A Universe in Vermilion

—Artwork by Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN

 

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE VI
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

You know full well that yours will
never be the loudest voice in the
room,

but if only the megaphone mouths
would pause to recharge,

the incontrovertible truth of your
argument will lay the foundation
for future, positive change

_________________

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE VII
—Caschwa

when someone attempts to measure
you against the high bar of “perfection”

and of course you both know failure is
imminent

it is nonetheless a high compliment to
be considered so close to perfection
to even warrant a comparison 

 WHAT IT FEELS LIKE VIII
—Caschwa

when the Eagle Court of your son’s friend is
completed and dispersing and there is still a
humungous array of really fine food left over,
far more than people wish to take home

and you call your pastor and get the name
and location of a shelter, pack up the back
of your minivan with big trays of food to take
there, and are joined by several other scout
parents who load up their vans, station
wagons, trucks, etc.

the look of wonder, amazement, and gratitude
of dozens of folks who typically don’t dare to
even think about having such a nice meal

this took place almost 2 decades ago, and the
warm feeling it left is still right there

_________________

WHAT IF FEELS LIKE IX
—Caschwa

when the model is so big, it includes:

the biggest aspects of big government
the greatest manifestations of big money
the most profitable lines of big business

all wrapped up into one system of laws
and rules intentionally designed to keep
our now defunct balance of power hidden

away in the deepest, darkest chamber of
the museum of forgotten history…..
……unless we vote

 

 
HELP!
—Caschwa 

If you get Morse Code
message “How are you doing?”
don’t answer “SoSo”

__________________

LAW & ORDER
—Caschwa 

we think up, debate
and finally legislate
millions of good laws

but once laws are passed,
order must come from an
entirely different source

like rules of the road
we post signs for due notice
some follow, some don’t

all those signs together
are Diogenes the Cynic
looking for an honest man

 ZEN AND AGGRESSION
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

1.  Everything is always changing
2.  And everything, connected.
3.  Pay attention!
            —A Jane Hirschfield Summary of Zen


Everything is collapsing into itself
Under the influence of time and change.

We are all ghosts,
Temporarily
Assigned to human bodies,
But that will change.

Nature abhors a vacuum,
So it will suck us in,
Either into a convent
Or a whorehouse.
Get thee to a nunnery!

In Washington,
We hear a giant, sucking sound
As the masters of illusion
Smash the world around.

War is the means by which
It is determined,
Whether or not
The ruling-class
Of one nation,
Or the other,
Will become wealthier
And more powerful,
Or less so.

The working men
Who shoot the guns
Will never touch
The money-runs
That flow between nations
When one gets the upper hand.

It’s the privilege of command
To demand money,
Like after the end
Of World War One,
When the mark lost all its value
And German whores
Were the cheapest on the Continent.

Everything is connected,
All the time,
And always
Changing!
Pay attention!
You are about to be sucked in
To some strange mayhem!

_________________

IT GETS WORSE
—Joseph Nolan

I have to be mad
To want to go there,
But go there,
Still, I do.
What is wrong with me?

Am I enthralled
By maudlin tales of desperation,
Big, dark-circles under eyes,
Nightmares disguised as daydreams,
Stories of lives born in pain?

Have I gone insane?

Most people don’t want to do it
Just for the pleasure, alone.
It’s part of a larger story,
Something with a plot-line,
Not just a happy ending.

But it seems to grow so heavy
And hard to carry
And cold, like stone.

 WHO WILL BUY THE NEXT ROUND?
—Joseph Nolan

We will get drunk together
And finally fall into our sadness
And our grief.

We will find we lack
Capacity for accurate
Description and belief.

We will know
We have no way to go
Except for further
Into darkness,

Since we are lost,
Have no light with which to see
Or to know.
And so,

Who will buy the next round?

____________________

CHESHIRE CAT?
—Joseph Nolan

Cat
Lounges in a neighbor’s yard.
Neighbor
Knocks on slider, hard!
To scare the cat away.

