—Poetry by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
—Photos by Kevin Laubacher, Portland, OR
—Photos by Kevin Laubacher, Portland, OR
Consider this bowl of sliced radishes:
the patience of the man who stood
in the sunlit kitchen over a bowl
of washed red globes and took them
one by one to slice them with his knife.
His cuts, as precise as any professional
working in a French kitchen.
The radish rounds, falling away one
by one by one until they filled the bowl.
It was a meditation, of sorts: his focus
on the precise placement of the radish,
the position of his fingers, and the knife,
sharp and cutting through each globe
with a satisfying crunch, then thump
into the cutting board.
Then the careful scoop of the slices
into the bowl until it was full.
The radish slices, themselves,
a composition in red and white.
Each thin round edged in red skin;
each slice, an astonishing star
of white root, radiating
from the center, glossy with
the clear juice of the simple root.
The man paused from time to time
to pop a slice into his watering mouth.
the patience of the man who stood
in the sunlit kitchen over a bowl
of washed red globes and took them
one by one to slice them with his knife.
His cuts, as precise as any professional
working in a French kitchen.
The radish rounds, falling away one
by one by one until they filled the bowl.
It was a meditation, of sorts: his focus
on the precise placement of the radish,
the position of his fingers, and the knife,
sharp and cutting through each globe
with a satisfying crunch, then thump
into the cutting board.
Then the careful scoop of the slices
into the bowl until it was full.
The radish slices, themselves,
a composition in red and white.
Each thin round edged in red skin;
each slice, an astonishing star
of white root, radiating
from the center, glossy with
the clear juice of the simple root.
The man paused from time to time
to pop a slice into his watering mouth.
Dogwood
DOGWOOD
twisted branches
humble among the
towering forest
crucifix of bracts
first color of spring
light among
dark moss and
shadows
crown of yellow flowers
call the first pollen hunters
from winter slumber
promise another spring
of life and growth
rusty stigmata
on each petal
deepens legend
of this mountain flower
dogwood shines, a beacon
in the shadowed glen
when winter steps
aside for spring
flowers held in
supplication for
rain and sun each
season brings
twisted branches
humble among the
towering forest
crucifix of bracts
first color of spring
light among
dark moss and
shadows
crown of yellow flowers
call the first pollen hunters
from winter slumber
promise another spring
of life and growth
rusty stigmata
on each petal
deepens legend
of this mountain flower
dogwood shines, a beacon
in the shadowed glen
when winter steps
aside for spring
flowers held in
supplication for
rain and sun each
season brings
The Green is Palpable
GREEN
(after “The green is
palpable” by Kevin Laubacher)
first shoots in the spring:
tender grass, unfurled leaves,
slender daffodil spears;
green tractors dragging
cones of dust over
corduroy fields;
jade moss over stream-side rocks;
green eyes of the feral cat;
‘tis the Luck o’ the Irish;
the signal to go;
the color of money;
evergreen — the color of lasting love;
the heart of bewitching emeralds;
the color of a jealous heart;
fresh surprise of mint;
the shadow of ferns;
Grűn ist die hoffnungsvolle Farbe
the Germans say;
Green is the hopeful Color;
before life crawled out of the sea,
vegetation beckoned —
it was green that called us.
(after “The green is
palpable” by Kevin Laubacher)
first shoots in the spring:
tender grass, unfurled leaves,
slender daffodil spears;
green tractors dragging
cones of dust over
corduroy fields;
jade moss over stream-side rocks;
green eyes of the feral cat;
‘tis the Luck o’ the Irish;
the signal to go;
the color of money;
evergreen — the color of lasting love;
the heart of bewitching emeralds;
the color of a jealous heart;
fresh surprise of mint;
the shadow of ferns;
Grűn ist die hoffnungsvolle Farbe
the Germans say;
Green is the hopeful Color;
before life crawled out of the sea,
vegetation beckoned —
it was green that called us.
Prehistoric Fern
LIVING WITH THE PREHISTORIC
Walking in redwood growth,
or living among ancient trees
in the northern rainforests,
gives us a window on the past.
Before life crawled out of the sea,
something green must have
come to root among
the jagged rocks along the shore.
Primitive plants gave shelter
to the timid world.
Look to the ferns:
these basic plants. No flowers
no fancy bark or showy colors.
Back then, there were no eyes
to appreciate such a spectacle.
Ferns carry the next generations
in spores that grow in scales
on the underside of fronds.
Each frond makes hundreds of
potential reproductions of itself.
