Magazines and Meager Meals

 Hotel Acapulco, Monza, Italy

* * *

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

 

 

HOTEL ACAPULCO
 
Le mie mani, scarne, han continuato a batter testi,
trasformando in carta ogni voce di morto
che non abbia lasciato testamento,
dimenticando di curare
ciò che tutti definiscono il normale affare
d’ogni essere umano: ufficio, casa, famiglia,
l’ideale, insomma, di una vita regolare.
 
Abbandonata, nel lontano 2026, ogni difesa
d’un contratto a tempo indeterminato,
etichettato come squilibrato,
mi son rinchiuso nel centro di Milano,
Hotel Acapulco, albergo scalcinato,
chiamando a raccolta i sogni degli emarginati,
esaurendo i risparmi di una vita
nella pigione, in riviste e pasti risicati.
 
Quando i carabinieri faranno irruzione
nella stanza scrostata dell’Hotel Acapulco
e troveranno un altro morto senza testamento,
chi racconterà la storia, ordinaria,
d’un vecchio vissuto controvento?  
 
* * *

HOTEL ACAPULCO

My emaciated hands continued to write,
turning each voice of death into paper.
That he left no will,
forgetting to look after
what everyone defines as the normal business
of every human being: office, home, family,
the ideal, at last, of a regular life.

Abandoned, back in 2026, any defense
of a permanent contract,
labelled as unbalanced,
I’m locked up in the centre of Milan,
Hotel Acapulco, a decrepit hotel,
calling upon the dreams of the marginalized,
exhausting a lifetime's savings
in magazines and meagre meals.

When the Carabinieri burst
into the decrepit room of the Hotel Acapulco
and find yet another dead man without a will,
who will tell the ordinary story
of an old man who lived windbreak? 

 

 

 

 Monza, Italy

THE ANTI-PROMISE TO LOVE

Anti-poet, victim of my anti-poetry,  
all I could do is dedicate to you an anti-promise of
love,
my anti-promise of love would have the features of
a synesthesia,
the Stalinist hardness of steel and the softness of
colour,
the finesse of friendship and the consistency of love,
your white eyes turn me into a hydrophobic cynic,
and there's no doctor for rage, my love.

An anti-promise of love to be read before a registrar,
so as to convince a techno-trivial world,
I’ve loved you since June 1976, perhaps, in truth,
since April,
I was an embryo and you were still immersed in
the aurora borealis,
for six years you would have been an angel, a ghost,
the inessential of a fractal,
without batting an eyelid waiting for you, six years,
thirty-six years, with nothing to say,
the sheep of Panurge's contemporaries would
condemn me to total silence.

You are my anti-promise of love, and the idea may
seem imperceptible to you,
I observe you sleeping, serene, like a crumb abandoned
in a toaster,
my love, I am stripped of the role of ‘sapper’ —it is
abyssmal like a submarine,
condemned to scatter torpedoes under the (false)
guise of a dogfish.

 

 

 

Palace of Monza

IGNITE TOMB

Corpse No. 2,
the shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina,
hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands
worn under red surfing bermudas.
Corpse No. 7,
muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach
Marrakech hash maps in my pockets,
scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers,
led me to the mouth of the abyss.
Corpse No. 12,
‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’,
I don't remember who was shouting it to whom,
not being versed in the Koran:
I too died invoking it in vain.
Corpse No. 18,
retreating on the roads between the dunes of
Misrata,
in thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy
missiles,
and dying of water.
Corpse No. 20,
although nomads, like me, sway
on desert ships, detonated fluids,
never will they get used to drowning.
Every grave of the unknown migrant
whispers that it is hard to embrace
a death that comes from the sea.

 

 

 

 

I DON'T FIT IN

I don't fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder
I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,
if I don't apply myself I'll never be able to aspire to
the Nobel Prize
irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel's black cows.

I don't fit in, I have a schizophrenic delusion
I hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,
I sing, outside the choir, like an X-Factor mythomaniac
defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.

I don't fit in, I’ve got a killer's disposition,
I wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in
“Thriller”,
flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,
forced to pack subtitles for non-users.

I don't fit in, I have all sorts of phobias,
in the queue I crave the green, like a virtuous 

dendrophile,
setting the world on fire, blurring time with the
zoom,
I surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio
temporum.

