What It All Means

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,

Placerville, CA

—And then scroll down for

 Form Fiddlers’ Friday  

with poetry by

 Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

 Claire J. Baker and Caschwa

 

WHIFFS OF WHAT IT MEANS

This walk is required by my doctor
for my bones. It’s a bonus
on top of the morning’s training session
with my dog. Who can get enough
of walking on a path through the woods
of May? If my dog were with me now,
she’d take in spring’s whole airborne
world—tasting/scenting
in what I’ve learned to call
a vomeronasal gulp, for catching
undetectable odors, oils and esters rising
from the deeps. Such science is
beyond me but I trust my dog beyond
words. Here, deerbrush
is a burst of white blossoms
and a humming swarm of tiny bees.
It may also be a fey confection, a fairy
hangout, that magic drift of cloud. 

 

 

EN PLEIN AIR

Someone has scattered puzzle pieces—pieces
of pink orange yellow purple blue, blue
as the spring sky spotless overhead. Head
down the trail, around the bend, you’ll see. Sea
of wildflowers, all these colors! Colors
a-bloom—not to pick or gather. Together
we solve the puzzle: lupine, buttercup, cup-
of-wine—spring paints a beautiful mess, yes? 

 

 

BETWEEN FENCE & CREEK

A jungle of green
waist-high for mowing
by hand—a challenge,
adventure never ending,
gaging the body’s gumption.

I need weed-eating
like a physic, like a whole
head, a whole spirit. 

 

 

UNDER THE RED WING’S SONG

I’m under the red wing’s song
of a painter’s pointillistic colors dotting
prisms on this green weedy field—
lupine blue and storks-bill pink, clover rose
and purple vetch, and a single sun-gold
poppy. The crimson dot of the blackbird’s
wing keeps moving as it’s singing
under sky over the variegated greens
of a tree that gives me shade
as the red wing’s sweetest song
weaves rainbows between earth and sky. 

 

 

Arts HQ exhibit outside the Veterans

 Memorial Building in Placerville, CA.

 Saturday, May 20, 2023

 

UNTITLED

inspired by a Handlebart drawing by
Richard Gilmore, Arts HQ exhibit:
Mobilizing Veterans in the Arts


What is this smoothly convoluted coiling
branching form? It might be an octopus
or the gnarly tangles of a great oak’s limbs
set for storm, the unseen groping of roots,
or the bowels of the universe.

And this manmade metal thing
perched on top? A machine.
Receptors and storage for what we
would know, what we dare dream.

And, above all that, the all-seeing eye.

 

 

FOR LACK OF WATER

After the waterline sprang a leak
and I turned off the flow at the meter
way down the hill, I began the experiment
of dry camping at home—the house-
hold not designed for leisure loitering
without water from the tap, the shower.
Camping should be more scenic.
My office was to just make do.
The day was hot. No iced tea. Was I
seeing red? No, that’s the sun sinking,
the first day finally coming to an end.
And how shall I describe sunset?
Gorgeous? Radiant? Yes,
but rainclouds might be better.

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

GORGEOUS BUT….
—Taylor Graham

Deep dark
canyon lit by
fairy lanterns

held fast
by lavish
green
poison oak.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s poems and pix celebrating all the especially-vibrant colors of this year's spring. Forms TG has sent us today include a Septolet (“Gorgeous But…”); a Word-Can Poem (“For Lack of Water”; “Whiffs of What It Means”); a Boketto (“Between Fence & Creek”); some Echo Verse that is also a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic photo (“En Plein Air”); and another Ekphrastic poem (“Untitled”). Echo Verse was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week.

For info about what’s going on in poetry in El Dorado County, go to Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Also click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ 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 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 Photo

 

In addition to Taylor Graham's Ekphrastics above, we had responses to last week’s photo from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth and Claire Baker:


DON’T MIX MILK AND MEAT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

You want to mix it up, to box, to brawl.
I want to carve you into puzzle pieces,
fracture facial cream and gym-grown tone.
You want to milk me dry, cut through
the meat of what I mean. Nobody wins.
My words pour through you, puddle into buckets
to be left out for the cat. Your words congeal
into cudgel best served as a steak.
We can’t live together on this plate of milk
and meat.

