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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Other Side of Dark

 

Empty

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

I DANCE WITH THE GHOST OF MY SISTER
—Joyce Odam

I dance with the ghost of my sister
she is me
I am one

it is summer
and childhood again

we play catch
we play hide and hide
in seeking twilights

we laugh together at secrets
we sleep together in dreams

when I am angry at her
she disappears
I cannot punish her

only I am punished
by my envy
by my only-childedness
by our tearful mother
who lives only for me

I twirl in the fates of my sister
who is featureless
and has no existence
except what I give her

I pull her after me
in homesick years
in worlds where I am a stranger
and she has outgrown me


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/29/16; 7/23/19;
7/2/24)

 

 

 

From Whence The Illusion

 

  

TO MY IMAGINARY SISTER
—Joyce Odam

Sister, let us dream together in this long and sor-
rowful night. Lay your head down next to mine.
Close your eyes while I watch you close your eyes
to see if you are real. Then sleep, and I’ll watch
over you with my sleep. Then dream, and I’ll dream
with you.

Sister, wherever you are, do this for me. This long
night is growing even longer. I feel the disappear-
ance of time. Do not empty the mirror between us.
We were never twins. I was the first and only, but
you always came when I called, as I call you now.
Sister, I cannot sleep.

The night has grown restless with my insomnia. I
read the same old book of weariness and watch its
path of words go across my eyes—but it does not
tire me. Come read to me, Sister—let me hear your
voice inside my voice. I need you again, dear ghost.
Once again, I need you.

     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/19)

 

 

 

His Own Self

 

 

NOW IS THE TIME FOR YOUR MUSIC
—Joyce Odam
(After Young Spanish Woman with Guitar by Renoir)

Long before
I would ever yearn to hear it

you have been chronicled in art
for me to decipher,
 
sure of your smoldering style,
the intensity

of your concentration—
oblivious of me,

your hands at work.                         
And I am only your poor listener

for what I would hear—
wild flamenco from your guitar.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/17; 1/1/19)

 

 

 

In All These Places

 

 
NOW YOU TOUCH ME WITH POEMS
—Joyce Odam

Now you touch me with poems;
words scatter all over me
till I am drenched and heavy.  
This was not what I meant . . .

Now you assault me with
words I am too slow to catch.
Shall I trust my mirror?  
I look through my mask of

ruined sequins and finger-marks
to my anonymous reflection,
your magnetic words adhering
to the glass—who I was

shivering in salt-light—
a sound of sea-waves rushing up
behind me, one last seagull swooping
toward me with its cold, metallic cry.

                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/18)

 

 

 

Night

 

THE VEIL OF NIGHT
—Robin Gale Odam

she got her lashes wet
one tear    the cue

she closed her eyes and wept
the star    the moon    the darkened sky
 
the moon    the star    the far black sky
the veil of night    the closing sky
                             

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/12/23)

 

 

 

Fear As Rumor 

 

MIRROR AFTER MIDNIGHT
—Joyce Odam

It is easy enough to send praise into aftermath.     
What we receive of light is the other side of dark.

Who shouts in the hollow becomes the echo—
a word I can use—dense with meaning.

We are at the service of our souls
which are at the mercy of our lives,

in the stone light
gray thought, manufactured as shadow.

Tears are the salt of grief, joy, and
humor.

Empty the womb for the lost child—
name it Sorrow.

Two who are unnamed
go toward love with fierce anticipation.

The hotels are empty now. They served
the lonely and the lost in their transitions.

It was the gulls—so starkly white in the
gray field—dark skies roiling inward.

Reading it all wrong—that word again—about to
break, like a face left in its mirror before it got old.
                                                            
                                                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/9/14; 2/28/15;
12/27/16)

 

 

 

The Day Is Ending

 

MUSE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After “When I Met My Muse” by William Stafford)

She finds me now and then—she holds
my name and rocks me when I’m dead.

Today a weathervane of tin, with hair of
clouds and voice of wind—she calls me

to the empty sky, for scraps of day to try,
for writing on the night when it should fall.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2017;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23; 8/20/24)

 

 

 

Dreams Me Again

 
 

WORLD-WEARY
—Joyce Odam

The old poet of the beautiful sadness
locks himself in his dreams
and writes letters to his melancholy.