We don’t need any more cat-poop today!

Up
Cat
Quickly jumps
To the top of the fence.

Once there,
Saunters leisurely
As though it were
Wide as a mile.

Cat looks back.

Does he see
A cat with a
Cheshire smile? 

 COLORED IN VERMILION
—Joseph Nolan

No Buddhist
Can make the universe
Disappear.

They can only say
The void is here and there and
Everywhere,

Or pull out the
Common thread
That binds
All things together
In your head

And let the trillion,
Trillion, separate
Things in black and white
Show themselves
All colored in vermilion.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE
—Caschwa

when an auditioning piano player
brings forth Modest Mussorgsky’s
original score of Pictures at an
Exhibition written for piano

books the most luxurious concert hall

wears the most lavish tuxedo

hires the very best page turner

and then sits down at a spinet
…that hasn’t been tuned lately

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors today for their verse on a variety of subjects, as 2019 winds down. Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has been working on a poem cycle, “What It Feels Like”, and last Monday I posted poems #2, 3, 4 and 5. Yikes, he said—where is the original (#1)? Well, looks like it flew away into cyberspace—my bad—so I posted it today as our LittleNip. Be sure to be vigilant about what you send to the Kitchen and what appears in a timely manner; Medusa can be a bit addle-brained. (Must be all those snakes!)

And thanks to Norman Olson, too, for his artwork! More of his poetry and art will appear in January.

Tonight in area poetry, Poetry in Motion poetry read-around will meet in the Placerville Sr. Center lobby, 6-7pm, on Spring Street in Placerville. Sac. Poetry Center will not have a reading this week or next, though, due to the holidays.

Want to do something on Christmas Eve that doesn’t involve fat men in furry suits? On Tuesday, Dec. 24, the 37th Annual X-mas Eve Hoot-Bash sing-along will take place in Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, with musicians and plenty of good cheer! See info at www.facebook.com/events/562961671154948/.

Then on Saturday, 2pm, Creative Minds meets again with spoken word and artists of all kinds at GOS Art Gallery on Del Paso Blvd. in Sacramento, hosted by Straight Out Scribes and Gary “Gos” Simpson. Also at 2pm that day, Poetry License will meet  at Placerville Sr. Center on Spring Street in Placerville. The suggested topic for this month is "horse mail" but other subjects are also welcome. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

The Winter Solstice issue of Canary magazine is available now at Canarylitmag.org/.

—Medusa, celebrating—just for the heck of it!
 

 —Ballpoint Sketch by Norman J. Olson

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.

The Visit

BUDDHA-NATURE

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

A couple towns down
From the Temple of the
Great Buddha Statue-in-the-Round,
A younger brother lived.
That was the only place
He could be found,
Since he didn’t travel,
Anymore.

Every so often,
His relatives would go
Burn incense at the feet
Of the Great Buddha,
Say some prayers and mantras,
Ask for the fertility of their offspring
And pray for good health,
Prosperity and long lives.

They didn’t visit
Their little brother,
Though,
Because they did not
Know
His Buddha-nature
Or their
Own.

___________________

—Medusa, thanking Joseph Nolan for today’s fine poetry ~

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.  

Of Lightning & Storms

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Sacramento Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Here are the months of lightning and storms.
Winter. Dark clouds pass over this valley,
Thick and fat with rain.
I love the winter rains like I love this place.
I belong here. Let me ask you,
Truly, does a person own land,
Or does the land own the person?

A winter afternoon, California's vast Central Valley. The wind whips the trees like an evil master and the rain blows sideways. An elm tree branch breaks away and brings down a power line, a few houses go dark. Water rises, somewhere a levee fails, an old man tries to drive across the flooded roadway when he shouldn't; determination isn't always the proper choice in life. Here, inside my house, it is warm and dry. Snug. My birds watch the weather through the sliding glass door of the patio. The larger one is munching on walnuts and listening to the Verdi aria on the radio. It's lovely, this music.