* * *

REJIGGED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Now here’s a puzzle.
See the world—
beyond framed picture,
noted gloss,
that’s laid as sample on the box,
triumphant whole till broken up—
as if the mending, not the end
is the sole purpose of our rôle.
in finding soul between the poles,
the core of what it’s all about.

Of diverse, rainbow
colours, hues,
of shapes that fit
when fixed aright,
of lumps, sharp corners,
straight and not
and such that nearly fit,
not quite,
however forced, enthusiasts—
and is en theos root of that,
excite, incite,
claimed prompt of God?

In jumbled, juggled,
potent mix,
a pile of challenge to assort—
though fear peace missing from the start;
how did at first design emerge,
and was it planned so,
as result,
yet wielded jig
to saw apart?

A vision broken, then rebuilt,
using its origin as guide;
stand back awhile then break again
so others yet may try their art
and craft their part to save the world?


* * *

Claire Baker’s response to the photo is a Double Cinquain, as well:

 

EYES AS FINGERS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We stare,
undone by a
photo of piled puzzle
pieces, blank—colorful portrait
of life.

Our eyes
link three blank shapes,
then finish the puzzle;
pausing we see our own vivid
lifescape.


* * *

Here is a Zip Ode from Claire, which is, of course, based on her zip code (9,4,5,6,4):

 

 

 ZIP 94564
—Claire J. Baker

Oh, gee, how best to apologize—
cell, email, card?
And, Lordy, say what
re: my dumb contretemps?
Try honesty?

* * *

And a form she invented, called the Cinquain’s Cousin:

 

 

AZURE ANGLE OF SUN*
—Claire J. Baker

Has your ring
glazed into a lively
strobe light you friskily
flash all around the porch
just to prove without words
I’m still here?


*Claire’s invented form, called
Cinquain’s Cousin, is 3,6,6,6,6,3.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sends us an Abecedarian which he says is “a metaphor re the book-banning position taken by Escambia County, Florida”:

 

 

 

TEN SURE STEPS TO A
PERFECT PANTRY
(in Escambia County, Florida)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Abandon healthy
Bury common sense
Close the book on new ideas
Destroy opposing views
Expunge the rule of law
Forbid inquiries
Gather only Halloween candies
Hail this as a good policy
Insult naysayers
Jettison expert input

* * *

And an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth about the therapeutic value of writing poetry:

 

 

MONITOR?

—Stephen Kingsnorth 

The poem’s less to read than write,

a verse not to be heard, but sight.

A therapeutic diary, 

some commonplace with added touch,

formed smithy, where the lines are shaped

from out of site to on the page.

I know fool’s gold, and so do they

but some who pan find nugget grain,

or seeking vein may find bold blue, 

red blood within, not royal hue.

But more to me, it’s off my chest,

for who wants wires, heart monitor,

when all can be offloaded, safe?

_____________________

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 these challenge, and send it/them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Since nobody took the bait last week, let’s repeat the Flamenca:

•••Flamenca: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/flamenca-poetic-forms

•••AND/OR try Claire Baker’s “Cinquain’s Cousin”:

•••Cinquain’s Cousin (Claire J. Baker): Syllable count 3, 6, 6, 6, 6, 3

•••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 “Mirrors”.

____________________

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

•••Abecedarian: poets.org/glossary/abecedarian
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Boketto (“Listen to the Light”):
poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Cinquain’s Cousin (Claire J. Baker): Syllable count is 3,6,6,6,6,3
•••Echo Verse: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/echo-verse-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry   
•••Flamenca: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/flamenca-poetic-forms
•••Septolet: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/septolet.html
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
•••Zip Ode: https://milkcartonpress.com/?p=347#:~:text=What%20follows%20is%20a%20brief%20overview%20of%20the,of%20words%20in%20each%20line%20of%20the%20poem AND/OR https://www.wlrn.org/write-an-ode-to-your-zip-code


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!

 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to

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

* * *

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 

Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 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.

 

 

 

 

Which Face Do You See?

 

—Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

MIRROR IMAGE


The mirror was old,
not antique
just old.
Perhaps that was the reason
it didn’t seem quite right,
didn’t seem to reflect
me as I expected.
I looked harder.

I could see my surroundings
reflected as I thought they were,
the curtains and the colours,
the lamp standing naked
all present and correct.
But I wasn’t there.

