Tuna-Fish and Ketchup

 

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Sayani Mukherjee, Nolcha Fox, 

Michael Ceraolo, Joe Nolan, and Caschwa

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of 

Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox

 

 

IN THE GARDEN
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Wondering how
your arms, chest, lips
would feel when pressed to mine
in this garden of wondering
as we wander along
an Amy Lowell pathway,

I pause beside a calla lily,
ease my hand deep in,
gather pollen for talcum powder
for our parched summer lips.
We kiss, pollen dust gilding
our shoulders. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales

One must be truly down a hole
to need use of such ugly phrase,
unless the quest has just begun.
It’s that old shop for curios,
but ‘need to know’ opens the door,
or turns front cover of the book.
Here’s pique and pry with feline pyre,
or busybodies’ gossip try,
with world explorers, learning’s prompt.

So Galileo must recant,
for hell more centric than the sun,
and mindset cannot be upset.
Inquisitive, Inquisition,
the test, unorthodox at stake,
an index of heretical.
But erotemes in global spin,
these the marks our prints need leave
as pilgrims walking in the dark. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

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

Mayhem of Autumn.
Soul expanding bliss
In evening hours
Grey waistcoats, lined seconds.
A silent peace
Seeing things as should be;
Borderlands of tingy maturity
The misshapen afterthought
Liberty passed a glance
As soft hours do,
Asking for chance.
Velvet purple glow
End of dripping down
Carrying the waste to the stream
Purging a clean slate
Coming ocean folded spasms
Evening sparrows
Grey twilight
Twinkling in a brown pot.
Unison and festivities
Erasing borders
Autumn, an old friend
Warm hospitality
Unzipped
Intimate snuggy goodness
As a big brother
A silent bliss of an evening
The purple zone. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

SACRIFICE
—Sayani Mukherjee

Skull cap of a hunger
Death beaten rusty
Polished Windows
Sitting under a safe door
Indulging big-brained self-entitlement
Can only imagine
As much as it stretches
Out of the door
Green barns Rocky fields
Whose silence is big
It thuds through the corridors
Bigger than the homefire
Security stability
Being at fringe
Can keep you warm
Under the pockets
Fold your rages within
A night suit
Sacrifice
Far deeper
Torrential downloads
Stream of an ennui
Strange of an era
Living in the heads
Sacrifice
Soul magic unseen. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

Curiosity

made me. Curiosity
and the purple-popping
morning glories
clinging to the fence.
A pounce on yarn,
a stretch in sun.
Heaven forbid that my skin
be raked by careless claws.
I have smelled the seasons
rotting on the ground.
I have stolen roses
from the garden.
Heaven forbid that I should bloom
and die.

After “Etiology” by Linda Gregg

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

  

 

WHAT IS IT?
—Nolcha Fox

What is faith?
We pass on trauma as tradition
unto the third generation.

What is hope?
It is better
to be a warrior
than a fish.

What is love?
Mermaids swim
through mothers.

What is patience?
Collecting summer
sleet in cups.

What is the meaning of life?
A tuna-fish-and-ketchup sandwich.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

SMOKE
—Nolcha Fox

You sit there
like you always do,
thoughts engulfed
in smoke that rises
from your cigarette.

I know you said
goodbye to her,
I saw her walk away.

Why does your shadow
dance with hers
in smoke that rises
from your cigarette?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

TIME WARP
—Nolcha Fox

A gap
in time,
a void,
sucking
deadlines
into
empty
gestures,
until
the time
we die.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio

Effa Manley

Today I would be expected to make
a statement about my identity
Whatever I proclaimed, some
would be sure to criticize me
for my alleged offense
And I would be equally criticized
if I declined to make such a statement
While I was alive
there was considerable difference of opinion
concerning my identity
I didn't clear it up then,
and I have no intention
of doing so now or ever
If such distinctions are important to you,
you'll have to decide without my help

* * *

Tony Gwynn

It didn't matter that I was born
during his last season in the majors:
Ted and I, being Californians
with a passion for the science of hitting,
formed an intergenerational friendship
that lasted until his death
I thought it mattered
that I chewed instead of smoked,
but that turned out not to matter:
tobacco killed me just the same

* * *

Edith Houghton

I missed playing in the league when it started
because I was in the WAVES
After the War
I approached Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Pennock
about being a scout for the team,
and to their credit they hired me
as the first female scout
I regret that none of the players I signed
made it all the way to the majors,
but I don't regret leaving the job
to go back in the Navy during Korea

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

FRACTURED FUN-HOUSE MIRROR
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The fun-house mirror fractured
Along the center-axis
Of its false reflection.