___________________

Winter. I dream through the long, dark hours,
And I wake to the sounds of my wife
Moving around in the house, doing small things.
O gods of rain and cold, do you also hear
Her quiet footsteps in the night?
Do you love her, too? 

You might go to sleep, get lost inside the blankets of your own life, and wake up one day as a dog, or a giraffe, or a wren. “What was my name, before, when I was a person? Or did I just dream it all?” You might think that as you move through this new life, and the morning sunlight filters down through the green summer leaves of the trees.

Fishing in the dark; the fish didn't care.

My father didn't care either,

Baiting the hooks in the moonlight,

Running the trot-line in a dingy.

That's for channel cats.

Casting for crappie and bass from the bank,
Cutting some of them up for trot-line bait,

Frying others in a big pan on the low campfire.

Biscuits in a covered pot on the coals.

Strong coffee laced with good bourbon.

By morning we're full, drunk, wired,

And have some decent catfish to take home.

A man-made lake on a dammed-up East Texas river.

Dad fished that river thirty years before the dam.

He knew where every creek fed the river,

All the deep and shallow spots.

He made fun of his kid brothers for fishing all day

In the hot Texas sunshine,

It was a lot more pleasant in the moonlight.

Sabine River watershed. 1970s. 

You can pretend all you want. You can pose and make claims that no one can possibly back up, but in the end we’re all just doing what we can. We're all making choices from the options we see, and guessing at the chance of options unseen. We are born, we love, we suffer, we die. Suffering and joy, living and dying. Do you need a reason to do your best? If so, friend, then that is not your best. Do your best because your best is there to do. Do your best because it is your best.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Restraint and patience. Wisdom and diligence. Above all, kindness and generosity. May I seek out ways to practice these every day, and remember to be thankful that I can.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Today is the shortest day of the year, and thank you, James Lee Jobe, for guiding us skillfully into the Winter Solstice, which will take place tonight at 8:19pm, PST. We know about Stonehenge, but here are some winter solstice celebrations from other cultures: www.britannica.com/list/7-winter-solstice-celebrations-from-around-the-world/.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, reaching up for the poetry that falls with the rain ~

 —Anonymous

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.

The Smiths Pay Us A Visit

Elf Lady

—Poems and Visuals by Smith and Lady, Cleveland, OH

PRIVATE EYE SMOKEY GREY

i come to sip yer honey, honey,
my sticky bee—
internal hive memory

nothing personal, just duty.
howdy duty. by jingo. by golly.
by jolly we'll be an external

manifestation

of an inner

conversation

we spark the waters
hold 'em up
do the dirty bop

i need some heart gravy.
give me some heart gravy baby—
lounge lizard rhythm in
polyester time 

 Bookmaking Lady

FRENCH KISS

Remember the French Kiss?
I don’t think the French
invented it, do you?

I think it was that
little snake
in the Garden of Eden,
that little
slither tongue.

Ohh, come hither
come hither

that little snake
that little snake

 Collage by Lady

OLD DEBBIL WEED

If Eve hadn't given Adam that apple
I wouldn't be smoking today
Even so
I tried to serve Sky God
but I was drawn to that old Debbil Weed
I became a happy pappy
papa puff daddy
gadfly to gladly
nouveau bohemian in old school crowd
Sir Laugh-a-Lot of Pot-a-Lot
to Queen MaryJane
Lady Day to Lady K
Kafka to a kiss 

 Lady Poet

EVER NOW

I'm normally normal
but just not now
and it's always now

there're two times:
there's now,
and
not now

today,
and
not today

it's never tomorrow

that's why I'm nearly normal
nominally now 

 She/He Smith

SOUND & WATER

water is sneaky. also, patient, and insidious.
it'll beat against you for thousands of years
in big waves
until it smooths you down
or breaks you apart.
      
or it'll lie still in quiet pools,
and insidiously work
on the weakest
point

leaking

and

dripping

and moving.

and then when water does slowly sneak
inside, and lies in wait,
it can FREEZE and EXPAND with

TREMENDOUS FORCE and BREAK

(so water is sneaky,
insidious
and
patient.)

while SOUND is slippery
(and sneaky)

SOUND slip slides off every flat surface

SOUND double or triple slip slides..

skips from here
to there

(so you think what came from there
came from here.)