He broods over balconies
and haunts himself with music
from the darkened room behind him.

Even the mellowing light of his eyes
turns a desperate blue as he
stretches back into the embracing shadows.

Once in a while he loves . . . but mostly
he only remembers the old loves
that depend upon his remembering . . .

mostly the old loves fail him once again.
Dawn finds him broken and drunk on
his own sadness. Who will rescue him then.

                                              
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/30/24) 

 

 

 

As A Vision

 

WHERE LIGHT GIVES NOTHING BACK   
—Joyce Odam   
(After Melancholia by Edvard Munch)

Having become all shadow
she is at the mercy of

the two windows
where she has pressed herself

like a leaf between
the flattening pages of blank thought

where she is losing herself in the glare
of crossed window-light

which shudders at the coldness
of her face

the hollows of her eyes,
where it dies out.


(prev. pub. in “CQ’, California State Poetry Quarterly, 

Julian Palley Issue, 1998)

 

 

 

From Another Time

 
 

NOIR LOVE
—Joyce Odam 

(After La Nebuleuse by Raoul Ubac, 1939)

She materializes in tears
—only weeping knows her.

He can count on grief to love her.
She writhes in his mind.

He tries to hold her:
she is smoke . . .  she is air . . .

she is not there,
but he sees her.

Her eyes do not contain him,
her arms do not reach,

though he makes her dance
—a contortion

in the shining dark
of his possessive grief.

                              
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009)

 

 

 

The World's Path

 

  

WIDOW
—Joyce Odam

Memories contain us for themselves.
Life is full of ghosts.
We talk to their mirrors.

I was a mirror once :
life and its house,
its clock, its season.

I know how the mind
will select, distort,
forget.

I know how mystery unfolds itself
into different endings.
I know where I fit.

The walls of my life are hung with
faded photographs. I ask again
who they really are.

They answer what I think
and change expression.
I stare at them.

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/16/21) 

 

 

 

The Imagined

 

  

Today’s LittleNip:

TINY BIRDS, MAYBE THREE
—Robin Gale Odam  

The cries of wind
tempered by cold of starlight—
strange homeland.

I am a stranger even to myself.

I pull the cover around me,
listen for harmonics. Tiny birds,
maybe three.
                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)

___________________

No foolin’ on this April Fools’ Day, with fine poetry from the Odams (Joyce and Robin Gale), and fine visuals, too, from Joyce. (Life is full of ghosts!) The Seed of the Week was "Empty", and, as usual, the Odams were anything but empty on the subject.

Today is the beginning of National Poetry Month 2025; check out https://poets.org/national-poetry-month with its 30 Ways to Celebrate, and of course local celebrations on Sacramento Poetry Center’s website at www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org/events/.

Our new Seed of the Week is for National Poetry Month: “Sheer Poetry”. Put your own spin on it; not all poetry is words. The hummingbird at my feeder outside, gorging himself after the rain... 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, though Poetry Month and beyond.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

American Academy of Poets

National Poetry Month Poster, 2025

Order it at

https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/get-official-poster/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Susie Kaufman and Joe Walsh

will be reading in Cameron Park

today, 5:30pm.

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 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!

 

Out like a lion . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running On Empty

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker, 

Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Caschwa, and
Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

DAD’S DONE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Know no one at all
suspects Dad is tired of
being in charge.

Being in charge
doesn’t give him a charge.
He’s running on empty.

He’s running on empty.
He longs to return to younger days
when he hadn’t a care in the world.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ULTIMATUM, 2
   Spring 2025
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We won’t be Bully-Buddies’ prey,
though gas tanks drain & fill to empty.
In waxing wiser, here to stay,
we’re not the Bully-Buddies’ prey:
government castration? Hey,
when millions pain, contempt on thee.
We won’t be Bully-Buddies’ prey,
though gas-tanks drain & fill to empty. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

QUASI-BROTHERS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Because they claimed to be brothers
They spoke from the heart and blood
With the full force of an avalanche
In waves of facts, knowledge and wisdom,
As much as could be conveyed
In simple, declarative sentences,
But it proved too much, in the end,
As one chose his separate truth,
His own space for reflection,
Over their common bond.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BUYER’S REMORSE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Now I feel spent, child-minding day,
those ice creams dripping, blazing sun,
while mopping clothes, their face, my brow
for fear of what their Mum will say,
though next the promised visit, zoo,
sad looking apes to antelope.