Its duty was to entertain
With sundry distortions,
Amusing to those passing by—
Just another distraction,

From bad luck
That would follow,
As a course of nature,
Resulting from bisection
Of that already false.

Rampaging over borders
Of a nation that was stolen
Just eight years ago,
At Maidan.

Now, ten-million driven out
And tens of thousands slaughtered—
Foreseeable from national theft—
Prelude to expansion of NATO.

Fractures over borderlines
Won’t leave
Well-enough alone.
Glass is fragile.
Propaganda is distortion.
We only stop awhile
To stand and gawk,
As through circus, we walk. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

WAYS OUT OF MAZES
—Joe Nolan

There must be wayzes
To get through mazes
That haven’t yet been found,
Like how to bring
Our armies home
After they’ve won ground. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

POINT OF VIEW
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

senior, fixed income
insurance company POV:
buy our plan
my POV:
get by with what I have

older house
real estate agent POV:
trade in old to buy new
my POV:
get by with what I have

older car
car dealer POV:
trade in old to buy new
my POV:
get by with what I have

older teeth
dentist POV:
we don’t take trade-ins, buy new
my POV:
wait till I win the Lottery 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

CURIOUS DREAMS
—Caschwa

we all have dreams
some too personal to share
some like spice, where different measures

of it
suit different
people differently
the American Dream
being all of these things,

melted together,
although political
spokespersons will
attempt to define it with
one or another spin that
will surely appeal to their base

We
complain
that only a
handful of people
have all the money,
millions upon millions

but then pride
ourselves on designing
a structure for campaigns whereby

only a
handful of
candidates
get all the votes,
millions upon millions

then we awaken from
these dreams and count

our one dollar
our one vote

and go back to sleep

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

SOMNOLENT PERCUSSION
—Caschwa

(following Joyce Odam’s
“In the Waning”, Medusa’s Kitchen,
September 21, 2022)


the wait was endless
years of draught, fires,
lost crops, desolation

we lay awake each night
with unanswered prayers
for rain, precipitation, drips

and then we hear it….
thundershowers!!
a few days in a row

how relaxing, now, that
somnolent percussion
of water falling from the sky

not enough to erase a
draught, but a welcome
gesture, nonetheless

good night

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOBO HEART
—Nolcha Fox

My hobo heart
drags a knapsack
full of moonlight
neatly folded
into a blanket
of leaves.

My hobo heart
hitches a ride
on midnight
train whistles,
cross-country buses,
and truck-stop coffee.

My hobo heart
has pockets full
of rainbows.
A ticket to anywhere,
anywhere but here,
is stuffed inside her shoe.

___________________

Good morning, all ye poets with hobo hearts, as we drink the rest of  September and crack open a bottle of October this week. Many thanks to our poets today, and to Joe and Nolcha for finding us fine pix. Our Seed of the Week is Curiosity; some of our poets explored the idea that our world keeps getting, well, curiouser and curiouser… Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.

And hello, Jupiter! (www.npr.org/2022/09/25/1124167790/jupiter-closest-earth-opposition-nasa?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&fbclid=IwAR0UFs9LFyRwYjn88PT1WRF_OMhbqAuASX4VOThAistCfEJrFgZG3nzNmKw)

Today is the deadline for Sac Poetry Day submissions; click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area. This week includes Norelyn Parker and Matthew Mitchell on Sac. Poetry Center Zoom tonight; Deborah Shaw Hickerson and Leanne Grabel at The Write Place in Stockton on Wednesday; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento on Thursday; the big Voices: 2022 release party and reading (Poetry in Locke) on Saturday; and a Capturing Wakamatsu workshop in Placerville on Sunday, co-hosted by Katy Brown and Taylor Graham. Details for all of these may be had at UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS, the link at the top of this column. Lots to do as Fall comes upon us!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!

 

 

 

 

Ready to Rumble

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA

—Photos: Last Roses of Summer 

by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

I've noticed as I age, time has speeded up on all cylinders,
determined to get me to the finish line much faster than
I want to get there.  I must regard death as the end, for
it is the end of all I know.  I can't be sure if there is more.

I had goals, but I never knew how to reach them.
I continued my slow, agonizing dance, hoping for
an out-of-nowhere epiphany.

Now that my body is showing signs of systems failure,
the dance inside me is a fandango.  Drums beat
in a staccato rhythm, putting the drummer at risk for
carpal tunnel syndrome.