In the primeval forest,
through a shaft of sunlight,
if you listen closely,
you can hear the sound of
wind high in the trees,
hear the drip of water
falling from the tallest branches.
Notice the emerald ferns,
waiting for time to scatter seed.
Waiting for peace of the silent trees;
waiting in the shade of giants.
They have been waiting for eons
to reclaim the forest floor.
Walking in redwood growth,
or living among ancient trees
in the northern rainforests,
gives us a window on the past.
Before life crawled out of the sea,
something green must have
come to root among
the jagged rocks along the shore.
Primitive plants gave shelter
to the timid world.
Look to the ferns:
these basic plants. No flowers
no fancy bark or showy colors.
Back then, there were no eyes
to appreciate such a spectacle.
Ferns carry the next generations
in spores that grow in scales
on the underside of fronds.
Each frond makes hundreds of
potential reproductions of itself.
In the primeval forest,
through a shaft of sunlight,
if you listen closely,
you can hear the sound of
wind high in the trees,
hear the drip of water
falling from the tallest branches.
Notice the emerald ferns,
waiting for time to scatter seed.
Waiting for peace of the silent trees;
waiting in the shade of giants.
They have been waiting for eons
to reclaim the forest floor.
Good Morning Sun
My mind rejects such raw perfection,
yet I can’t seem to look away:
sunrise on a crystal morning
in an aquamarine sky.
I am animated chaos, moving
through an asymmetric world.
The nearly-perfect are everywhere:
the helix in a bright sunflower,
my grandchild’s crooked smile,
an orchid’s dainty slipper.
And still, I seek the holy —
the one uniting force —
that light that rises over dark
and ever draws me home.
I’m mesmerized by paradox.
While all creation is so imperfect,
my mind seeks calm in the disarray.
I feel a kinship with unruly nature:
the birch that tosses in the wind,
a bumblebee’s off-kilter flight,
the ever-changing path of tides.
This perfect symmetry of light
and dark in balance on a fulcrum
of the rising sun — this precision
is unsettling. This light seduces
my willing spirit to slip back into eternity.
(from the photo “Good Morning Sun”
by Kevin Laubacher)
yet I can’t seem to look away:
sunrise on a crystal morning
in an aquamarine sky.
I am animated chaos, moving
through an asymmetric world.
The nearly-perfect are everywhere:
the helix in a bright sunflower,
my grandchild’s crooked smile,
an orchid’s dainty slipper.
And still, I seek the holy —
the one uniting force —
that light that rises over dark
and ever draws me home.
I’m mesmerized by paradox.
While all creation is so imperfect,
my mind seeks calm in the disarray.
I feel a kinship with unruly nature:
the birch that tosses in the wind,
a bumblebee’s off-kilter flight,
the ever-changing path of tides.
This perfect symmetry of light
and dark in balance on a fulcrum
of the rising sun — this precision
is unsettling. This light seduces
my willing spirit to slip back into eternity.
(from the photo “Good Morning Sun”
by Kevin Laubacher)
Rosebud and Dew
ROSEBUD WITH DEW
(Moving toward Infinity, part 1)
Droplets on the rosebud
sparkle in clear morning light.
You can almost smell the deep
fragrance of this fragile flower.
Everything is in such clear focus:
the drops of water,
the edges of the opening bud,
the veins in the petals that
pump life to the unfolding flower.
Do you remember your science class?
The lessons about fractals?
This image is so clear, you can see
the living, unexpectedly jagged, edges
of this perfect bud.
It’s as though you can see the very cells
that make up the flower, growing
on the rim. It would be impossible to
measure the perimeter of just one petal.
This rosebud holds infinity.
And if you look closely at the dewdrops,
they hold the reflected image
of the photographer, his arms propping up
the camera and the eye of the lens.
Captured in this photograph are infinities
of relationship and life.
This is only one unfolding flower,
captured one morning by one observant
photographer.
(Moving toward Infinity, part 1)
Droplets on the rosebud
sparkle in clear morning light.
You can almost smell the deep
fragrance of this fragile flower.
Everything is in such clear focus:
the drops of water,
the edges of the opening bud,
the veins in the petals that
pump life to the unfolding flower.
Do you remember your science class?
The lessons about fractals?
This image is so clear, you can see
the living, unexpectedly jagged, edges
of this perfect bud.
It’s as though you can see the very cells
that make up the flower, growing
on the rim. It would be impossible to
measure the perimeter of just one petal.
This rosebud holds infinity.
And if you look closely at the dewdrops,
they hold the reflected image
of the photographer, his arms propping up
the camera and the eye of the lens.