I am here.
I know I am
and I’m looking
into the old mirror
where I should see myself
reflected
but I can’t.

I think it has swallowed me,
body and soul.


 

(prev. pub. in Praxis, November 2020)

 

 

 

 

 

A QUESTION OF IDENTITY

On her 90th birthday she looked in the mirror
and tried to identify the face looking back.
She felt the same as ever
but the face,
that was the mystery
how could she connect the two,
how she felt and how she looked.
Perhaps a mystic would tell her
that the face had been through the fire of life,
but so had everything that made up her identity,
or more accurately, her multiple identities,
different ones for every occupation,
every relationship
and every situation.
The ones foisted on her by parents
were soon rejected and replaced
by the ones she made up for herself,
different identities
but always the same person,
easily recognised
but not in that mirror
but something to celebrate.


(prev. pub. in Bourgeon Online, Fall 2022)

 

 

 

 

 

IMAGE

Somehow
the mirror has broken
fragmenting
my image,
the image
I have of myself,
the one I like to project.

Was it the sunlight that cracked it,
the exposure to brightness,
an explosion of light.
Or was it already a distortion
ready to be destroyed
by a different audience
looking over my shoulder.

Or was it self destruction
which splintered my image
to reveal the darker side
behind the glass.


(prev. pub. in Love Your Rebellion, 2016) 

 

 

 

 

 

REFLECTION


Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see
behind the glass?
Perhaps it’s a pale face
unsullied by sun,
moist and unlined,
a glowing reflection
shining
unbroken,
unlined.
But, let me scrape away the surface
to reveal the clear glass in places,
as if it were old, tarnished
and distressed.
Tell me mirror
which face do you see now?
Perhaps the face seems hazy,
patchy like the glass
as it reflects lines
and textures,
blotches
and blemishes.
Well, as time has passed both have
picked up some dirt in passing.
Maybe it’s darker still
in places,
in the deep places
not usually seen
Did the scraping away the glitter
reveal the treasure
and texture beneath
or is the new reflection a distortion
of reality.
Tell me, mirror,
which face do you see?



(prev. pub. by Ugly Writers, August 2018)

 

 

 

 

THROUGH THE GLASS

Alice saw herself in her looking glass
and walked through
into a topsy turvy world where
everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
Uncut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake to make
things the right way round again.

But walking through a clear glass,
a transparent window,
it would have been different.
Her reflection would float
towards a place where everything
seemed the right way round.
Where everything made sense
and added up sweet with reason.
A place without madness,
which looked easy to enter
and had no sharp edges.
Apparently.

But this glass forms an invisible barrier
to the other side and the life
that seduces and entices her.
And to get through she has to break the glass,
whose sharp edges cut her
and propel her crazily into a place
where she cannot wake.
A jagged, topsy turvy place
where everything spins round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out
trying to make sense of it.

Front to back and outside in.
Everything is the wrong way round again.



(prev. pub. in Anomalie, September 2015)

 

 

 

 

 

THAT WAS US

That was us
who wandered through Europe without maps
or money,
or sense of direction.
Who got lost a lot,
but didn’t get raped or murdered.
So far as we can remember.

Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay
for free.
Who got up early (too cold to sleep),
and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of
the hostel in Laumiere
for the first time in many years.
Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’
to everyone, until it had dried,
explaining carefully in languages we did not
speak,
why this was necessary.

Who, with wide-eyed innocence and
impressively bad French
failed to understand the policemen’s demands,
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Until our new friends with the nice smiles and
no papers had disappeared.
‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’
Sod off!

That was us
who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met
in a cafe,
because he said we could.
And swam and swam until two policemen came,
(one very stern and one very twinkly),
and said we couldn’t.
Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,
or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies,
or lie on the rocks until we were dry,
in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace.
This being the main street in Trieste.

Who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with
a water pump in the garden
and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which
made us very ill indeed.
But the parties were good and the con-
versations interesting,
even though no one spoke English.
And we learned to speak some Albanian,
which was always handy.
And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty
roadside and fantasize
about the ice cold mountain water streaming
through the streets of Pec,
and even about the water pump in the garden.

Who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts
and sandals
and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy
Andorra,
at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy
voices and fat wallets,
inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us
drinks and hot food,
to warm us up, they said.
No chance!
No class traitors, us! Not us,
Not us.