What/ can I still/ accomplish?
What/ will be/ my legacy?

I want to remain.  I want to resound in purpose and memory
through all of time, through all the time in this world.

 

 

 

 

 

GARGOYLES

I have always been fascinated by gargoyles.  We see them in the form of animal sculptures, often lions.  They are meant to drive evil spirits from a building with their menacing visages, thereby protecting its inhabitants.

In the condominium building where I used to live, there were no gargoyles out front, at first, only two lanterns programmed to light at dusk.  During the day we were completely vulnerable.

There was something odd about Dara and Zach.  As I drove into our driveway one late afternoon and saw them for the first time, both were leaning up against either side of the brick facing of the entrance.  They were a couple in their forties.  Zach had a shock of untamed golden hair.  Dara's hair, the same color, was tamer.  I found out later they were waiting for their tardy realtor.  They were exasperated and looked like trouble.  Unfortunately they bought the apartment.

Stories circulated about them in our building.  They made us all uneasy.  Zach told us he was an investment advisor and money manager.  Dara just said she freelanced.  Both worked from home, online and over the phone.  He ran for treasurer of our condominium.  When that failed, she tried.  We wouldn't have it.

One winter they were supposed to be visiting Dara's parents in Florida, when a sheriff's lock was put on their front door and a notice that their apartment was to be sold to satisfy a $1.5 million judgement against them.  Eventually the lock came off and the notice disappeared.  Dara and Zach remained.

Zach became gravely ill, his face and body, thin.  He appeared old, grizzled, and moved slowly.  Every week an ambulance took him for dialysis treatments and brought him back the following day.  At home, he sat outside in the hot sun, shirtless,  Dara with him.  I cautioned him about his reddened skin  "I can't get enough,” he replied.  "The sun makes me strong."  Tilting his head back, he blew a puff of smoke from his mouth, and two more from each nostril.  One day he miraculously recovered from his illness.

Now I wonder whether Dara and Zach were gargoyles, evil spirits, or both.  Are gargoyles evil spirits who thrive in the sun?

 

 

 

 

 

READY TO RUMBLE

It was a perilous time.
All Brazil was rife with crime.
Where were the villagers to turn?
Their homes were about to burn.
The government was so corrupt.
Overthrow it.  It must erupt.
Who could the common man trust?
Calling the policia was an absolute must.
Though they were part of the government too.
There was nothing else to do.

The officers rode in on the backs of yaks,
for which the people would be taxed.
Each officer was ready to rumble.
All were rough, tough, and tumble.
Heavily armed for their own protection,
they could quell any insurrection.
Frightened citizens cowered (ahem),
as lusty coppers overpowered them.
There was rape and pillage
in every town and village.

Then the cops deserted the ravaged scene,
staggering away to Huerta's cantina.

 

 

 

 

 

FUJI AMOR

Along with many other tourists,
I climbed to the viewing platform
on a rainy August morning
holding onto a folding umbrella
to stay as dry as possible.  It was
typical August weather in Japan.

The tourists were mostly Japanese.
I'm not sure what happened to the
people from my tour group.  Maybe
the weather discouraged them.
There was heavy mist everywhere
with light rain.  So far I could not see.

Swirls of mist prevailed.  Once on
the platform, I looked past the
protective railing to see what seemed
to be a giant, dark green bear coming to
greet me to hug away my disappointment.
Mt. Fuji bear did, indeed, hug me breathless.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.

―Kurt Vonnegut, If This Isn't Nice, What Is?: Advice for the Young

______________________

Good morning and thanksto Linda Klein for her colorful poetry today! ’Twould indeed be wonderful to meet that giant, dark green bear!

And thanks to Katy Brown for bringing us some last roses of summer, reminding us of what will return to us next spring.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Need a Hug?
—Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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 Nooning Tree

 

—Poetry by Keith Hoerner, Southern Illinois

WHITE WASHING HISTORY AGAINST A
DARKENING AFTERNOON SKY
 
$10,000 down
Gets you in
Your choice of
Ranch or two-story
In prestigious Nooning Tree
 
“Is there one, a Nooning Tree?”
“Of course,” the saleslady answers
Loose strands of hair catching
The corner of her mouth
Like a lie
 
Tempered by talk of tradition
She motions; I follow
Slipping on the deceptively
Green sod
Outside her display home
 
She points, arm outstretched
Fingers fanning
In a ta-da moment
“There …
The Nooning Tree”
 
Under that very shade (weather permitting)
Noon meals were served
To plantation workers
Every day
 
Quaint, now, isn’t it?”
 