 

 

 

 

THEY EAT VOICES

If they have white paper, the new writers who sing
without a Muse,
would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.

Italian art has become an assault on the pot,
more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of
a porn film,
so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a
stallion
full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of
Le Ore.

Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,
it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go
deeper,
all of them now strictly improvising, equipped
with a notepad,
as if they should sign up for   rather
than culture.

To write on the www we should set up an entry test,
It's forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of
sudden death,
not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his
revolver at his head,
the incurable disease of the turn of the century is
called Adsl.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EPIMILLIGRAMMA
—Ivan Pozzoni
 
Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,
sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto
d’anonimo».
Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola
di cicuta:
senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.
 
* * *

EPIMILLIGRAMME  
—Ivan Pozzoni

You don't have to put yourself in color if you
look at your name,
you know, I'll make you immortal in “portrait
d'anonyme”.
My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock—
without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.

_____________________

Newcomer Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza, Italy, in 1976. He has written 150 volumes, and 1000 essays, and founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme). Between 2007 and 2018, his books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika, and others. He was the founder and director of the literary magazines, Il Guastatore and L'Arrivista; he is the editor-in-chief of the international philosophical magazine, Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series, Esprit (Limina Mentis); Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni); and Fuzzy (deComporre). His verses have been translated into French, English and Spanish, and he is included in the Atlas of Contemporary Italian Poets of the University of Bologne. Welcome to the Kitchen, Ivan, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa, enjoying a little Italian this morning...

 

 

 

Ivan Pozzoni

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
MoSt in Modesto will have
its Members Potluck and Open Mic
tonight, 6pm.
For more 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thin Havens

Refuge

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

 

 

HARBOR LIGHTS AT THE END OF SUMMER
—Joyce Odam

remember the way to the harbor ?
the seagulls were circling and circling
the skies were so broken we shuddered
the breezes came up of a sudden
the turbulence sudden with meaning
the docks set to rocking and rocking
the twilights grew longer and colder
our long-ago summer was ending—
moonlight and starlight’s last ember
we watched the small boats bump together
we watched how the lights touched the water
we lingered     then lingered the longer
remember ?     remember ?     remember ?

                                                 
(prev pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/12; 10/30/15;
3/24/20)

 

 

 

Winter Dream

 

TO PASS THE WINTER

—Robin Gale Odam

Now the sleeper dreams in the
book of fables, bookmark at the
one page read to pass the winter.

But the night stays in the frozen
dream, in the blue of cold under the
silver baldachin of winter leaves.

The bookmark holds the page at the
litany of the night, for redemption of the
dreamer in the asylum of wintertime.

                              
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2022)

 

 

 

Lost in Thought

 

NAMES
—Joyce Odam

My real name is Beauty, a name beloved by mirrors,
a name vanity favored, my first young name.

Cat says my name is Hunter, for she hunts vanity
and purrs to me her power.

I think of myself as Sunrise, for I am a Leo child—
a child of eternal summer.

Time calls me Lazy, and that is also my name,
for I love indolence and all things slow and effortless.

Priest calls me Purity, as do, husbands, lovers,
and all other saints and sinners who would define me.   

Grief calls me Wisdom, for I have learned patience
and silence and other virtues of loss and deprival.

And silence calls me Sound, for I have returned
one to the other and named them synonymous.

Haven is my secret name, though I use it sparingly.
Only those who truly love me may shelter here.

                                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/5/10) 

 

 

 

A Quiet Place

HER ALTERING MOODS
—Joyce Odam

She prefers dim candlelight
in a flower-heady room
—a dark glass of bitter wine

with its shimmer—the night still
young.  She will play some old tune
over and over—resign

herself to night’s yearning wait,
all her tried-on dresses strewn
about, as if to define

her changing moods.  She’ll invite
the ghosts back in to resume
their place at her mood’s old shrine

—comfort her there in the blur
of all that’s tormenting her—
candles to soften her tears
—wine, her face in the mirror.
                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/16/13; 2/7/17)

___________________

LOBBY  
—Joyce Odam
                    
After Edward Hopper’s Hotel Window, 1956

In the hotel of wrong decision she waits in her red
hat and dress, her legs crossed prettily in black high
heels—posed for her own imagination—staring out
at the night which is staring back through her re-
flection. I think she’s my mother; patient as always,
haughty in red, sitting there in her camel coat with
the fur collar draped over one shoulder. She thinks
it will rain.