I bought their tickets, ‘Tiergarten’,
saw tigers pacing, confined space,
so thought that money better dealt
supporting native sanctuaries,
eyes watching wildness on TV
as burning bright in forest nights.

Bought plums and pears, too ripe I fear,
soon smeared as mush on faces cleaned,
hot chocolate, such crazy choice,
their lips burnt, whimper, ice again;
emotion’s cost real price I paid,
good fortune drained, unlucky ways.

Next duty shifted, wholesale mart,
bulk buying for the village fête,
but under layer, sparkling fruit,
found discreet metal there secrete,
its weight destroying surplus’ taste,
so wait again for payback mode.

Display within shop window frame
is not an offer; courtly rules;
mere invitation to respond,
to make said offer (in UK)—
to canvas what is laid before.
till such is purchased at the till.

Are we too eager, outlay cash,
too flush with stash to care too much,
too ready to accept spin sold,
too trusting as the seller’s mark,
too greedy to interrogate,
our interest in profit’s take?

Possession, nine tenths of the law,
as generated fantasy
a dominating sales technique—
that painted nag, sold ‘stallion’;
wolves in sheep’s clothing scatter flock
as readies banked, scammers’ accounts.

It gnaws away, as rue the day,
I flashed the cash, invested stock,
a south sea bubble came my way,
that fool’s gold, end of rainbow pot;
we fools, our money, separate.
Remorse is unrepenting, world. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

DEEP & EMPTY POCKETS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when I was in high school there were several
classmates who came from families with
money: Real Estate, New Car Sales, City
Council, and other prosperous endeavors;
apparently they were running the show when I
was in school and they will remain there
indefinitely

some years back I thought I would attend my
high school’s Home Coming Game; thought I
would be recognized as one of the musicians
who regularly played at Pep Rallies and games;

they wanted me to pay full price to enter this
“Homecoming” and expected I would donate
generously to support multiple programs at
the school;

your money is welcome here, stranger

somewhere in cold storage is that old notion of
“click your heels 3 times, there’s no place like
home!” now at the front door with all kinds of
glitter appear many layers of marketing schemes
all designed to draw in more money to be sent to
the very top of the pyramid;

No thanks

I will continue to meet my dear friends from public
school on social media (I have known at least 3 for
over 70 years), enjoy the ease and rewards of a
lifelong career as an unpaid poet, and let the
Homecoming Game Fundraiser Event continue to
belong to those whose incomes are far above mine. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MYSTERY NEIGHBORS
—Caschwa

(On our previous Seed of the Week,
New Neighbors)

I have new neighbors
the houses on each side of mine
had been rentals, but now one
has sold to new owners
(not prior renters)
and I haven’t met them yet

Thus I will refrain from advancing
any opinions or suppositions
as to the appearance and behavior
of these folks

For the last 16 years the rental
house on the other side has been
occupied by a wonderful family
with laughing kids, etc.

These neighbors have a Mimosa
which puts out fragrant, red blooms
to which my wife was allergic, and
they were so kind as to trim it back
to protect her

They are black and I am white, and
we meet and hug when a family
member passes

So the bar is set very, very high for
my new, mystery neighbors and for
myself as well, as after the passing
of my wife I have tended to be a
loner by choice

Time will tell

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BEFORE & AFTER
—Caschwa

California used to proudly have a strong
law enforcement presence on the streets
in which live suspects would be apprehended,
booked, sometimes convicted and sent to
prison, notably the Department of Corrections
& Rehabilitation (CDCR), where they could
serve time for their crimes while being
presented with opportunities to correct their
errant behavior, rehabilitate themselves, and
eventually become positive, contributing
members of the community

And then came the shocking, summary
execution of young Stephon Clark for the
high crimes of breaking car windows and
holding a cell phone

Forget about all that pride and the possible
positive outcomes, the whole law enforcement
scheme including the CDCR had now become
the California Department of Chase & Ravage,
its philosophy inspired by the single, deadly
act of an invincible jungle cat Catching
& Devouring its prey, leaving empty our more
ethical and sophisticated hopes that some
prisoners might favorably embrace correction
and rehabilitation 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

OUR ECONOMY
—Joe Nolan

Toward a bigger,
Fatter, squealing pig
On which we all shall feed.
God forbid

The pig
Should shrink,
Once our forks
Have been set in!