Yes, if
It were true
 
If *only* it were *true*
For a few of us
Still know fact from fiction
About this suburbanized
183-year-old black walnut
 
Its gnarled branches
Leafingthroughsecrets
 
Midday laughter filtered
Not
Through this centurion’s autumnal rush
Frenetic excitement hung thick in the air
Frozen families, slack-jawed gawkers, jeering
landlords *gathered*
 
On what is now
Premium
Lot 241 (backing to woods)
Where a barbarian’s buffet
Was laid
 
Bulging
Blood-shot eyes
Subtle smells of rope-
Burned flesh
Slaves *lynched* on the strike of *noon*
 
On a *tree*
On
A
Bountiful
S  t  r  e  t  c  h    o  f     L  a  n  d

 

 

 

 

 

M. DUSA

Mother stands frozen
in my bedroom
doorway…

a block of stone:
arms splayed,
legs spread,

a barrier
to my
exit.

I cannot move her,
never could;
she’s as heavy

as her gaze
when she first
looked in on me.

So, I am left to
chip away at her,
like I did before

she was
transformed,
but literally now.

I yell, “Stop imprisoning me!”
She doesn’t answer;
she has been silenced.

Her face looks shocked,
accusatory,
wide-eyed.

My tresses flare
in a fighting response—
as though slithering about my head.

Then,
for the first time,
I hear the sound of hisses.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

Being a mother is an attitude, not a biological relation.
 
―Robert A. Heinlein, Have Space Suit—Will Travel

__________________


Published in 100+ lit mags across five continents, today’s newcomer to the Kitchen, Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA), is founding editor of the Webby Award-recognized Microfiction e-zine/print anthology: The Dribble Drabble Review. A Best of the Net nominee and the author of two books, Keith is also a Best Book and American Writing Award Finalist. He lives at the edge of the Shawnee National Forest in deep Southern Illinois. Welcome to the Kitchen, Keith, and don’t be a stranger!


Today we celebrate 100 Thousand Poets for Change (100tpc.org) plus events in Placerville and Camino, as well as a Zoom conversation with Connie Post and Janine Certo. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.

 

 

 

 

 

And the Fall Equinox 2022 issue of Canary is available at canarylitmag.org/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

Girl Before Coffee

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grab a Spoon...

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,

Placerville, CA

—And then scroll down to 

Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!

HENHOUSE DRAMA

Her seven sisters all are dead,
vanished night by day. Now we dread
to lose our last chick. To what foe? What killed
them? Build fort tall and low.

She lives on bugs and ants, she larks all day
and plays tricks on my arm.
I fortify her world, she leaps
on my hammer, sings joy in cheeps.

 

 

 

 

 

WATER & TRASH

We walk the creekside
as water, sky tide
        in their age-old appointed ways.
        I’ve got my bucket, trash-picker,
        and gloves; let nothing slip my gaze.
A cigarette butt,
a who-could-say-what
       this muddy-drenched cloth once had been;
       and bits of silver foil flicker
       among fallen-gold leaves that spin
in current, and go
where trash mustn’t flow.

 

 

 

 

 

IN TIME OF DROUGHT

Water’s getting low in the deck-dish. Water
for wild turkeys, and songbirds who peck seed
from the hanging feeder. And ground squirrels?
Those tunnellers of our land, raiders
of henhouse and garden. How we’ve tried to get rid
of them! They won. No more chickens, no more
vegetable garden. Now look at that brazen
creature drinking bird-water. So close,
just outside the sliding glass door.
Look at the gradations of brown-tones on its fur,
the faint speckling of stars. Look how thirsty
in this drought. How many times I’ve
chased the beggars away from fallen birdseed.
But water? My head curses Ground
Squirrel. My eyes just see thirsty creature.

 

 

 

 

 

DO TURKEY VULTURES VOCALIZE?

Two sit motionless
in oaks above the swale—what’s dead?
Birds silent as death
under still, gray summer sky
still they sit, waiting.

 

 

 

 

 

LIVE OAK & TREE-MAN

Does he feel the oak’s distress as the logger’s
chainsaw begins its cut, the quick kerf through ring
upon ring, the drought and rainy years?
Oak tree many times older than he is. See the blood-
red sleeve under its bark—a fungus like cancer.
This oak might be ready to fall of its own
life’s weight. Live oak is a weed, he says; no doubt
some professor’s quip but he took it to memory
if not to heart. This tree triage is the toughest part
of his job. I love them all. They breathe for us,
how everything’s connected. But he knows
when it’s time for this one to go, for the forest’s
sake, so its fall won’t spark wildfire. Look at all these
homes (like mine) living among the trees.

