—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
and Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
SUMMIT NEGOTIATIONS
At the cake bazaar,
annual in the village hall—
Mrs Baker’s acid voice—
I stall to scan those sweetmeat plates.
The granulated cog biscuits,
as if surfaced breeze-swept snow,
fawn-mellow, flat,
centre-nippled, cherry-topped;
the scarlet shine thieves the eye,
stirs amylase from frenulum
to a painful point.
Without word, a finger point
tells Busty Baker what I want.
Only one? threat by voice and more,
clear accusatory tone,
insult when a dozen more,
pique, that her mountain not
scaled for more.
But base camp built of my cookie choice—
the tawny tone hints more mature—
Sherpa Baker stares, ice-pick tongs,
a moment carabiner caught,
feathered felt now helmet,
crampons, impasse,
first to withdraw?
Though Baker’s pride, my will-battle wins,
crevasse spanned with frost-bite grace,
wool wrapped cleavage to the fore,
she crevices her finger nails,
palming the peak, protect
from avalanche, and
bitter-sweet presents, almost
on bended knee,
my ruby ring.
At the cake bazaar,
annual in the village hall—
Mrs Baker’s acid voice—
I stall to scan those sweetmeat plates.
The granulated cog biscuits,
as if surfaced breeze-swept snow,
fawn-mellow, flat,
centre-nippled, cherry-topped;
the scarlet shine thieves the eye,
stirs amylase from frenulum
to a painful point.
Without word, a finger point
tells Busty Baker what I want.
Only one? threat by voice and more,
clear accusatory tone,
insult when a dozen more,
pique, that her mountain not
scaled for more.
But base camp built of my cookie choice—
the tawny tone hints more mature—
Sherpa Baker stares, ice-pick tongs,
a moment carabiner caught,
feathered felt now helmet,
crampons, impasse,
first to withdraw?
Though Baker’s pride, my will-battle wins,
crevasse spanned with frost-bite grace,
wool wrapped cleavage to the fore,
she crevices her finger nails,
palming the peak, protect
from avalanche, and
bitter-sweet presents, almost
on bended knee,
my ruby ring.
PEDDLE CAR
The Triang car when I was three
was difficult to launch.
The rhythm build from first thrust
always was the key.
Soon I had a trailer
and loaded pans and pot;
it became a pitch for selling
and pocket money grew.
Soon I learned the skill to carry,
my brothers joined with me,
I travelled greater distances
from street, estate and town.
Peddling came easy,
across the countryside,
too far for talk or shouting,
we joined the county lines.
And now I run a business,
borders stretching beyond site,
because I cracked the pedals
of that red Triang car.
The Triang car when I was three
was difficult to launch.
The rhythm build from first thrust
always was the key.
Soon I had a trailer
and loaded pans and pot;
it became a pitch for selling
and pocket money grew.
Soon I learned the skill to carry,
my brothers joined with me,
I travelled greater distances
from street, estate and town.
Peddling came easy,
across the countryside,
too far for talk or shouting,
we joined the county lines.
And now I run a business,
borders stretching beyond site,
because I cracked the pedals
of that red Triang car.
Car Made Completely of Legos; Can Be Driven
MABLETHORPE
One early homily I preached,
minor mention from east coast,
grabbed from the air, in passing caught,
now, was it Mablethorpe?
The man, back pew, was stationed there—
leaving handshake, told me so—
but there he stayed till closing hymn,
not hearing my sermon speech.
Now did this god speak despite me,
talk to his long buried need?
The question was, for him, could his
Mablethorpe yet be redeemed?
His heavy pack and secret stash,
bewilderment leaving home,
his friendships lasting fifty years,
scared seen write a letter home.
The first achievements, passed exam,
comrade's funeral yet again—
lad rescued him from dire straits—
guilty darkness he alone.
Supportive laughs among the din,
wet cold fear on his own,
all real, reflecting with his god,
pack and stash at last laid down.
FOLLOWING THE GRAIN
The speckled path traces a line
on which patina time will mark.
