—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
Last night, in the record library, I heard a strange song. It was strange because it told a story—a story about how seven men entered Glory Land. The first man was troubled by the night; it spoke to him. He entered Glory Land and understood how this struggle made him a unique writer. The second man's mind was a turbulent sea; it often travelled beyond borders. He entered Glory Land and realised that this turmoil made him a sought-after counsellor. The third man's emotions fluctuated, especially at night. He entered Glory Land and discovered that this made him a talented music composer. The fourth man could summon the elements of nature, which sometimes disturbed his sleep. He entered Glory Land and understood that this ability kept him youthful and vibrant. The fifth man could hear conversations from neighbouring houses, which were more audible at night. He entered Glory Land and learned that this gift made him indomitable. The sixth man could see writings on the wall; they sometimes emerged and flew like birds. He entered Glory Land and realised that this helped him unlock the door to mysteries. The seventh man could paint scenes in his mind and bring them to life—this was a disturbing skill. He entered Glory Land and understood that this gift helped him save his loved ones. The song soon ended with questions: Do you think any of these men would want to hold onto their strangeness? Do you mind being like any of them?
FEED THE FIRE
Feed the fire,
Let what lies within rise into the flames.
Feed the fire,
Release the darkness that has taken hold in the
chamber.
Feed the fire,
Allow the tendrils of the night to enter its embrace.
Feed the fire,
Cast the monsters into its fiery pit.
Feed the fire,
Send away the stranger that lurks in the stillness of
the night, into its inferno.
Feed the fire,
Awaken refreshed, renewed, and reshaped.
WHEN THE NIGHT COMES
When the night comes,
I’ll be sitting alone on the porch,
gazing at the garden,
hoping to still be inspired by its bloom.
When the night comes,
I’ll no longer hear those melodious songs,
songs that encourage me to be my best,
songs that dispel the darkness in my chamber.
When the night comes,
I’ll walk alone in autumn,
listening to the wind sigh and sing,
watching the feeble boughs dance to the melody.
When the night comes,
I’ll write a eulogy,
I’ll write a tribute to my rare gem,
while gloom settles in my room.
When the night comes,
I’ll be sitting alone on the porch,
gazing at the garden,
hoping to still be inspired by its bloom.
When the night comes,
I’ll no longer hear those melodious songs,
songs that encourage me to be my best,
songs that dispel the darkness in my chamber.
When the night comes,
I’ll walk alone in autumn,
listening to the wind sigh and sing,
watching the feeble boughs dance to the melody.
When the night comes,
I’ll write a eulogy,
I’ll write a tribute to my rare gem,
while gloom settles in my room.
THE DOOR
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll awaken the spirits.
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll summon the strange.
Don’t knock on the door;
It’s not yet time.
But do knock on the door,
For it’s past twilight.
Knock on the door,
For some things need to be understood,
Knock on the door,
And unlock the river of inspiration.
Knock on the door;
There’s an emergence from the deep.
Youthfulness comes with great aplomb,
The strange pulls the leash,
As you seek the path to Zion’s gate.
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll awaken the spirits.
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll summon the strange.
Don’t knock on the door;
It’s not yet time.
But do knock on the door,
For it’s past twilight.
Knock on the door,
For some things need to be understood,
Knock on the door,
And unlock the river of inspiration.
Knock on the door;
There’s an emergence from the deep.
Youthfulness comes with great aplomb,
The strange pulls the leash,
As you seek the path to Zion’s gate.
THE OTHER WAY
There is a search for the other way,
A route that shields us from the tendrils of
night,
A path that separates what has been woven
together,
A way that quiets the uproar within our minds.
A sage once told us that our uniqueness stems
from our peculiarities.
But how can we truly believe this?
Does he understand the extent of the turbu-
lence in our hearts?
He saw our doubts,
And he pointed us toward the way.
We followed the path he revealed,
Journeying through a meadow of mysteries.
We approached the spirits with reverence,
And they were surprised by our ability to unveil
some of the secrets.
We learned that there is a depth within us that
sometimes merges with the night,
A depth that enhances our creativity.
We embrace our strangeness,
Seeking knowledge to understand this depth
within us.
Yet, we still yearn for perpetual redemption.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
—Franz Kafka
____________________
Newcomer Thompson Emate says he spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose, and he has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Visual Verse, Written Tales magazine, Writer Space African Magazine, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Borderless Journal and elsewhere. Welcome to the Kitchen, Thompson, and don’t be a stranger!
A short amendment to yesterday’s post about Joyce Odam’s passing: she died on the early morning of Sunday, Sept. 14.
___________________
—Medusa
There is a search for the other way,
A route that shields us from the tendrils of
night,
A path that separates what has been woven
together,
A way that quiets the uproar within our minds.
A sage once told us that our uniqueness stems
from our peculiarities.
But how can we truly believe this?
Does he understand the extent of the turbu-
lence in our hearts?
He saw our doubts,
And he pointed us toward the way.
We followed the path he revealed,
Journeying through a meadow of mysteries.
We approached the spirits with reverence,
And they were surprised by our ability to unveil
some of the secrets.
We learned that there is a depth within us that
sometimes merges with the night,
A depth that enhances our creativity.
We embrace our strangeness,
Seeking knowledge to understand this depth
within us.
Yet, we still yearn for perpetual redemption.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
—Franz Kafka
____________________
Newcomer Thompson Emate says he spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose, and he has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Visual Verse, Written Tales magazine, Writer Space African Magazine, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Borderless Journal and elsewhere. Welcome to the Kitchen, Thompson, and don’t be a stranger!
A short amendment to yesterday’s post about Joyce Odam’s passing: she died on the early morning of Sunday, Sept. 14.
___________________
—Medusa
Thompson Emate
A reminder that
Bob Stanley will talk in
Auburn today, 10am, about
“Why is This a Poem?”
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!
Bob Stanley will talk in
Auburn today, 10am, about
“Why is This a Poem?”
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!