Captured in this photograph are infinities
of relationship and life.
This is only one unfolding flower,
captured one morning by one observant
photographer.
The World in Hindsight
THE WORLD AS IT SEEMS — AND NOT
I remember when I was legally blind:
the time before my cataract surgery.
I could make out people on the sidewalk,
but not their features.
I could see bicycle riders, but no details.
The flaw was in my vision, not the world.
Before the world went out of focus,
I loved reflections in the water: the world
seen upside down. And through water:
magnified and distorted.
And sounds that travel over the rush of water,
muffled and mingled with birdsong and wind.
Reflections on glass often contain
the ghostly images of that which lies behind
the clear barrier, creating a story behind the story.
Images in a rearview mirror add a dimension
of distance, or wonder, or of fiction to an image.
How much of life is a reflection of a reflection?
A view of the hidden, fleeting world?
Years ago, Ursula K. Le Guin was driving away
from Salem, Oregon. She happened to look
in the rearview mirror and saw OMELAS.
From that experience came her haunting story:
The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.
Reflections and reflections of reflections
contain a mystery that nibbles at the mind.
How much of the world is really there?
What we think we see is really only a reflection
of what is projected in the back of our eyes.
Yet another dimension of reflected image.
The world is as it seems — and not.
I remember when I was legally blind:
the time before my cataract surgery.
I could make out people on the sidewalk,
but not their features.
I could see bicycle riders, but no details.
The flaw was in my vision, not the world.
Before the world went out of focus,
I loved reflections in the water: the world
seen upside down. And through water:
magnified and distorted.
And sounds that travel over the rush of water,
muffled and mingled with birdsong and wind.
Reflections on glass often contain
the ghostly images of that which lies behind
the clear barrier, creating a story behind the story.
Images in a rearview mirror add a dimension
of distance, or wonder, or of fiction to an image.
How much of life is a reflection of a reflection?
A view of the hidden, fleeting world?
Years ago, Ursula K. Le Guin was driving away
from Salem, Oregon. She happened to look
in the rearview mirror and saw OMELAS.
From that experience came her haunting story:
The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.
Reflections and reflections of reflections
contain a mystery that nibbles at the mind.
How much of the world is really there?
What we think we see is really only a reflection
of what is projected in the back of our eyes.
Yet another dimension of reflected image.
The world is as it seems — and not.
Ambush
THE ART OF AMBUSH
You have to pick a common place,
the top of a tree or bureau.
Or you can hide low, under the sofa,
or just inside the closet, or
inside an abandoned paper bag.
The trick is to keep still.
To stay silent. No purring.
No slightly twitching tail,
the tell-tale sound that
gives you away.
And you must be sure your sibling
is sound asleep in another room.
They will give you away
in an instant, thwarting your
well-planned ambush.
It’s especially effective if you
are shadow-color to start with.
And you must make sure that your prey
can’t see your eyes. Mammals have a
primitive instinct that they are being watched.
If you must peek, use only one eye.
If you use a paper bag, be sure to
wait until the prey is reaching
for the empty bag to fold.
Then burst out! Claws flexed
to grab the unsuspecting hand.
Their yelp of surprise is
worth the hours of waiting.
Patience is the sly cat’s friend.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.
—Vince Lombardi
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Katy Brown for her fine poetry today, and to her collaborator, Kevin Laubacher, for his excellent photography!
You have to pick a common place,
the top of a tree or bureau.
Or you can hide low, under the sofa,
or just inside the closet, or
inside an abandoned paper bag.
The trick is to keep still.
To stay silent. No purring.
No slightly twitching tail,
the tell-tale sound that
gives you away.
And you must be sure your sibling
is sound asleep in another room.
They will give you away
in an instant, thwarting your
well-planned ambush.
It’s especially effective if you
are shadow-color to start with.
And you must make sure that your prey
can’t see your eyes. Mammals have a
primitive instinct that they are being watched.
If you must peek, use only one eye.
If you use a paper bag, be sure to
wait until the prey is reaching
for the empty bag to fold.
Then burst out! Claws flexed
to grab the unsuspecting hand.
Their yelp of surprise is
worth the hours of waiting.
Patience is the sly cat’s friend.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.
—Vince Lombardi
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Katy Brown for her fine poetry today, and to her collaborator, Kevin Laubacher, for his excellent photography!
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Sacramento Poet Norma Kohout passed away yesterday at the age of 103. Norma was very active in NorCal poetry; among other things, she and Joyce Odam led the Wednesday workshop at the Hart Center for many years. You'll be missed, Norma!
Kevin Laubacher
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!
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