 

 

 

 

 

AUTUMN’S Edge

Always the shortening of light
Unmagnified by urban wattage.
The oaks tarnish with dying leaves.
Under leaf-fall and rot, Earth
Magically slips toward sleep, dreams.
Now is the slanting blade of light.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

PO-COOKERY
—Taylor Graham

What’s with Medusa’s Kitchen?
The stew is bubblin’, itchin’—
so grab a spoon & pitch in!

A pantoum or a sonnet,
sestina on a bonnet,
an etheree or nonet…

Each word is savory spice
maybe fiery, maybe nice;
a good smart shake should suffice.

Come join the feast. Guest or cook,
have a taste, a sniff, a look—
starters for many a book!

_______________________

Skies are clearing up here, making way (and making safe!) for more poetry from Taylor Graham—and we give thanks for that! Forms that TG has sent us today include a Byr a Toddaid, our Triple-F Challenge last week (“Henhouse Drama”); an Englyn Milwr (“Po-Cookery”); an Acrostic (“AUTUMN's Edge”); and a Wavelet, last week’s other Triple-F Challenge (“Water & Trash”).

Placerville read-arounds are back! Taylor Graham writes:
 
“Our two monthly read-arounds at Placerville Senior Center went on hiatus for Covid; now, 31 months later, they’re scheduled to resume:
 
•••Poetic License: 2nd Monday of the month at 10:30am [next one is 10/10]
•••Poetry in Motion: 3rd Monday, also at 10:30am [next one is 10/17]
 
Help us celebrate the re-openings on October 10 and 17, respectively! We’ll sit around the table in the Game Room and take turns sharing poetry. Bring poems to read—your own or someone else’s—or just come as audience. Placerville Senior Center, 937 Spring St, Placerville, CA (entrance off Tunnel St.). Check in at the front desk; masks are optional.”

Also in Placerville, happening this weekend: tonight, 5pm, a reading and reception by visiting writer Leslie Kirk Campbell at the Green Room Social Club. Leslie will present a workshop tomorrow morning; then there will be the monthly Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading at 2pm. Both of these events will take place at Myrtle Tree Arts. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.

And now it’s time for . . .


Form Fiddler’s Friday!   

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham. Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to 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 challenges. Whaddaya got to lose… If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)

There’s also a newly dusted-off page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

 

 

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge

 

So sweet, his sister

baked for him
a honey walnut cake.
Except she mixed in sand
and clay and lime
to help it keep its shape.
Now he has a brick to add
to all the cakes she made.
He’ll frost each one with mortar
and build a birthday wall
to confine time so it can’t run,
and stay this age forever.


—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

* * *

INBUILT FAULT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Was it a loophole for some tax,
a pointing to injustice faced—
a window frame or stepless door,
an income shut, no welcome mat?

Was it legend, here bricked up,
offender who disturbed the peace?
Maybe just a honeyed trap,
a photo op from tourist board?

Lintel, sill, and jamb tomorrow,
mixed pockmarked plaster, mortar cast,
is the base black soot or damping,
so are foundations sound, secure?

Here’s a wall awaiting mural,
blank canvas for a parable,
to incorporate that doorway;
let’s try Banksy, make way for him.

His art, take the full advantage
of rough-cut patch, that inbuilt fault,
error turned into a statement,
the question mark that we avoid?

How would he supplant the image,
the water turning into wine,
tired dry site of desolation,
metamorphosing, his design?

He the prophet—read the master,
for his the writing on the wall—
graffiti signs of well-honed wisdom
absorbed by those alert to see.