SOUND plays tag with yr ears
and lies
a lot.

plus, in destructive force, SOUND
(shatters)

whereas
water

wears away

 South France

PA TURNPIKE

I was driving—I think at night—
thru the hills of Pennsylvania on the turnpike
and I'd taken a toke and all of a sudden
my vision blacked out I couldn't see
and I said

Well that's interesting,
but if you're going to play this way you
have to tell me the rules, give me a clue—

and all of a sudden I could see a U.
This giant U appeared, like it's odd,
I can't tell you where it was but this
giant U appeared. And when the U
would start to tilt and go to the left,
I would tilt the wheel and make
it go back straight. And after a while
my vision came back in, and I could
see again, and I was right in my lane,
going round a corner, and I was right
where I was supposed to be!

I never panicked, never worried
but said OK if you're gonna change
the rules you gotta give me a clue.

That might have been DMT. It all
gets confusing after a while

 Southern France

PUMPKIN TIME

You know what time it is?
It’s pumpkin time.

No, not pumpin time
Pumpkin time

cuz at midnight
everything turns into
a pumpkin
and the mice run away

Now midnight you also might
be pumpin pie,
depends on what yer doin
at the time

Somethin
you might be fuckin
might turn into a pumpkin

So you fuckin pumpin
pumpkin pie

 Tri-lady

GOOD COP STORY

Fueling the car,
outside Brahman, Michigan

Hose broke.
Got gas all over my white pants

Went to the men's room,
washed my pants in cold water

Put 'em back on
but I don't wear underwear—
wasn't pleasant—

So driving down road
as passenger,
took my pants off
hung 'em out window to dry—

State trooper pulls us over

I'm indignant,
arrogant

We hadn't broken any laws

But he just wanted to check,
thought my white pants
were a flag for help

I apologized.

As he turns to leave,
he points at the marijuana pipe in the ashtray.
Says,
Might wanna hide that

That's that,
a good cop story

And I was an asshole

 Veil Lady

 

Today’s LittleNip:

CATNIP
—Smith & Lady

Mature cat seeks young kitten
for yarn pull

You pull my yarn,
I'll purr yers

____________________

Today we celebrate the poetry and photos of Smith (Steven Smith) & Lady, who have collaborated on all of these, five of which have appeared on Medusa previously. Thank you and happy holidays to the Smiths, all the way from Cleveland! Don’t they make a lovely couple? 

 
Tonight at 7:30pm, James Lee Jobe invites you to an all-open mic at The Other Voice in Davis, an event which he’s calling “Poetry for the soul, and socks for the sole”. Come read your poetry at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd. in Davis, and bring new socks, any size, for the Interfaith Rotating Winter Shelter. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

_____________________


FORM FIDDLERS FRIDAY!

 
It’s time for another contribution from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be a poem posted here from some of our readers, using forms—either ones which were mentioned on Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some forms and get them posted in the Kitchen.

Today we’re talking about the Paradelle, once invented by Billy Collins to parody the Villanelle. Joyce Odam has sent these two for us, and she writes:

"I am sending you two of my joyously-inherited-mischief poems, a la Billy Collins’ Paradelle, which so many rejected as hoax, then went on to take seriously as a legitimate form, even after he admitted it was a hoax. I was up till 2:00 in the morning with my first effort, years back, not to be out-witted in this brilliant piece of… what WOULD the word be for it, anyway...?  I was dog-d to the bone and pleased with my efforts. Today I send both, for the comparison of difference..."

