entire—
alas, our lass must nail the weight
of cranial, so teeth on edge.
The canon roars—survey the field—
with tragicomic histories,
in human makeup lie the flaws,
those doors through which the mighty fall.
In genderbending stagecraft art,
bright entry from the upper left,
from groundlings’ yard to heaven’s roof,
in tiring house, the globe, the world.
This player, smokescreen, Hamlet seen,
an acting man, proscenium,
but what has been for what to be,
war theatre, stage exeunt.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We stitch together quilts of meaning to keep us warm and safe, with whatever patches of beauty and utility we have on hand.

―Anne Lamott

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry which was based on the artwork he provided, and to Denise Kingsnorth for allowing us to show her and her quiltmastsership!

 

 

 

 Denise Kingsnorth At Work

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Five Nevada County Women Poets
read tonight in Nevada City, 6pm; and
Poetry Night Reading Series presents
Clarence Major & April Ossmann
in Davis 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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Asclepius and the Fisher Queen

 —Poetry by Sterling Warner, Union, WA
—Photos of Olympics Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

ASCLEPIUS’ HOPEFULS

"Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity…. There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief."
                                     —Asclepius

Steadfast orderlies.
nurses, doctors, therapists
triage casualties
place need above personal
status or celebrity.

Bedside manners pushed aside
terminally ill patients cry in pain,
unfairly curse caretakers,  then
meditate in the ICU hooked up
to wires; fluids flush through driplines
and discharge via catheters
travel down tubes, nourish bodies
pallid, pale, prostrate, emaciated—
dependent on computer monitors
that inspect one’s temperature,
scrutinize breathing patterns,
chart blood pressure, measure
life’s vital signs….heartbeat to pulse….
mechanically probing cells and skin
to determine abnormal prana patterns
from pulmonary hypertension to arrhythmia;
sensors trip crimson lights that blink
off and on, announce code blue emergencies
pierce ears with audio alerts that echo
throughout the hospital like screaming
air raid sirens during the London Blitzkrieg.

Like pandemic first
responders, hospital staff
ignore words ungrateful
patients utter, keeping all
eyes focused on VDUs.  

 

 

 

 

FISHER QUEEN

Kiera caressed
paramours and pets
fixated on them
with esteemed adoration
like precious emeralds,
diamonds, rubies—jewels
of incomparable worth—
uncovered as winds
blew virgin granules
of Arabian sand
revealing geometrical facets.

Veneration knew
no limits as Kiera cast
nets to the needy
who’d huddle together
in a collective enclave
of hopeful indigents;
moving beyond
an illusion of motion
her zoetrope touch
rekindled feeble lives
sustained rejuvenation.

 

 

 

 

PICK-ME-UP ARTISTS

From friendly drinks
to conversing flirts
Irma fostered coquettish intensity as our
intertwined fingers pulsated and flexed
exchanging declarations
of love down under.

Increasing friction
we hemmed and hawed our way
between suitable behavior and seductive daring
played one another, amplified tension
like rosin on horsehair strings
of a violin bow.

Closing time at the
Corner Club found us dancing
to juke box hits, exaggerating steps, singing
classic rock, burlesquing cabaret performers,
departing the dive
an unbroken cord.

 

 

 

 

EMPTY CANS & SLACK MINDS

Red Bull cans in the gutter chucked
a stark reminder
of Gen Z
losers
who
let
their
base
instincts
side-step all
common sense, speed past
primary schools, toss trash through car
windows seldom aimed
at lidless
garbage
tins
than
mowed
lawns,
popping
beverage
after beverage
zipping, whizzing off power bursts.

 

 

 

 

FAIRY FLOSS SKIES

Cumulus clouds roll and flatten
like wispy curls of cotton candy
that cast subdued pink light
through the firmament onto water
as quiet and still as a liquid coffin
lodged between opposite shorelines
along the Hood Canal, reflective hues
sustaining depth and color as the sun
sets behind the Olympic Mountains
and barking bull seals break the silence
slap bellies, stake out territory,
rosy twilight now a sheet of black ice.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

―Franz Kafka

____________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Sterling Warner for fine today’s poetry!

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings for

Poetry Month and beyond 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!