They’re not like us,
these two old women in the mirror
wearing our jeans and our smiles.
Not us,
they can’t be us.
Not us.
Not us.


(prev. pub. in Necro Production Magazine, 2020)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

“Mirrors,” she said, “are never to be trusted.”
 
―Neil Gaiman, Coraline

______________________

Our gratitude to Lynn White from Wales for her musing on mirrors today, which happen to be our Seed of the Week. It’s always a pleasure to hear from our counterparts overseas!

In addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight at 8pm, there will be two workshops earlier in the day: Rhony Bhopla’s Write Your Artist Statement on Zoom at 3pm, and an Ekphrastic workshop from Arts and Culture El Dorado with Lara Gularte at 5:30pm. Sign up for either or both of these at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/, and click on that same link for Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS, with details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area. And keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

Ghosts Keep Piling Up

 

—Poetry by John Tustin, Myrtle Beach, SC

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

I HATE TRAINS

We kissed goodbye
I loved you
but you got on that train
that train took you away
and you never came back
you’re gone

I loved you
and you got on that train
and I still love you
even though the train
never brought you back

the sun is paper-thin
just a slip of a thing up there
hanging by threads
like leftovers from a school play
now that the rain is gone
it doesn’t give up much light

that train took you away
I still love you
I hate trains
I love you still but
I hate trains now

maybe not all trains
just that train
the one with the 474 painted
on the side of it
that closed its doors
after you got on it

it was like you
it hardly made a sound
when it left. 

 

 

 

 

 

A STAR WITHOUT A NAME

That’s how you came here—as a star
without a name.              —Rumi 

 

That’s how you came here—
As a star without a name.
Yet you are contented to die
In your distant galaxy
Without ever touching life,
Just allowing frozen planets
To revolve you.

God has made us
If he indeed exists
And he wants us to come together—
Just us—

Even if the universe
Collapses in upon itself

If not in this life
Then the next.

I wait for you
And I will wait in the next life
For the star that decides
To destroy a universe
For such love

That makes me laugh so well
And cry so hard

That planets die. 

 

 

 

 

 

THERE’S ALWAYS SLEEP

Sometimes things get so bad—
The pain unbearable,
The debit column overtaking the ledger.
The soup and the crackers lie in your stomach,
Burning it as if you swallowed a lit match.

The only comfort is that eventually you’ll sleep
and then the comfort of that sleep.
It might only be a few hours
But in those few hours the pain is gone,
The bad dreams may come but they aren’t vivid
Or, better yet, completely unremembered.

You may wake up and see the clock and it will all
return to you—
The unbearable pain, the ledger column all debits.
But you had those sweet hours where nothing
could touch you.
There’s always sleep to end your pain
Or else the other less fortunate final thing that
removes it forever. 

 

 

 

 

 

TOPSY-TURVY AND SAFE

There was that night in Manhattan
where we kissed at the top of the stairs
that led down to Penn Station,
oblivious to the people pouring
up and down
all around us.

I used to be able
since that night
to conjure the moment
and remember it
and remember the rest of it,
not parsing each second
but experiencing again
the at-once topsy-turvy
and safe feeling of it.

It was a feeling it gave me
that I was able to recall
for a long time after
but not now.

Tonight,
I don’t miss you
or miss reliving that night.
I just miss the simultaneously
topsy-turvy and safe feeling
of the pretense
of true love
with you. 

 

 

 

 

 

PALE RIDER

You knew all along, didn’t you?
You knew all along
That the pale rider on his pale horse
Would never come galloping out of the shadows
And over the hills
To cross the painted desert
And rescue us
As we waited hand-in-hand.

You knew all along
But you didn’t tell me
So I waited in the doorway
For the pale rider,
For the pale horse;
The string of ponies trailing behind
To take us, together, across the flat iron sky.

And then I waited
For you, my dusky Mestizo beauty,
To return to me
Like you said you would
When the second-hand hit the twelve like a gong
And the moon finally overtook the sun.
I waited in the doorway after all that
Until the moon just didn’t come out anymore.