Paradelle: Old (eleventh century) French Fixed Form of four 6-line stanza. 1st & 2nd lines, as well as the 3rd & 4th lines, of each stanza must be identical; the 5th & 6th lines resolve these stanzas, and must use all and only the words from the preceding stanzas. The final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas, and only those words.

Form source: “Paradelle for Susan” from Picnic, Lightning by Billy Collins; see blogs.warwick.ac.uk/zoebrigley/entry/billy_collins_paradelle/.

For more about the Paradelle, go to www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/poetic-form-paradelle/.

Here are Joyce’s Paradelles, and many thanks to her for them:

PARADELLE
—Joyce Odam

When is a poem not just a line of words?

When is a poem not just a line of words?

There were two lovers once. Name them who you must.

There were two lovers once. Name them who you must.

When a poem is two lovers, you must name them – once,

just once – when a poem is not who – not just two lovers.

And then the sadness was over – is that how it goes?

And then the sadness was over – is that how it goes?

How far away we are – after all that time…

How far away we are – after all that time…

that the sadness was aft . . . that time was far away . . .

how we are the sadness, after all. Over. Over. It all goes.

Mirror, break the myth of love.

Mirror, break the myth of love.

You said. And I said. And we believed each other.

You said. And I said. And we believed each other.

Mirror, we believed – love, the myth each believed –

and I, the other myth, said, “And we break each other.”

Of love, there were words. And you said,

“Must you name them!” And then a line of time . . .

is that how we are – and who –

. . . of a line – of how it goes — ?

How far away is that? There were words.

Then I said, “Mirror . . . ” And you said, “Break . . . ”

* * *

PARADELLE FOR CHILDHOOD TRAUMA
—Joyce Odam

I remember the floating fish on the sunlit water.
I remember the floating fish on the sunlit water.
Death was contained in a warped dimension.    
Death was contained in a warped dimension.
Floating on the death, a warped dimension was
contained in the sunlit fish.  I remember water.   

All such memory fills the window.
All such memory fills the window.
Child never knows what fears become.         
Child never knows what fears become.
Fears become what all such memory knows:
the window Child never fills.

All day it rains, and all night.
All day it rains, and all night.
Time is hungry.  It feeds itself.
Time is hungry.  It feeds itself.
All day time rains.
and all night it feeds itself.  It is hungry. 

I remember the sunlit water. 
All day it rains and never fills the window.
Time is itself—hungry.  It feeds.
Child knows what all fears become,
contained in such memory all night: death
was the fish, floating on a warped dimension.  


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2007)


There’s a link at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “Medusa Mulls/Forms, Etc.” which expresses some of Medusa's (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry. Anyway, give ‘em a shot! Whaddaya got to lose….? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em.

_________________________

—Medusa, celebrating the joy of poetry, celebrating the joy of poetry ~

 Smith & Ladysmith: Their Day in the Sun

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.

A World of Books

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
 

SOUTH SLOPE CHRISTMAS
        Coloma 1847



Those men at the sawmill, turning once-live 


trees into wood to build someone’s distant 


empire—did they look across the river at sun 


gleaming the opposite hill, and wonder? 


On holiday—it was Christmas—they climbed 


that hill, a mountain, really, and discovered 


the top was crowned with monoliths. 


Boys on vacation, and strong,

they rolled great boulders down the slope
because they could— 


a game they invented and then
gave up. 


The world at their feet, the far-off glowing 

snowy crest of Sierra, its distant light. Someone 


began a hymn, a prayer right there
on top of the mountain. It was Christmas, 


after all. The rest joined in. And then 


they climbed back down, re-crossed the river, 


resumed their lives; remembered 


how the mountain held them in winter sun.