I remember her clearly—notice the wet smell of
the air—the black couch—the pale yellow wall—
the blue rug—the white pillar outside the window.
When did her hair go white, I wonder. She doesn’t
seem to notice I’m there. I’m outside the power of
my observation. Her mind is planning ahead—her
purse hugged guardedly on her lap—all her
important papers in it. I get the feeling she’s
leaving for good this time. I haven’t been born yet,
and she’s already old.

Someone is changing our history—someone who is
late—or not coming—someone she already regrets.
Perhaps the night is not there—or the dim effort of
light that illuminates this tableau of vague trans-

ition. Perhaps it will rain and she will return to her 

room. She’s in control of my existence—this woman 

I want to weep for—seem to know—fear for the un-
certain direction of her future.
                                                                

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/21/17) 

 

 

 

Asylum

I CAME TO LOVE
—Joyce Odam

It was your easy voice with the smooth edge, not
ragged like mine; mine was torn like a sheet of
paper. What was torn away was important, but
became lost—what I never found again, like the
right words. How could I trust you, you were
perfect, like a mirror. Still, I could not give you
my eyes—too adoring—too shy, like a first crush.
The effect you had on me was numbing, like my
futile admiration. In bringing myself to you—a
torrent of hard rain driving me to your door—I
spilled what I carried, dropped my chances like
fine china in clumsy hands. Where would you put
me in the sanctuary of your house—stuck with
me—your apologetic guest—some great storm out-
side my heart, roads washed away, bridges down?
And the storm never let up. How I compared my-
self to you—postured and mocked myself into a
caricature for your recognition. And you came to
love me, and I came to deserve you . . . you tell
me . . .you tell me.

 

 

 

Sanctity

 

THESE DARK POLARITIES
—Joyce Odam

It was the link,
what we knew and did not know,
what held us together and apart . . .
                .
Softly the sorrow came to me,
whispered, oh, whispered so strangely,
my name, the condition of my dark . . .
                .
Lies! Darling, Lies!
Your own angels distrust you,
fastened like pain to your shoulders . . .
                .    
We have no heaven here.
Pass through the curtains and see
for yourself . . .
                .
Frail as ecstasy, this tower of ash
in the light of candles,
or was it incense . . .
                .
Two crows, under the fan,
turn ever so slightly,
turn toward and away from each other . . .
                .
Oh, grievance, thy name is love,
and all dark solitudes,
and all reachings into harsh light . . .
                .
Oh, tender stone.  My heart.  My pillow.
My book of sorrows.  My weapon and my fist.
I don’t know what else to call you . . . .
        

(prev. pub. in Stones, Jan, 1998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/3/18)

 

 

 

 Seventh Draft

INSOMNIA XLIV
—Robin Gale Odam

Sorrow modulates down a half-note
in the measure of each passing night, now
tender and low, soft in the filter of secrecy

A devious dream vows comfort then
disappears in translation—what asylum
should wreak havoc with spittle of laughter
—this can never be a memory

An elusive moon interprets the fiction of
curiosity    I must have spilled my tea,
I remember swirling the leaves
with my finger    I probably
should not write this

I sharpen my pencil,
let the curls fall

                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 01/30/24)

 

 

 

Sanctuary

 

                                                       
THE ANCIENT ONE  
—Joyce Odam

After TAO, The Ancient One by Andrew Baker

I almost lost you this time, oh, Fragile One, but
here you are in the stack of paper waste—as ugly
as ever, and as wise—or so you claim with your
white eyes and mocking

countenance—amused and stern, and staring
right at me. You’ve had your horns polished,
haven’t you, and by whom? Some loving mis-
tress who adores your naiveté and

your generous praise, who even hands you your
worn-down walking stick when you clatter it in
her path, as you tell me with a wounded laugh.
And what do your hands cup now

with that empty leer you’ve perfected—what test
for my curiosity? And why are you still here in my
presence—what threat or favor bring to my sus-
ceptibility? Your old

wrinkles are sagging—as you exaggerate everything
about you, so easily broken like a glued figurine.  
I’m not as old as you, though you insinuate with a
burning stare in my

direction. Your beard needs trimming and my
scissors are out for sharpening, so go to your wimpy
old whore for that. I’m no Delilah and you’re no
Hercules, although you hint

at rumors I don’t buy. Oh, alright. You can stay
awhile. There’s much about you I don’t know,
and you do make an effective bid for sympathy—
so trembly and

leaning—leaning, as if you might fall over. And I
know how that is. Here, let me guide you past all
my guile and secrets and I’ll answer one more
question before you go.  