We mustn’t let
Our hungry hordes
Be forced
To walk away,
Unfilled

With greasy fat
And juicy meat
For which
All of them came.

Grow, grow—
The only way
We can go
With our economy.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

KISSING HEARTS
—Joe Nolan

A heart kisses—
Rushing out
Through shining eyes
And smiles.

It catches on
And smiles
Are returned.

Kissing hearts
Shine like
Little suns,
Warming everyone.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When they strangled the words from free speech
Took the gathering in protest to camps
Froze out the right to write an honest opinion—
What is left of who and why we are?

—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

____________________

Our thanks to today’s fine contributors with their potpourri of subjects! Clearly, no one was running on “empty”, our Seed of the Week, with their fine riffs on same.

A note that SnakePal Michael Brownstein has a new book out from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog, entitled Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah. For info, see
https://booksonblogtm.blogspot.com/2012/10/firestorm-rendering-of-torah.ht/.  Congratulations, Michael!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Oops. Busted.
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center will hold
an all-open mic tonight, 7:30pm,

 as everyone gears up for  

Poetry Month, starting Tuesday.
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!

 

Running on empty . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Studies in Blue

 —Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta, Saffron Walden
(near Cambridge), UK
—Delphinium Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

STUDIES in BLUE 

 

THAT PERFECT BLUE

Tiny petals of forget-me-nots 

are blown like blue confetti
across the summer lawn.
The endless blue of the sky
is caught in these small dots.
As if minute chips of enamel
have dropped from heaven,
pure in form and colour,
fragile, transient samples
of that perfection that hovers
just out of our reach

 

 

 

 

THE BAY OF BENGAL

Breakers roll towards
wet, smooth sand.
Sari-clad figures, red. tangerine
green, bob at the edge
where the frothing lace
tongues of the waves
lick up the burning beach.
Hawkers with giant conches,
strings of glowing beads,
wander among sun bathers
buying, bargaining, bartering.
Through the clearest of water,
I look at my feet
wooed by the pull of the tide,
my footprints quickly fill,
obliterated, wiped smooth,
washed away into vacancy,
kidnapped by the vast blueness
of the sea.
The local nulias in fishermen’s,
triangular, plaited caps,
stand guard by swimmers
against sudden side currents. 

 

 

 

 

BLUE SPLENDOR

Delphiniums, tall, stately,
Gracious Queens of the summer border
Blue spikes reaching skyward
Challenging the endless blue above.
While the lesser courtiers:
Cornflowers, bluebells, hyacinths
Bow and sway beneath. 

 

 

 

 

BLUE HILLS

Far distant, blue hills of childhood
hover still on the edge of memory.
Summits hidden in autumn fog,
in winter snow in deep drifts,
white pillows of long- lost dreams.
Spring skies of enamelled blue;
where ageless lambs still skip,
summer fields are ever green.

Deep blue shadows of twilight,
linger still in the old birch wood.
Patches of memory, moonlit meadows,
dark rings of enchantment,
fairies are dancing,
where the mushrooms explode
in tiny atomic clouds
like bursts of memory

 

 

 

 

BLUE NILE

Blue Nile
running lazily between banks
through rocky gorges
boats flit like butterflies
sails billow in bright sunlight

Thread of blue
watery silk embroidering its way
through the desert
completing the tapestry
in shades of turquoise and indigo

Ancient waterway
flooding the arid landscape
life-enabling
golden hoard for a Pharoah
precious corn in Egypt

 

 

 

BUILDING SANDCASTLES IN 1945
Grey Sea—Blue Mood

(First time on a beach in UK at the end
of World War II)

We built sandcastles to a notional plan
drawbridges, moats, towers, turrets
a sky grey with scudding clouds
green strips of curly seaweed,
mermaids’ hair, artistically trailed
over buttresses and walls of sand.
Empty coffins of pink shells
pressed delicately into battlements.