DECEMBER INVENTORY

Chainsaws and chippers gone at last
from the woods. Quiet of just-after-rain,
sun muted and low. Time for a walk
in boots and denim, parka just in case.
Green-grass haze over the field
with its sunburn residue of summer weed-
eating—foxtail, wild oat, soft chess.
On the hill, first signs of fungi pushing
through deadfall—pale-smooth as custard,
or tough-pleated plates protruding
from tears in oak bark. Old-friend oaks—
many gone now in the name of fire-safety.
The doe running from woodcutters
with their raucous machines. Will she
be back to raise another fawn in these
altar-woods, what’s left of them?

ON THE CLINIC WALL

Behind your back, a painting:
forest scene of massive oaks cloaked
in green moss, trunks opening as lighted
windows, home to creatures of the woods;
and in a nook of roots, curled as if at rest
but watchful, a fox behind your back.
Can you sense its eyes, its gaze
of patience, calm. Can you feel it?

EAVESDROP

It was dry while she was milking the cows.
A pause between downpours, a bit of conversation
at the library bazaar, old folks reminiscing
their lives—memories of dirt-shack, dust bowl,
the cow who always kicked at milking.
Authors talking about their books, the perfect
stocking-stuffer, so cozy to curl up with
by the fire. It’s gray outside, the library inviting
with open door, parka’d browsers wandering
the stacks. A world of books. How many cows
to milk before the next storm hits?

CABIN FEVER

Sound of tires on wet
pavement—there’s still a moving
world outside the door.

THE PERFECT GIFT

A poem’s never
done. She’s crossing out phrases,
penning alternate
lines. A rough revision—new
thoughts out of old conclusions.
You could have her new
unexcised version. You like
healed scars of poem.

Today’s LittleNip:

BETWEEN THE STACKS
—Taylor Graham

After-hours the words
go wandering, searching for
new worlds to settle.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham on this last-Thursday-before-Christmas, as she celebrates her recent visit to the Georgetown Library. She writes that “South Slope Christmas" is from her latest book, Windows of Time and Place (Cold River Press). And wandering words! So that's why I can never find them when I need them!

Join local poets in the noon read-around at Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library on I Street in Sacramento; bring poems by someone other than yourself which explore/celebrate light out of darkness. Then at 7pm, check out Poetry Live at The Ooley Theater, 2007 28th St., Sacramento (feel free to bring a poem). At 8pm in Davis, Chris Erickson reads at Poetry in Davis, plus open mic, at the John Natsoulas Gallery on 1st St. And of course Poetry Unplugged meets at Luna’s Cafe & Juice Bar on 16th St. in Sacramento meets at 8pm, with featured readers and open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating how poets corral those wandering words~

—Anonymous Sketch

“…searching for new worlds to settle.”

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. 

Putting Chaos Into Fourteen Lines

—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

—Anonymous Photos of Nutty Squirrels

WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT NUTS

In our oak villa, you,
our presiding squirrels,
scan grasses, hindquarter-stood,
for precious things. Or,
enacting tree-encircling swirls,
you listen frantic-eager
for light pings, grass-kissing
acorn plops. Lipped strenuously,
each chunk of leaf-fall heap-full bushel,
for you, lucky nutcatcher, props
jaw open. Rattler’s mouth,
fieldmouse buttocks distending
hypodermic-tipped gums, closest thing
to your achingly-held quiver
of seedload. Here is your
mouth-roof-straining burden, proof
one greenish nut’s enough, one
greenish nut’s a feast. You there, yes, you:
I saw you, jaw-juggler, stuff—two? could it be
three?—into cheek and cheek, pleased with
your greedy browse by the “instep arch”
of an oak. Just so you didn’t choke.
Life, richly stocked with acorn.
The November-mild sun, the upbark scramble,
the lush-life squirrel tannin-soused, all Strayhorn.