 

 

 

Strata

 

   

BOUNDARY LINE
—Joyce Odam

rest yourself
upon my
narrow
I am
a thin haven
not too much land
on either side
I leave myself
stark
and open to
those silences
that listen
I am
the one vibration-line
they cannot hear
you can hide
with me
for awhile
if danger comes
we will be
so small
it will
pass over us
hush
I will not entertain
you
or love you
I am a
quiet resting place
of kindness only

 

 

 

Sweet Nothings

THE CHOREOGRAPHY IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam

After “Arctic Heart” Poem Cycle by Gretel Ehrlich

She is the dancer made of light.
He is the shadow to which she molds.
Both are the same movement,
entwined and separate.

Folds and folds of soft blue envelop them:
the sky and the sea; the blue earth into which
they evolve.

Softly the music follows like the echoes of old
voices, the lost sad cries, and the repetitions.

These are the hands of air reaching toward
other self—endlessly there; they open
and close like mouths of wordlessness.

This is the grope of silences worn over
hearts of joy and hearts of sorrow.
Nothing will ease the tension of love.
It is the dance.

She goes toward a motion in the dark.
He follows. It is another blue.
Another cloth of time.
It hangs still, then billows.

The living creatures of sorrow appear
and are vain. They want their turn.
They flow and lift in exquisite precision.

They steal the dance; and the ones
who cannot dance steal them.
It is an agony of souls
who have found each other.

Light is the ghost here, repeats itself
until the floating is memorized
and the sensation is known,
even as the next movement begins.

The blue cloth does not end; it is
the mother of weeping.
It contains all there is of invisible music
that comes from everywhere.

She is weariness that does not exist.
He is the alter-energy. Together they
form a continuation even as the stage
becomes what they escape from
and what they escape to.

Put the two bodies together now
before they dissolve past recognition—
blue ice and white ice—black ice—

the scar of their experience,
or is this only another recognition?

A ghost face with bleak eyes looks in to
the room where they dance. It is a dream.
The face is an old bone sculpture.
Its presence is inevitable.
They dance to it and around it.

Mirrors do not live here.
They long ago lost their meaning,
became the continuous blue
through which another color insinuated.

Ache of cold waits for them to
end this futility; she will refuse it—
contorts to suggest the agony of self.

There is a trust to remember;
it borrows light to repair light.
The curtain tears again.
Light will mend it.
Nothing pours in but more blue.
It is the music.

Love is the experience;
they give it to one another,
tell it again all winter, when time is a cave,
when there is nothing but
the one word to say to each other.

Now their motion swirls like echoes,
though they are motionless.
Light pours around them, melting.
The vast blueness extends beyond silence.
Time quivers and is gone. Applause.


(prev. pub. Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/22/17; 3/26/24)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

INSOMNIA XLV
—Robin Gale Odam

In my dresser drawer, behind
years of lingerie and old letters,
the pad of parchment stationery                         
with the sterling pen-and-pencil set                    

I slip the page of ghost lines behind the
first sheet of paper so as to compose               
with evenly-spaced breaths

The pencil whispers across the page,  
the low wind of prayer, the sheer
curtain restless at the window                
                                           

(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/4/23)

_____________________

Poets Juyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have given us refuge (our Seed of the Week) in their fine poetry and Joyce’s artwork today, and we’re grateful, as always, for their visit! Our new Seed of the Week is “My Only Indulgence”. 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.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Hotel Window
—Painting by Edward Hopper, 1956







 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

MoSt in Modesto celebrates 

15 years of Second Tuesday Poetry

with a Members Potluck and Open Mic

tonight, 6pm.

For  more 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

My Only Indulgence…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't Be Knotty . . .

