—Painting by Jacek Malczewski (Poland) c. 1894
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnort
FROM THE CLOUD OF DUST
From earth to earth, and dust to dust,
is this a ghoul, ghost of the swirl
from yellow field, sand sundried track
where sky, trees, field, path stratified?
With speckled cloud, long pine line thinned,
weed growth of green ’gainst meadow gold,
though wheel tread rutting parallel,
set lines are drawn for wight erupt.
So are they shades or one in whirl,
these dancers of one move unfurled,
dust devil’s grit confusing eye
or phantoms raised as spectral wraith?
No will-o’-wisp, phosphine oxide,
or lantern swamp to misguide fools,
this dry five, more, evolving shape
writhes wrist chains, grim skull, digit reach.
Polonia, emerging sons,
from shackled hands of Poland’s past,
can Motherland be symbolised;
or demon mad, Poludnica?
A tromp l’oeil, imagined mind,
a marriage, surreal, well-earthed,
out on a limb, unmeasured step,
that breath, wind, spirit blows as will.
From earth to earth, and dust to dust,
is this a ghoul, ghost of the swirl
from yellow field, sand sundried track
where sky, trees, field, path stratified?
With speckled cloud, long pine line thinned,
weed growth of green ’gainst meadow gold,
though wheel tread rutting parallel,
set lines are drawn for wight erupt.
So are they shades or one in whirl,
these dancers of one move unfurled,
dust devil’s grit confusing eye
or phantoms raised as spectral wraith?
No will-o’-wisp, phosphine oxide,
or lantern swamp to misguide fools,
this dry five, more, evolving shape
writhes wrist chains, grim skull, digit reach.
Polonia, emerging sons,
from shackled hands of Poland’s past,
can Motherland be symbolised;
or demon mad, Poludnica?
A tromp l’oeil, imagined mind,
a marriage, surreal, well-earthed,
out on a limb, unmeasured step,
that breath, wind, spirit blows as will.
The Sahara
—Painting by Gustave Guillaumet (France), 1867
—Painting by Gustave Guillaumet (France), 1867
CONCENTRATE EVADED
A mirage—in the past preferred—
romanticised, idealised,
when Gustave, grand, but simple shows
infinity in solitude.
See on those waves, both beached, far reach—
set crests, dips, statuesque through span—
horizon hint of caravan,
its passing, mirage as that past?
Below mist mellow yellow sky,
monotony, bleached bands of sand,
old skeleton, cold, frozen tones,
sole camel carcass in the waste.
Alone, soul-search, did Guillaumet
seek desolate to feel the real,
as isolated wilderness
revealed erased, evaded truth?
Stretched parchment skin, yet sinew tent,
parched bones soon crumble into grains,
for space, time aeons, concentrate,
deserted places, Sahara.
Boulevard Montmartre
—Painting by Camille Pissarro (France), 1897
—Painting by Camille Pissarro (France), 1897
ARCHITECTURE PASSAGE
The Hôtel Russie offered lift,
a Grand framed window overview,
above the throng, along, nightlong,
here carriage queue for Moulin Rouge
around the bend, so out of site.
Observant programmed episodes,
like Haystacks, Rouen Cathedral,
a baker’s dozen plus, impressed,
for cash required as principal—
not portraits, Paris wealth elites.
En plein air pain had brought inside,
as pointillism set aside
for full life, movement, shimmer sense,
both aerial and linear,
those nightlights under canopies.
An architextured cityscape
in urban oeuvre, boulevard,
a bustle like blurred photographs
of crowds beneath trees, beyond shops,
where some suit selves for Mardi Gras.
In light of change for tutored young,
his Passage as Van Gogh, Cezanne,
transitions, modern, pathways new—
warm glow of gas, glass panes above
yet stream of street, electric lights.
Eccentric strikes, eclectic sprites
play in the damp road mirrorwork;
that downpour passed, as glower clouds,
so were his final points, the stars
of pure paint over layered oils?
“Dance for Parkinson’s” —with whom I (Stephen) share a weekly zoom session run by English National Ballet—prepared a choreography around Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. With other hubs around the country, we were filmed in preparation for this year’s World Parkinson’s Day publicity. This poem was written after filming, reflecting on that choreography and our preparations for the performance. [Stephen, as you know, suffers from Parkinson’s Disease.]
RHAPSODY
It’s Blue, red cheeky shock, caught out,
and raised jazz hands in Parky shake,
fantastic tripping in the light
as zooming changed scenes played about.
Here’s marching New York, taxi splashed,
both hail and hearty subway track,
the hanging, yawning, coffee sniff,
again the cab, derisive, dashed.
But wither going, wobble high,
then drawing rainbows over sky.
From bird to portrait, arms stretch, spout
of leaping fish, wrong name dished out,
arm run to hornpipe, tick tock clock,
the upper body, boxing bout.
Conducted by the music played,
poor sense of power when notes delayed,
with carpet bagging focal shots
on mangled legs, those feet displayed
and tremors floored in filming plot,
a dance routine somewhat forgot.
Glissando rise through frame landmarks,
with overview as curtains drawn,
eggs over easy, take out drink,
ways broad, Bronx, Harlem, Central Park.
We shuffled here and wiggled, bopped,
our elbows screwed up to the screen,
and left stepped, forward, back, again,
then circled, shaped until we dropped.
This ballet, dance, body unbends
as giggle with far distant friends.
RHAPSODY
It’s Blue, red cheeky shock, caught out,
and raised jazz hands in Parky shake,
fantastic tripping in the light
as zooming changed scenes played about.
Here’s marching New York, taxi splashed,
both hail and hearty subway track,
the hanging, yawning, coffee sniff,
again the cab, derisive, dashed.
But wither going, wobble high,
then drawing rainbows over sky.
From bird to portrait, arms stretch, spout
of leaping fish, wrong name dished out,
arm run to hornpipe, tick tock clock,
the upper body, boxing bout.
Conducted by the music played,
poor sense of power when notes delayed,
with carpet bagging focal shots
on mangled legs, those feet displayed
and tremors floored in filming plot,
a dance routine somewhat forgot.
Glissando rise through frame landmarks,
with overview as curtains drawn,
eggs over easy, take out drink,
ways broad, Bronx, Harlem, Central Park.
We shuffled here and wiggled, bopped,
our elbows screwed up to the screen,
and left stepped, forward, back, again,
then circled, shaped until we dropped.
This ballet, dance, body unbends
as giggle with far distant friends.
SEERS
We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/25)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
People want to give up the responsibility of being able to understand and because they can't understand then they have faith, and they put their faith in other people who say they can understand.
― Paul Stamets, Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World
____________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, and public domain photos to go with it. Stephen starts October with his ghost, and ends his post with its mention of seers and mycelium, the ever-present fungus (with mushrooms, its way of blooming) that covers the earth, fascinating him (and me!) with the way it connects all of us. Thank you, Greenman!
___________________
—Medusa
We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/25)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
People want to give up the responsibility of being able to understand and because they can't understand then they have faith, and they put their faith in other people who say they can understand.
― Paul Stamets, Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World
____________________
Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, and public domain photos to go with it. Stephen starts October with his ghost, and ends his post with its mention of seers and mycelium, the ever-present fungus (with mushrooms, its way of blooming) that covers the earth, fascinating him (and me!) with the way it connects all of us. Thank you, Greenman!
___________________
—Medusa
Thank you, Greenman!
A reminder that
Lawrence Dinkins and Bob Stanley
are reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.
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!
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!