We squatted in swimming costumes
made from old jumpers, wet and soggy.
In a cold east wind, running into
a grey, sullen, North Sea,
with leaky buckets to replenish
an ever- thirsty moat of sand.
Gritty sandwiches clutched in one hand
we fortified our fragile defences.

Bright coloured, wooden spades,
our weapons against a threatening sea.
Inevitable surrender after a watery siege
as lizard tongues of foam lick sandy walls.
We jump in self-destructive frenzy,
crazy, destroying our own creation.
Spitfires fly low.
The grey waves
finish the demolition.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

In age of consumerism and materialism, I traffic in blue sky and colored air.

—James Turrell

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

Those perfect forget-me-nots!

 

For 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minstrel, Continue to Sing

 —Poetry by Ivan Pozzoni, Monza, Italy
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

BORN BACKWARDS

Why do I keep writing?
B., like Bangladesh, was
sixteen years old, on the windowsill
of the balcony of a Milanese high school,
but sixteen years was not enough
For God to embrace her in his leap.
R., as Romania, was
thirteen years old, feeling a hundred,
and no angel
was flying by her side.
E., as Ecuador, was
thirteen years old, with no Genoa
reminded her of Quito,
in the solitude of her dress
off-brand, disintegrated.
C., like China, was
twelve years old, worn out quickly,
looking out on a balcony
with the desire not to see the world,
throwing herself into the vortex
of performance anxiety.
Their names are not difficult
to forget, they are names
—like me—born in reverse,
pressed against the glass
of the windows of life
jumping to the asphalt.

 

 

 

 

MUM, I AM AN AUTISTIC

Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport
    company autistic
i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed
    of settling down as a state employee,
without the worry of a time card to punch and
    unemployment
doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with
    the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.

Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown,
    me, as a writer
no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no
    invoice, like the doctor,
i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal
    in endiads and alliterations
i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communi-
    cate with martians,
and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker    
    of via Mentana
i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a
    seasoned courtesan.

Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,
but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become
    spastic,
at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,
thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,
victim of the artistic environment’s lack of
    communication
nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph:
    “Here lies an autistic man”,
since no one can catch me in any verse
or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.

 

 

 

 

THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN'S PARADISE

Forgotten children's paradise,
there play dead children asleep
in hot cars, without relief,
victims of mnemonic crises from work fatigue
that make them forget budgets, meetings or
    certificates.

Little girls play in a relentless summer,
indifferent to the sun that has dehydrated them,
free to soar in tides of air
in spite of the bad moments spent in respiratory
    crisis,
without having to feel heat and thirst.

Forgotten children's paradise,
dead children asleep play there
strangled by the insecurity of belts,
eagerly waiting to re-embrace, without rancour,
those who murdered them.

 

 

 

 

CARMINA NON DANT DAMEN

The story of a coin is of no interest to anyone
two sides never so bold to see each other face to
    face
on one side imprinted the effigy of a queen,
austere, draped in silks and thirsty of drapery,
on the other the image of a minstrel, clad in a
    mantle of earth,
surrounded by the golden sadness of war songs.

The enchantment of love turns into coin
two hands, arranged one with care and other
    artisanship,
shake hands, and two faces, two metic eyes
protrude from the copper reliefs,
keeping alive, embraced, suspended in the void,
the one observing the amenity of a realm
where rivers run free, flowers smile,
clothed in forests and fruit forever,
the other gazing into hell.

My art is powerless
to cast spells so influential
to keep two faces timelessly suspended in the void,
mixing in forge the two worlds
into a single world where minstrel
and austere queen harmonise thoroughly.

Minstrel, continue to sing
your useless song with a broken heart,
waiting for fragments of tears
to flow again
in the blood of a halved love.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.

—Ray Bradbury

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ivan Pozzoni for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

Ivan Pozioni

For 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!