 

Beet Tree
—Photo by Sarah Whiley (Courtesy of Nolcha Fox)
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, and Medusa

 

 

WILD REFUGE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Painted fish swim round
and round the beet
that peeks above the shrubs,
its branches an umbrella
that protects the fish from
wind and rain and sun.
Two sets of eyes and moat
are guards against a cat attack.
A mouth can sing alarm.
A sight so wild that passersby
can’t feel the tremors shaking
music from their plugged-in brains.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

REFUGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Here in the kitchen, kitten litter.
Blind-sided by her choice for berth—
the cat-flap caused hatched plans to fade—
family planning dashed that day
as felt the felines there to stay.
Cute critters cleaving mother’s milk,
all prior programmes fell away.

Their refuse littered blanket, box,
though kids refused to clear or clean—
a stretch erstwhile intended, said—
but they knew sanctuary right,
a refuge proving natal worth.
Afforded to so many pets,
yet mothers, all, deserve that grace.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

JOY
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

God's bemoaning world will end
The sudden path of ups and downs
The silvery mist of downtown lake
A pleasant surprise of forsaken country
A numbness of watery filling
Paths of downtrodden decay
A rainbow will end before the sunrise
Of lungs and tissues of sinewy wild
A melancholic rain will come
A surmise of two pence jugglery
Nature's secrecy of forever past
Please offer an edifice of joy. 

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

MORNING MUSE
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

(for Scott Thomas Outlar)

always want to tell
another writer
the morning of
the day
about a thought they stirred

instead, it writes itself
in my head
and just stays there

like this guy
today,
Scott Somebody,

who dropped
a coupla great lines
from someplace
across the way,

“Hmm, this dude’s got something”

now he’s
a real writer
used words i had to dig
from Webster

if someone writes
a word or three
that hits the mark
i should tell ‘em,
before this stuff dissipates
into the fog,

this
is for Scott Somebody,
from me,
across the way,
thinkin' out loud

thank you  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

AMAZING GREASE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

while I may have, but do not suffer
from Asperger’s Syndrome, the
world around me suffers from trying
to adapt to me

constantly oiling and greasing
the squeaky wheel of fiction
posing as facts, ads for recalled
food items still wearing the
cloak of non-GMO, triple-washed,
ready to eat

a veritable minefield of numerous
active explosive devices, surrounded
by barbed wire fences bearing signs
that threaten guard-dog vigilante justice
to those who defy the warnings

actors, posing as musicians playing
bugles without valves, while the
soundtrack has music played on
3-valve trumpets that clearly features
ascending and descending scale patterns
which are generally regarded as impossible
to play on a non-valve bugle

life insurance gambits featuring low rates
that won’t go up; however, given that life
expectancy charts show I may last another
decade or two, if one does the math it is easy
to see that anyone could choose to put that
monthly premium amount aside in their own
interest bearing account, and 10 years later
they would have an amount that far exceeds
what the giant insurance company would have
paid out

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

SPEAK TO ME
—Caschwa

but wait your turn
first green, then yellow
then painful orange

put down your rakes
that is no way to treat
the fallen who perished
so that you could survive

give them all the honor
that brave soldiers deserve
do not just sweep them
away like unwanted dirt,

destined to be washed
downhill to a grave for
the unknown

put down your rakes
silence your blowers, listen
to the sounds of falling
dreams, soon to be displaced
by Winter’s enchantment

people on the ground will
take lifts to hover over
fallen snow that blindly
buries fallen leaves, forever
forgetting what they stood for

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

GIVING TUESDAY
—Caschwa

my wife died last year on a Saturday, leaving
behind a lot of fond memories of our 40+ years
together, and a lot of carefully picked clothes
neatly laundered and hung up in the closet
awaiting to be worn again

recently one TV news channel talked about an
apartment house fire in my neighborhood, that
left many residents with only the clothes on their
backs, then showed where a local business had
set out 2 giant bins to collect donations of clothes
to be distributed to these residents

consistent with the ideology practiced by my late
wife, I gathered piles of her clothes, some of which
were perfect to protect a body from the winter cold,
and deposited them in one of those bins.

Sorry, it was not on a Tuesday, more like a Friday,
but whatever. Like many charitable gestures, the
clothes drop was unrecorded and unwitnessed. And
now my closet has conspicuous empty spaces where
clothes had been tenderly hung, but hopefully, the
clothes are now in use by fire victims who had none.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

BLESSED BY INVERNESS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

You were blessed
By Inverness—
Magic where you grew.