The pale rider is on his pale horse,
Crossing another desert somewhere far off
With the string of ponies once meant for us.
You knew all along
And maybe you didn’t lie to me
But you certainly didn’t tell the truth.
The sun beats down like a vulture’s last glide
Upon my doorway
As I turn my back, finally,
On all of it—
Go inside
And gently close the door behind me.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that's what.

―Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

______________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen to John Tustin today! John’s poetry is forthcoming in Sleet, Eunoia Review, SOFTBLOW and others; his first poetry collection is forthcoming from Cajun Mutt Press, and fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online. Good work, John, all the way from Myrtle Beach!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 John Tustin



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

That Little Golden Tree

 

Instranslatable Strangeness

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

4:00 A.M. AND ALL IS WELL
—Joyce Odam

you breathing against my elbow
your knee in my heart
the soft drowning of the pillow . . .

i roll like a stone on the
earth-float of sleep’s dim water
nothing can drown me . . .

i rise to the rooms of intranslatable
strangeness, listen to the sound of the
coffee pot and count the clock . . .

is night’s other side always this
different, the house this confessional,
with its old nails in its mouth . . .

everything is such a soft loudness
even the whispering of my thought
my eyes upon the eerie wall
the shimmer in the cup.


(from Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, 1975, 

by Joyce Odam)

 

 

 

 The Heartbeat

 

 

MAYBE FOUR INSOMNIAS
—Robin Gale Odam

The pendulum, the metronome
and the heartbeat—something for
measuring.

The perfect lullaby is my favorite
song—I haven’t written it yet.

Oblivion and sorrow,
I am at the verge of a precipice—
the nature of the edge is over,
probably down.

Sublety carries such power—
I may give it a try, write like my
mother. 

 

 

 

Losing Words

 

HOW MUCH I KNOW I THINK
—Joyce Odam

When the word is lost the words
come back in alphabet. When the mind
has lost its place, in blank or sane, I want
the word I want—not some old sputtering.

I want to think and know my way
through thought of sense—not cry each
time the mind goes blank at loss of mind.
Oh tree, I watch with empty joy at your

pure rapture. And how express such a
little game of mind gone free . . . this much
to know from mind to self, my mind is clear
in itself, without my force of need—how can

one get through the force of want. The mind
pulls back and the tree, the reason of it all, with-
out the key and what is lost of something like nil,
already this and that when I’m the one from my

blank mentality all lost and gone. I know
that I can spell a word and that is good. How
little or much I know, I will not let myself
believe all this. I’m on my guard. 

 

 

 

Believe All This

 

SUNDAY’S CHILD
—Robin Gale Odam

I cried about my birth—the acid of
breath, the clumsy bulk of my blankie,
the line of space one push from the
quaver of the heartbeat, from the
dark of space, from heaven—

I lay on my tummy,
on the cliff . . . overlooking the world.

_____________________

LEMON CENTER FOR HOT BUTTERED ROLL
—Joyce Odam  

you are right
about the woman
she is taller than
your love for her
her impossible smile
flows down upon you as though
it were a sunrise

do not murmur her name
too soon
she does not
know it

she is preparing an
avocado for
your breakfast
you must love it or
she will cry

do not call her anger
she will kill the
spider you have
trained to watch her from
your serious eye

she will grow
fat
when you please her
sing songs for her in
your borrowing voice

she will listen and
write you a poem
and never
read it
to you

                  
(from Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, 1975,
by Joyce Odam)

______________________

TATTOO IN PERMANENT INK
—Robin Gale Odam

instead of wandering
he writes a simple couplet 

 

 

 

The Everchanging Present Moment

 

 

 

WHAT ABOUT TODAY
—Joyce Odam

Today will let us go,
then let us be
when the day is over.

I guess myself along
until I know how much
to teach my mind
 
from intuition, experience,
to count upon my effort,
to reflect upon your questions.

 

 

 

 Under the Poem

 

 

AWESOME OR AWE-STRUCK
—Joyce Odam

it’s one or another—all you
gotta’ do is grab for words or ideas,
or any other such help slipping thoughts
through, and just become, in the awe of it . . .

looking out the door and what the . . . whoa!
it is the golden tree holding still and swaying
in the sunlight, and the thick green bush,
the birds going in and out of the leaves . . .

and beyond, the row of bamboo bending
back and forth in the same wind, half gentle,
half still, and the day begins, my mind finding
the poetry—everything counting on the little
golden tree, starting it all . . .