THE BREEZE YOU BROUGHT

You came back quick from down the hall, so that
The force of your return was whiff, breath, breeze.
You, unintending, conjured up the ease
I feel when, nuzzling, hungry Annie-cat
Insinuates need—and that fey flattery
I must construe as cat-love: Dad feeds her.
So pressed by a wind that freshened with allure
As you delivered a frisson fleet as glee,

How could I not decipher life in light
Of thoughts like words unseen till lemon comes
To stain the page inscribed with glass-clear ink
In terms of dark? I find no drops quite right
To reveal you, read you. Odd as thought that hums
Its notes least heard by him who strains to think.

SUNFLOWER WOMAN

Is it true I see you now as you truly are,
Young woman loving not just poetry,
But daylight? Standing at noon by your familiar,
The sunflower? Human faces may not be
Blind flower-disks laden with dark-bristling seed,
Yet you show in your upward look much trust
That cosmic rays will favor your great need
To ripen before rain comes, before rust
Corrodes even sunflowers’ petal-yellow edges.
Yet poet-potential and sun, synonymous
In you, are so richly, fragilely balanced that
You seem to teeter spring-summer as on a ledge.
How gracefully you tremble, how without fuss
You carry suspense as you wear your great big hat.

IN MEMORIAM PATRIC PEARSE (II)

The new piece [In Memoriam?] will be a happy dream, something like the mood I told you I wanted to do—Love and the farthest Irish seas mingled together.
            —Arnold Bax, letter of 1916 to Harriet Cohen


It is a fresh new piece, and it sings of love,
but whose love? Gift, but where the receiving end?
Minor chords, a cothurnus tread and trend.
And a “mingling”—nation’s fate with lovers’ grove?
And where, if not in the sheer tempestuous tone,
are we to discern, as with red pen, sounds of the sea?
How often, when you depart, cloud-mystery,
have I misjudged your thoughts from your words alone?
Bax cannot, I’m certain, say for certain, This bar
connotes that pearl-gray cumulus painting skies
of Glencolumcille the same shade as its ocean…
That flare in the brass is as a half-drowned spar,
a mast, to mark sailors’ doom, raw destiny…
Yet she in him, you in me, mingled somehow—mind-motion.

RESTORING PAULA MODERSOHN-BECKER

(MOMA art conservator Diana Hartman, featured in the video, ”Microscopically reweaving a 1907 painting,” Aeon Magazine, 11/4/19)

The art restorer patiently rethreads
torn canvas on a classic work at MOMA.
The fabric, reattached to its framebed.

Would someone’s loving hand could piece the bled
soul’s fabric back to wholeness with her soma
—as art restorers patiently rethread.

Paula the uncomplaining has been bred
for this birth. Mortal artwork. Now, dark coma.
Fabric, slowly detached from home framebed.

What will her girl-child know then of the dread,
daughter’s life, mother’s art, slit short by trauma?
What art restorer’s patience can rethread

the sundered stitches when in childbed
presides no seamstress-artist-maid-and-mama?
Just try reattaching fabric to framebed.

Lost Paula’s painted hand holds flowerheads,
two fresh-plucked roses. Only primal Brahma’s
patience could re-suture all these threads
of earthly fabric torn from their framebed.  

MEDICATING MILLAY

The accident determined everything.
The tumble from the car, roll down ravine.
From this point on, the Poetry could bring
No ease; not even Verse could intervene
As referee for warring pugilists,
Her mind in a shrunken corner, versus the drugs
Expanding their province to fit their big fists,
Swarming the lyric canvas with their bugs.
Nor candy nor liquor—both once quicker means
To summon inner Sappho—like fork tines
Can pierce morphine, Dilaudid, Nembutol.
Not Ragged Island, but Nurses’ Station, must call
her back from the pit, to write her clear serene:
I will put Chaos into fourteen lines…

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

_____________________

Thank you to merrymaker Tom Goff for adding his fine melodies to our holiday season! For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, who revels in chaos and the dancing stars it brings!

 —Anonymous

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. 
 