Gnomes and elves
Betook the place,
Among the gardens, grown.

Everywhere you looked
Was grace
As all the green leaves fell

When Autumn came
To signal-knell,
That colder
Days would come

To the most blessed
Of places,
In its cycle,
Ending each year,

But solstice, willing,
All would ramble
Into a burst of Spring,
To celebrate
Endless beauty,
Surrounding and
Enveloping
California’s most
Beautiful place.

 

 

 

Dust-Bunnies

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

DUST-BUNNIES RUN AMOK
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The curse of dirty baseboards,
Dust-bunnies run amok,
A thousand cobwebs
Grace my walls
And run up to the ceilings.

The doorbell rings.
I’m out of luck.
I was hoping
To put a dent in it,
But now I’m out of time.
I hear the doorbell chime.
It’s time to let them in.
Oh, my chagrin.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

COLUMBIA SALMON HARVEST
—Joe Nolan

Let’s talk to each other
About our natures.
Let’s have a heart-to-heart.

Let’s set a picnic
On a pasture
And talk to a meadowlark.

Let’s hover over
Bodies below
As we let our
Souls take flight.

Let’s harvest salmon
After spawning,
Smoke them
On fires on spits
And devour them as there
Was no end
To our appetite and
Our need,

As our elder,
Native brothers
Did in their times of when
They gathered all together
Along Columbia’s banks
To harbor in its wonder
And for its bounty
Give thanks.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

A MESSAGE FROM THE SUN
—Joe Nolan

Just a little
Reminder,
A little
Tap on your shoulder,
A little,
“Ahem!  May I
Have your attention, Please?
You’re in the orbit
Of a star,
A star you call ‘the sun.’

I think of you often.
I hope you’ll do the same
Of me.
I send this little
Touch of my beauty
To let you know
I love you,
My darling planet.”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

Today’s LittleNip:

BLISS
—Joe Nolan

Each green glen
A pathway to Heaven,
Each lover
A bridge to the stars.

Distance
Unites us,
Forever.

Time disappears.
Near is not far.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

I hope the dragon that is the holiday season hasn’t turned your life to toast, and that it is a friendly dragon visiting you this year. Thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom took refuge in our Seed of the Week, which was, well,  “Refuge”. (Be sure to check each Tuesday for our latest Seed of the Week.) And a note that Charles Mariano's "Mornng Muse" was inspired by Scott Thomas Outlar's visit to the Kitchen yesterday. Check it out!

Congratulations to Sacramento Poets, SnakePals, and members of Los Escritoires del Nuevo Sol, Graciela B. Ramirez and JoAnn Anglin, for reeiving California Senate Resolutions honoring them for their contributions to “the greater good”. It’s always wonderful when poets receive their just due! For more info, see https://escritoresdelnuevosol.org/f/graciela-b-ram%C3%ADrez-and-joann-anglin-honored-by-california-senate/. Again, congratulations to two fine poets!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Sacramento’s Graciela B. Ramirez and JoAnn Anglin
receiving their resolutions~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetic License meets in Placerville
today, 10:30am; and
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents its Youth Open Mic
tonight, 7:30pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

Don’t get yourself all tied up 

in knots over the holidays!

 

 

 

The Great Pretzel Puzzle

 —Poetry by Scott Thomas Outlar, Frederick, MD
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Scott Thomas Outlar

 

 

TRUEST BLUE
 
Yawn into the mortal portal
reflective void, numb, abysmal
 
Rip out the remaining hair
what once dark now silver echo
 
The figurine of leaf dust and ceramic
tidal blossoms, mellow serenity, mirrored
 
Three butterflies, brown suede detox
floating along the atmospheric avenue
 
Skeleton keys cold-pressed in fridge
arctic flesh, heightened senses
 
Magnetic force of pulsar, dynamic
cosmic radiance, lasso, necktie
 
Gradations encapsulated by degree
fortunes humming by bird of laser
 
Fragile plasma circling crystal
clip on smile and wisps of smoke

 

 

 