* * *

ROOM SWEET ROOM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

it was the nation’s bicentennial!
private bus lines offered terrific
deals for $76, unlimited miles
I was then single and unattached
so I packed my bag and rode out
of Southern California on my journey
to explore America

stayed a few days in downtown
Las Vegas to sop up all the glitz,
glamor, slots, food, shows, etc. and
signed into a modest hotel room kind
of in the center of all the attractions

put my few clothes away, and set
about to open the “window” to enjoy
the view…this was decades before I
had ever heard of Medusa’s Kitchen
Blogspot or Form Fiddlers Friday, or
the whole world of Ekphrastic poetry

little did I know when I opened that
“window” it would be exactly the
Friday, September 16, 2022 Ekphrastic
Challenge image that was the full and
total view from my hotel room, less
than 3 feet away from my “window”

* * *

Next, a wee Byn a Thoddaid from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz). Taylor Graham says the Welsh must “breathe rhyme”, given the complexities of their forms. One could almost say that their poems are heavily "salted" by them:

 

 

 

NOT QUITE RIGHT
—Caschwa

I didn’t mean to ruin your whole day,
just buy spice from the store
it was Himalayan pink salt
the wrong grain, my bad and my guilt

* * *

Carl’s next poem is four quatrains, with abab, cdcd, efef, ghgh rhyme in iambic pentameter, alternating 8 and 6 syllables. He says it looked and sounded like a form he’d heard before, but he couldn’t pin down a name for it. Wherefore it shall remain nameless:

 

 

 

FULL OF IT
—Caschwa

the lonely king had fifty wives
one each for every whim
except that these fine properties
shared no true love with him

they stood before the palace walls
parading toys of sex
and he would yield to nature’s calls
no worry or perplex

on each new day the sun would rise
and he would make a choice
content with just his own advice
his was the only voice

until the day he grew too old
to quite perform the act
much fresher blood stood tall and bold
the king was duly sacked

• • •

Here’s an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth about our writing tools—those pesky letters that fly all over the page. Well, they’re what we have, after all; better use ‘em right! (Or is that “write”…?)

 

 

 

LETTER CLOUD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
 
Avoid the a, indefinite,  
b sets off soliloquy;  
curly c or kicking k,
deploy a d—e’s everywhere.  

F too loud at forté plus,  
g, half a horse, betting slip;  
as hotel hushed, accent dropped,  
an I can be a complement.  

The j walks unexpectedly—  
k’s still kicking, as before—  
l for lift off from the page,  
both m and n with ampersand.  

O for open, mouthed wide surprise,  
p when quiet in the score,
q the queue, but who’s alone?
r when plurals, are complements.

S comes hissing if snake repeats,
t defines where a amiss,  
u companion, sharing bread,  
v sign view, victory or rude.  

W’s lazy—why not new?   
x equates unknown, kiss, more,  
y is what so many ask,  
z when we’re just too tired to think.   
and snoring proves more forty winks.

* * *

And another Ars Poetica, this one from Mary McGrath. She ends it with the most important consideration of all: What do I have to say?

 

How about you? Do you want to get serious? Like Taylor Graham says, "grab a spoon & pitch in!"

 

 

 

DO I WANT TO GET SERIOUS?
—Mary McGrath, Sacramento, CA

I begin with the accessible:
imagery, figurative language.
I could use texture, simile,
metaphor, personification,
allusion and universal image.
WOW.

How about syntax, diction, tone and voice,
formal, prose, simple, lyric or narrative?
Or negative capability (O Keats).
    Maybe bad.... inappropriate language,
    diction, the cliché, inversion,
    informational language.

Some Given Forms.
Metrical verse, rhyming schemes.
YIKES.
The Sonnet...
Couplet, triplet, quatrain, terza rima,
Spenserian stanza.
abab, efef..
Syllabic verse, free verse,
Tone and Content.

Metrical lines, rhythms and symbols,
iamb and feet from monometer to
octometer plus the stresses of
spondee, trochee or dactyl.

Must also mention the sounds.
Alliteration, assonance, onomatopoeia,
semivowels and mutes.

Now, what did I have to say?

 

 

 

____________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________


TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!  

See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.)

•••Laurenelle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lauranelle.html

And/or you could try one of the easier Welsh forms:

•••Cyhydedd Fer: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-fer-poetic-forms

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic Photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Curiosity”. 


____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Acrostic: literarydevices.net/acrostic
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Byr a Thoddaid: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/byr-a-thoddaid-poetic-form
•••Cyhydedd Fer: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cyhydedd-fer-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry   
•••Englyn Milwr: Welsh form: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/englyn-milwr-poetic-forms
•••Iambic Pentameter: www.nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••Laurenelle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lauranelle.html
•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples

•••Wavelet: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/wavelet

 

For more about meter, see:

•••www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-iambic-pentameter-definition-literature •••www.pandorapost.com/2021/05/examples-of-iambic-pentameter-tetrameter-and-trimeter-in-poetry.html 
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter

____________________


—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to

kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

***

—Public Domain Photo

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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.