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

POEM WRITTEN AT THE TYPEWRITER
—Joyce Odam

under the poem
a cockroach
dead on the
typewriter-roller

round he goes
lyrical and thin
a brown song upon black
a black song upon him


(prev. pub. in Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll,
1975, by Joyce Odam, and Medusa’s Kitchen,
November 5, 2010)

______________________

Those Odam poets, Joyce and Robin Gale, have been at it again, sending gorgeous (our Seed of the Week) poems and photos to brighten our Tuesday! Many thanks to them for hard work and great results.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Mirrors”. (This is right up Joyce’s alley; she must have two million poems incorporating mirrors, one of her favorite subjects.) 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.

Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays in Sacramento features Tim Kahl, Goli MacPherson, Beth Suter and Indigo Moor tonight at 6pm, plus open mic. Reservations are strongly recommended! Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “Oh tree, I watch with empty joy at

your pure rapture…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA








 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gorgeousness

 

—Oil Painting by Norman J. Olson, 

Maplewood, MN

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Nolcha Fox, Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan,

and Shiva Neupane

—Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of 

Nolcha Fox and Joe Nolan

 

 

 

UNDER THE WINGS OF SKY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

the sky wings under an eagle
while his mate,
settled as a planet
shields a fledgling
whose talons fold into breast/
belly, a pre-mighty glider
not yet ready to show the sky
how to fly high and still tow
along a weightless white stratus
and cumulus accumulation . . .

 

 

 

Getting Ready for Summer
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

GORGEOUS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Can it be routed in the throat,
the neckline fashion of the French?
See my etymology quote,
my pupils taught from lexicon.
As gorge reminds of food, stuffed well,
foie gras by gullet pumps achieved,
gavage, force-feeding, livers’ swell,
a dainty spread—unless the geese.

The guilt of Eden lore retold,
is this not Adam’s apple site,
man’s pleasure as creation sold,
that lump in throat, the swallow hard?
If our repasts from stock and flock
were laid waste on our table top,
would vegan block meat, fix a lock,
that steak stick in our crop, best earthed?

And even fishy dish supplied
by bottom trawling, raking bed,
is as your lawn with scree landslide
so woe betide your bedded blooms.
Now drop-dead gorgeous saying’s wise
for both the slaughtered and mine host;
I’m waking up—and woke the prize,
a better guide, the more despised. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

THE EXTREME DEAL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Carl the cat was crabby,
he’d been constipated
for a couple of days.
He caterwauled
an incantation
to relieve his unease.
a cacodemon appeared
in fire and smoke
to offer Carl a deal.
In exchange for regularity,
Carl would live forever
as the Halloween poster cat
for the rest of his unnatural
life.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

Once I was

a stuffy fluffy ball of white
with ears that flopped
and bounced with every move.
Now my coat is worn and frayed,
white fluff is stained and flattened.
An eye is somewhere on the floor.
My ears have disappeared.
I go from room to room all day,
and outside in the sun.
Sometimes I’m dropped
upon the walk or in the grass,
or sometimes rolled under the bed.
Misplaced, perhaps, but finally found,
to be again the dog’s best friend.

—Nolcha Fox

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

GORGEOUS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She opens slowly,
lips upturned to kiss
the springtime warmth.
My joy is this moment.
It’s only others who mourn
my brief life.

 

 

 

—Art by Norman J. Olson

 
 

 

AS LOVE IS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar, 

W. Bengal, India

My two penned casual curls
Homeland a borderless journal
People’s miscommunication
Haunted blinds
God's own country has fallen asleep
Outside glimmering
Shaping of thoughts
Kites toys pencils crayon days
Love’s beauty has its own bliss
Torrential calmness
As a fish out of water
Gets waterA splashing lyrical rhythm
No boundariesIt floats
Like mothers are mothers
Like children are sweet
Candies soft touched skimmed milk
Love’s beauty
In God’s own country
Only bliss of rain
Amidst out of love
Only Love pours. 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

 

 

FLUNG OPEN
—Sayani Mukherjee

Blackbirds come knocking
A strange sublime affair
My mountain-scape filmed with dreaded
pleasure
Rain drenched I come back
Home
Black crows and the little girls
Sparking a twilight affair
My soul is morbid
Subliminally I love the greys   
Torn thorny thirty-pound dangers
I always play in the dangerous alley
Taboos and voodoos
A strange sublime rain
My wet dripped soul
Indies and greys
I lied
I hated spring mostly.
For I am
A preacher’s daughter.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

 

 

 

TO DISCUSS WHAT’S REAL
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
It’s gonna take time
For potatoes to heal,
For turnips to discuss
What’s really real.