 Lancaster Rainbow

A MONSTER OF LIGHT IN MOTION
 
Assimilate
disparately dichotic parts
to align the structured whole
 
fractals and fragments
shards and splinters
pieces and particles
 
Chaos scrambles
the pattern’s picture
with white noise
and scattered signals
until cohesion
of honed consciousness
coalesces
the vibrational
soundscape
into more highly
ordered shapes
and forms
 
cymatic intentions
sacred geometrical premonitions
 
pulse rays and photons
stars and spirals
pinpoints and needles
 
circles triangulated
with butterfly wings
 
the flower of life
coiling out
from its own axis
 
a sphere
a square
a sanctuary
a mandala
a meditation
a miracle

 

 

 

Myrtle Beach Sunrise

 
FLASHED BEFORE MY EYES
 
One admiring another orbit
spaced-out theories
obtusely angled
obfuscating in the corner
ready to bend into or out of
whatever the great
pretzel puzzle dictates next
from the spiraling geometric source
 
Two tasting from the black hole’s fountain
empty desert chalice alchemized
with alkalized mountain valley
spring water splendor
veins devour
and merge into the blood
of you know who
hanging out in high places
 
Three pulsing with the highlight reel
comatose and laid out to bear
witness of lifelines in transmission
silver cord fashioned to socket
the blinding white light
offers its choice
to fade into obscurity
or return for another spin
creating a legacy as yet unrooted

 

 

 

OF PETALS AND PADLOCKS
 
Violet autumn
like a fire hazard
 
The hues and moods
of trees and leaves
 
released from branches
by the dozen
              
gliding through
a sighing breeze
to kiss the gentle waters
 
Purple pulsing dot
behind your eyes
after bleeding into the morning rays
    
View of the boiling inferno
bobbing around in the sky
 
Constellations
of experiences
 
Atoms on a board
wildly connected
 
and the shaman ducks
lined up
on the flotsam
              
sneezing their way
toward oblivion
                   
or is that just
a quack
heralding annihilation?
 
Consider all elements
in gratitude
 
Even the moon has
a poison pill
stationed at its galactic sore
 
and the sun will damn well
blind any fool
who forgets how to dance
after they’ve mastered
the art of falling
 
So I will stand here
as long as it takes
to catch a gift
from the maple heart
and blessed be
the plague of grackles
who come to join
the syrupy wait
 
Love is the key
and there are
several ways
to pick the lock
but only one true fit
 
hear the click
of my legacy
and reposing laurels

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BODY POLITIC
—Scott Thomas Outlar
 
Be thankful for small pains
because we all suffer worse eventually
 
I’ll dance until my body caves in
the same way I laughed as my mind went
 
One limb downed
but the rest is electric
 
Hand’s been dealt
steady straight toward the hum

____________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, Scott! Scott used to visit the Kitchen a lot, but it’s been a while; here’s what he’s been up to lately: Scott Thomas Outlar originally hails from Atlanta, Georgia; he now resides and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press, as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 15 languages. He has been a weekly contributor to Dissident Voice for the past 10 years. More about Outlar's work can be found at 17Numa.com/. Don’t be gone so long next time, Prodigal Scott!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Scott Thomas Outlar (with Gigi)

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

Window on the Bay

  Monterey Bay, CA

—Photo Courtesy of Jennifer Lagier

 * * *

—Poetry by Jennifer Lagier, Marina, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
and Jennifer Lagier

 

 

WILLING SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF

Window on the Bay glitters with frost.
Blue and green tents of the homeless
lean against ceanothus, coast chaparral.
In the marina, porcupine masts
pierce blue denim sky.
Above Del Monte Beach
dangles a leafless eucalyptus limb
entangled within invisible spider web.
It hangs above sand and sage,
below feathery clouds.

It’s thirty-eight degrees, early January;
arthritic hips throb.
I persevere, give thanks for padded vest,
zippered jacket, thick woolen gloves.
Trail-walking companions stroll between
rising sun, thrashing ocean.
We trust warm days will return,
golden poppies, purple lupine
will eventually sprout.

 

 

 

 

TUNNEL OF MOONLIGHT

Moonlight tunnels through ebony cosmos,
tumbles toward silent wetlands,
inscribes a wavy platinum ribbon
across obsidian pond.

Lunar glow silhouettes pliant willows,
scotch broom thickets,
illuminates Rastafarian blackberry tangles,
reveals duck and goose nests.

All night, sickle planetoid
circumscribes star-pocked celestial ceiling,
spills silver over bent trees, looping trail,
instigates frog song from espresso lagoon.