The Life That Lights Up Darkness

—Indications

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

COFFEE

In the mornings she wanted
her small blunt cup with the
wide handles,
a soft matte white,
no design or picture,
no cute wording—
a silent cup
that she admired
for its unobtrusiveness—
a small white cup that would
gleam and be warm in her hands.

__________________

WATER MAN

All day
he traces his findings into poetry,

his long and patient journeys
into what he knows and seeks to know.

This time he is a fisherman, standing
in patient loneliness while all around him

the sudden mouths of fish sing to his effort
and make him weep and fail.

How many mermaids
have offered him their souls . . . ?

He rewards their memory by saying
all their names on other shores.

What a soft shadow he makes
at twilight; small against the immensity;

small against the sky;
small against the swift night

which is never surprised
to find him there.

 Coloring

THE POET, BEING GENEROUS

He has a weepful eye
and a roving one.
He has a long-time wife
and a yearn of lovers.

He loves the
child in himself
and becomes his parent.

He will be free, and he is, until
he chains himself to the poem
which will enslave him.

He moves there in total freedom,
rearranging the furniment
of those words
and putting them on the walls
for pictures
and for faces in
the mirrors.

He opens his arms
and the whole world crawls in
and sleeps against his shoulders.

Steal me, he says, and they do.
He is a happy man at last.
He is a happy man.


(first pub. in Cedar Rock, 1978)        

       I Wish For You A Rose, A Rose So Sweet          
       

GIFT

The poem has waited for you to grow into it,
to read it at a later time to learn its power,
what it says, and what depths it has.
Not just the words but the force
under the words, the life
that lights up darkness,
reveals the dimension—
the poem has waited
for you to listen, a sound,
time as the first time, what
is here that was always there,
this growth, this maturity, this
acceptance of sadness and love—
this readiness to accept your creativity.

___________________

OFFERING

It is as brief as that:
the sudden ascent

into shadow
of a thought-thing—

a mystic bird,
releasing

right off the page
of this night—

straight up
and into the morning.

I am free of
this thought—let it

go—it does not
look back—

it sings.

 Loves Me, Loves Me Not

THE POLITE ENDING

Yes, I will have more wine. Will you pour? I will leave
my plate and my spoon and the rumpled napkin for the
easy gravity of our tired intoxication. Look how the table

tilts in our direction with its falling goblet and carafe,
with its awkward pronouncement of something that is
over—like this night. The shadow beneath the table is

too deep, and the wall is becoming as gray as our empty
conversation. But, yes, I will have more wine, for the
sober road that goes nowhere again. Will you pour?

 Harp Strings

THE TRUTH

We made it from moonlight and cold shadow.
We made it from sinister winds
that tore through our worn-out barriers.

We made it of every
remembered thing we could not bear :
dangerous laughter

made of crying,
that flood of tears from years,
and moments, of confrontation.

We made it out of love
that was tired
of loving,

we scattered words like epithets,
coated with black-sugared innuendos
straight from the cauldrons we stirred

and stirred,
until the air
could no longer breathe.

There was nothing sacred
from our rage—enemies at last,
our mouths bitter from kisses, threats,

and promises—only shreds
of dissatisfaction left to deal with.
I would not love for all of that.

 Maybe Just A Little Breeze

EDIFICATION

Let me become the quiet of my troubled
mind—that reach beyond suffering—
that tribute to self for acceptance and

realization. Let me become the quest
that I be found in myself—not let
the ego be all, but become the

believer of the quest that seeks peace
and understanding—that does not reach
beyond intention into the shame of failure

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
PERSPECTIVE
—Joyce Odam

Here is a gift for you, oh sky, two trees
atop a mountain of sheer stone,

with many white birds circling by,
and low gray clouds, and

far away, in distant scale,
the earth.

__________________

Joyce Odam sends us perfect gifts today of fine poetry and artwork, celebrating our recent Seed of the Week: The Perfect Gift. Our new Seed of the Week is Stress Relief. 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.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating the perfect gift that is poetry ~
 

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.