For marmots to yield...

For any vain invention
To prevail
Against a morass of momentum
That calls itself, “respectable.”

Just a sliver of
A fallen leaf
Could sneak in,
Underneath.

To re-birth and renew
With love songs
That worked,
Me and you,
At least for
A little while,
While we were still
Young enough
To be betrayed.

 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman J. Olson

 

THE SENTIMENT OF DISTORTION
—Joe Nolan

The true sentiment of distortion
Is to twist the unreal to real.

To drag and drop,
To bludgeon the top,
To demand that
Everyone feel!

It’s getting harder and harder
To make an impact
Into concrete skulls
Built up from eons of
Letting things go,
Until there’s
No ever-after
At all,

When giants have been
Made small.
When midgets
Rule the world.
When Lilliputians have
Strung Gulliver down,
As though they intended
To eat him.

How was it
Something innocuous
Could ever come to flower,
Under the weight of increasing loneliness,
That burdens
Unceasing hours? 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

 

 

POT OF GOLD
—Joe Nolan

Running like Hell,
Running like a Leprechaun,
To protect your pot of gold,

I saw you
And how much you needed
To be in control,

Which is what your
Pot of gold is good for.

I wish you well,
Truth to tell—
Only thieves wish to steal your gold,
But any man could be tempted
By promise of instant wealth,

So you must be careful
How highlands
Overbear
Green lowlands
That supply them
With their sheep,
While people roil in nightmares
When they’re fast asleep. 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

 

 

ADRIFT
—Joe Nolan

Somewhere down a winding trail
Your road may disappear.

You’ll lose all recollection of
What had brought you there.

You could wait for passers-by
To riddle for a clue—
What lies ahead,
What fell behind,
If there’s something special
In another kind of mind
Rumored to abide
In unknown-nearby. 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

DUSTING OFF MY DREAM
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

I dare to dream that stale dream
That has been buried under the despair.
I suffered a colossal setback
And bruised my ego.
I will dust off my dream
And reinforce my vision.

The age is just the number,
The hope cannot be encumbered.
It is never too late to dream
The validity of dreams is timeless.
I would like to cushion a dream into my heart
To hoist my chest high up in an emotional
turmoil.

The Tsunami of hopelessness
entered into the foyer of my life
But I am being buoyant,
To be able to afloat like a lotus.
Learning the art of living is a must
To patch up the torn dream.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly—they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.

―Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

______________________

Many thanks to our contributors today, with their words and art zinging around like X-rays! Our Seed of the Week was “Gorgeous”, and we are always grateful for gorgeousness, yes? Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

 

Here is a biography of on eof today's writers, social butterfly and student of multifarious disciplines, Mr. Shiva Neupane, a Nepalese-born, permanent resident of Australia. He lives in Melbourne with his wife, Mrs. Devi Neupane Gaihre, and two daughters: Devyanshi Neupane and Saanvi Neupane. He has published Falang English Dictionary, In the Pursuit of Utopian Life in Australia, My Waves, Falang Food Dictionary and The Elixir of My Voice. He has been writing articles since 2001 for various publications; his articles have appeared in The Himalayan Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Beatnik Cowboy (U.S.A), The Nepali Times Australia, scotnepal.com, and the Australia-based newspaper, THE AGE. He has studied multifarious disciplines in Australia. Interestingly enough, the former Prime minister of Australia, the Honourable Scott Morrison, issued him a letter during his tenure in 2022 in response to Shiva’s dictionary of multicultural cuisines (Falang Food Dictionary). In a nutshell, Mr. Neupane says he is a well-rounded personality and a social butterfly.

Lots going on in NorCal poetry this week, as usual, starting with the release of Rick Rayburn’s new book, Slack Tide, tonight at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Speaking of gorgeousness…
—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!

 

Snake-iraffe