 

 

 

 

INTIMACY

As atmospheric river slams ashore,
rogue waves sluice over roadbeds,
fling riled ocean into low-lying homes,
siphon sand from traumatized beach.

Tempestuous wind gusts
pair with torrential downpour,
provide all the justification I need
to cuddle deeper in bedclothes.

The dog and I cuddle for warmth.
Great dollops of rain cascade from awnings.
I become one with heating pad, recliner,
escape into audiobook fiction.

It’s an intimate Friday morning
spent snuggled by fireplace
within watertight walls under sturdy roof,
trusting shingles and stucco
will protect us from storm.

 

 

 

 Kee Beach, Kaua’i, Hawaii

SUNSET DINNER AT HAPPY TALK
BAR & GRILL

We mutiny after seeing cauliflower steak
listed for $40 on the primarily vegan menu
at a trendy North Shore Kaua’i restaurant
where we’d made reservations
for our anniversary dinner.

Instead, we drive back to Hanalei Bay Resort,
score a corner table at Happy Talk Bar & Grill,
mingle with roaming mourning doves and Nene
geese,
admire a million-dollar view through vistas
of palm trees, orchids, rose bougainvillea.

Virgin pina coladas set the mood.
We order sashimi appetizers,
a smash burger, fish tacos.
Locals on keyboard and drums
crowd the tiny stage,
perform covers of favorite songs
from the ’70’s and ’80’s.

As sunset paints Napali hills gold,
overhead rain clouds turn pink and yellow.
You hold my hand, kiss my palm.
We sing along with familiar lyrics,
splurge on a gargantuan wedge
of strawberry cheesecake.

 

 

 

 

FISCALINI RANCH BIRDING

Cobweb thistles groan
beneath feathery weight of twittering
sparrows, phoebes and finches.

Turkey vultures spread black wings,
circle above frantic voles,
send them diving down hidden burrows.

Great Blue heron
launches himself aloft,
glides across misty meadow.

Big bird flops to an ungainly landing
along crumbling bluff edge
among dead lupine wreckage.

Golden eyed goliath patrols adobe trail.
Snakelike neck uncoils as he strikes.
Stiletto beak spears morning breakfast.

 

 

 

HUMMINGBIRDS AT SUNRISE

Nectar sippers appear at dawn,
bypass salvia to perch on oak twigs,
peer through kitchen window
as I blend morning smoothies.

Midday, red-crowned hummingbirds
hover above late fall’s climbing roses,
then vanish behind manzanita berries and leaves,
migrate to a neighbor’s flowering garden.

At twilight, jeweled sprites probe purple sage,
halo my head while I sprinkle peruvian lilies.
Darting colibri descend to reveal
secret trove of night-blooming jasmine.

 

 

 

 

FEBRUARY TRANSITION

Where did winter go
while we were distracted
by cupboards and closets?
For days, we are hammered
by gale winds, toppled trees,
torrential rain, power loss,
massive flooding.

After a wild night of gusts
cruelly wrenching our awnings,
yellow daffodils unfurl.
Morning sun reveals scrubbed horizon.
Radiant light awakens oxalis, azaleas,
pronged foliage of purple crocus,
fragrant pink hyacinths.

I creak from bed sheets,
throw back blackout curtains,
inventory puddled patio, ice-blue bearded iris,
cowled calla lilies, shattered oak limbs,
rejoice at emerging marigolds and lobelia,
sweep away passing atmospheric river’s
sodden left-behind wreckage.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.
 
―Thomas Jefferson

___________________

 

 

 

 Jennifer in her what-the-hell hat

Jennifer Lagier, who visits the Kitchen from time to time, lives a block from the stage where Jimi Hendrix torched his guitar during the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. She taught with California Poets in the Schools, edits the Monterey Review, and helps publicize Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Reading Series. Jennifer has published twenty-three books, most recently Weeping in the Promised Land (Kelsay Books); Postcards from Paradise (Blue Light Press); and Illuminations (Kelsay Books). Check on her website at jlagier.net, or see her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/JenniferLagier/. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Jennifer!

___________________

—Medusa, with a nod to Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, 1941~

 

 

 

 Jennifer Lagier

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Placerville will celebrate
Int’l Human Rights Day
today, 1-4pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!