A clock that chimed important hours,
observing prayers and reading page;
from clammy palms timidly stretched
for reading creases, forward years.
A pared wood cup sweat globule-dripped,
then swirled with mead drained servant poured;
silver, planished, the hand-made sign,
left marks from hall, and sterling wine.
Apprentice piece, held journeyman,
a proof of travel with the joints;
two drawers matched stored marriage wraps,
their waist-let prompting wedding banns.
A cradle rocked white knuckled hands
to dampen cries of father, child;
a beam above smoke inglenook,
hot conversations with less light.
The treasure chest of daughter’s curl,
unlocked, but key of memory;
a truckle bed rolled out of site
that caked boots trod mud, bakers punched.
A varnish of flight pheromones,
more tears, some blood, flaked skin, hut dust,
capped steam from pots, seepage from pores;
ingrained, embedded, history sealed.
The speckled path traces a line
on which patina time will mark.
A clock that chimed important hours,
observing prayers and reading page;
from clammy palms timidly stretched
for reading creases, forward years.
A pared wood cup sweat globule-dripped,
then swirled with mead drained servant poured;
silver, planished, the hand-made sign,
left marks from hall, and sterling wine.
Apprentice piece, held journeyman,
a proof of travel with the joints;
two drawers matched stored marriage wraps,
their waist-let prompting wedding banns.
A cradle rocked white knuckled hands
to dampen cries of father, child;
a beam above smoke inglenook,
hot conversations with less light.
The treasure chest of daughter’s curl,
unlocked, but key of memory;
a truckle bed rolled out of site
that caked boots trod mud, bakers punched.
A varnish of flight pheromones,
more tears, some blood, flaked skin, hut dust,
capped steam from pots, seepage from pores;
ingrained, embedded, history sealed.
OVID 19
Now what would Ovid, poet, say—
with suchlike metamorphoses,
a change throughout our custom life,
shaped global screening, viral spread?
Far flung, the seeds of influence,
in literature, all media,
as urban myth that grows in tracts,
our inspiration under threat?
Mark Hero’s features, myth nineteen,
as Byron, swam the Hellespont,
the strait between two airwave seas,
a channel, victim Covid’s strain,
breast stroke of love with gasps for breath?
Now what would Ovid, poet, say—
with suchlike metamorphoses,
a change throughout our custom life,
shaped global screening, viral spread?
Far flung, the seeds of influence,
in literature, all media,
as urban myth that grows in tracts,
our inspiration under threat?
Mark Hero’s features, myth nineteen,
as Byron, swam the Hellespont,
the strait between two airwave seas,
a channel, victim Covid’s strain,
breast stroke of love with gasps for breath?
—Ejnar Nielsen (Denmark), 1905
READING
Off-centre spine, left steady bulk,
to fit the body to the book;
where others vice versa lock,
she knows the terms she’s come to see.
The gloom counts nothing in her view,
with folds controlled and crown in place,
so self-contained, the managed stay
to counter swings and roundabouts.
There is a uniformity
secured, secure as patterned type,
rigidity to make the space
for whorl skin skim above the lap.
The cover, preface, well prepared,
this text felt through the finger tips,
words weighed upon the upper leg,
obtuse for drape, but docked in place;
yet is that braille a lighter read,
a heavy lamp obscured in site,
an angle-poise before its known?
It’s pupil learning, keeping touch,
the tactile bringing insight near;
so much to read to make it clear.
Today’s LittleNip:
JOINT ENTERPRISE CROWD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
At Woodstock rock rolls heavy round
the hill, as, Jimmy Hendrix style,
the stars and strikes of battlefield,
with copter crews from cotton fields,
the pickin strings by singing flag,
that guitar falls on silent field.
The food they found, shared sixty-fold
beyond the Galilean hill;
those hickey folk said sons the same,
won’t have them starve, enjoying selves,
though most their lads had Nam and eggs,
their will, to share joint exercise.
____________________
—Medusa, thanking Stephen Kingsnorth for his passel of postworthy poetry today! His poems flew all the way from Wales, and boy, are their arms tired…
—Public Domain Photo
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