—Poetry by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Claire J. Baker, Michael H. Brownstein,
Steven Talbert, Caschwa, and Joyce Odam
NOT EVEN A FULL MOON
That night between equinox and solstice,
the moon was fully dark, the night sky cloudless.
One might attempt something significant—
perhaps a journey into one’s inner self?
Next morning I walked the woods trail, thistle
letting loose its fluff as liveoak leaves
drifted like confetti on the path. Milkweed
had split its seedpods. A vagrant accent
to the wind’s song. Looking up into canopies
of pine—what did I see?
On this woodland trail, have we taken up
that city tradition of tying a pair of shoes together
and heaving them onto a powerline?
Here, they’re suspended from a pine bough
along with a jacket hanging high and useless.
Can’t we celebrate a new moon—
beginning of a cycle, a cosmic reset—
in some more fitting way?
MERGING CELEBRATIONS
On Main Street, window-dressing skeletons
have morphed into Xmas trees. What happened
to Thanksgiving? I should prefix this
by noting, yesterday’s walk in the nature area
showed me three toxic mushroom species
new to me. By googling Amanita muscaria
I learned that Santa Claus wears red
trimmed with white because central Asian
shamans, entering the yurt thru the smoke hole
on the roof, used fly agaric in their rites—
hallucinations of flying in a spiritual sleigh
pulled by reindeer. But this doesn’t
answer my question about Thanksgiving .
(Be careful with the wild mushroom stuffing!)
DERRING-DO
You told youthful darings
and then he told you his—
worthy of king’s treasure
in some old fairy tale
where a willow weeps gold.
Where a willow weeps gold
leaves so gilded they fall,
we know a year’s dwindling
thru cold seasons of change
when, once more, trees dare green.
FOR A ROCK CLIMBER
To harness the fear that helps you survive
and reach the blest highs for which you’re alive—
you’re speaking of stone—
flesh-face to rock-face, the joy of the climb,
luminous moments you count as sublime.
Each unbroken bone….
WAKING FROM BP DREAM
Sphygmomanometer, heavyweight word—
first that a doctor-and-nurse’s child heard—
it sticks in the brain,
its rhythm repeating, repeating in dream,
the weather of heartbeat’s slow pulsing stream.
This soft falling rain.
RAINED OUT
The outdoor Gratitude for Nature gathering—haiku for the Wishing Tree—was canceled: Rain. I walked the land instead, to feel the wet on face & hands. Thank God for Nature’s rain! Old leather boots soaked from stepping thru young grasses and forbs. Buckeye’s bounty split its husks, the great seeds fall like polished chestnuts. Mosses and lichens come alive. I turned back when the doe with spotless twins startled, ready to run. Don’t mess with mother nature.
Moss opens green mouths,
lichen spreads thin pale fingers
giving thanks for rain.
Today's LittleNip:
HIGH SCHOOL SUNDAY
—Taylor Graham
Passionate red gold
leaves falling on campus ground—
all those years fallen.
___________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham today for her poetry and photos, as the mosses and lichen dare to show their green in this beginning-of-rainy season. Forms TG has sent us this week include a Word-Can Poem (“Not Even a Full Moon”); a Pirouette (“Derring-Do”); two Tail Rhymes (“For a Rock Climber” and “Waking from BP Dream”); a Haibun (“Rained Out”); and a Haiku (“High School Sunday”). The Tail Rhyme and the Pirouette were last week’s Triple-F Challenge.
On Sunday afternoon in Camino, El Dorado County Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows will read with Rina Wakefield as they celebrate Native American Heritage Month. For details about these events, and news about El Dorado County poetry, past (photos!) and future, see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.
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
We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:
FRAUD ALERT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
The family album hides the photo I detest. Every time I cut it into confetti, it reappears, taped to a different page. My grandmother serves it with tea and cookies to any innocent guest unfortunate enough to be strangled by the boa constrictor of lies we created to explain our existence. Such a lovely child, she coos, stroking my curly blond hair. What she doesn’t say is that the lovely child is really a witch, and that photo is a reproduction of a painting from medieval times. I haven’t aged a day.
* * *
About his response, Stephen Kingsnorth writes, “Another fairly lengthy offering, I fear. . . I hope I don't offend too ma. . .” Surely Stephen knows by now that we tough Yankee turkeys are pretty much unshockable:
HEY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I shocked them that I did not know,
the more so that I did not care;
in fact I joked how glad I was
that they had gone the way they did.
Revenge, they took to garden chairs.
These watched me as I worked the fields:
‘It is the Limey’s labour, hay,
when it’s our Independence Day.’
And so I mowed around the camp,
and turned the grass laid out to dry.
So there they were, sat making hay,
while I worked out my labour day;
and that was May, amongst the flowers,
three-hundred-fifty summers, sail,
as their thoughts, Pilgrims, sanctuary.
First, Peregrine, berthed at Cape Cod,
a route for etymology—
on boards first birth of Mayflower—
baptismal stoop an ocean wide,
the fathers’ prayers so far from prey.
So sad that Plymouth brethren—
entitled and exclusive men
the name adopt, breadth, neither breath—
though bail out, open, cast on winds—
no Celtic blast for Puritans.
It was, back Whitby, rot set in,
a triumph for the sinners’ blame,
when wind, reign elemental God
was lost to tonsured Roman ways,
a weight prevailing to this day.
But now those pilgrims, dress parade,
a carnival, the stories stocked,
an outfit for the pantomime,
so far removed from conscience men,
a naïve testament at best.
I think of Wesley, hundred on,
revolting ’gainst establishment,
the reason dissent had a voice,
grown methodist agin the state,
episcopalian turned to dust.
All far removed from pageant girl,
who has few clues to story told,
the disputes of root history.
So legend mixed lore, mystery;
who cares grim facts in fantasy?
Though take it, leave it, my care crass,
in mind still is me mowing field,
their passion for birth story’s worth,
as Chosen People, the lost tribe,
their God and guns, theology.
Some see it stripped back, Gaza land,
The West Bank, stolen territory,
and all who would fight, supposed ground
as promised, granted, on account.
Were pilgrims wary, native claims,
cognisant, stewards long before,
or did their God exclude, excuse
those unlike them, hell-bent, so sent?
But if nine-tenths, possession, Law,
bring sacrificial grace to fore.
* * *
Speaking of Gaza, Claire Baker had a sudden inspiration for this Triolet:
GAZA, STRIPPED
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CAI write short lines about this war,
photos spread, I feel half-dead:
slaughter shakes me to the core.
This morn I muse this crazy war.
So, is there more than death in store
from chaos? How, when move ahead?
Eight lines on ghastly Gaza war:
women, kids atop the dead!
* * *
Michael Brownstein has been fiddling around with what he's calling Rhyming Haiku, which are, well, rhyming Haiku:
the ghost of Bashee*
sits under the ginkgo tree
perfumed imagery
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
*maybe a term of endearment to Bashō from one or more of his many lovers
* * *
Not to be outdone in the shocking department, Steve Talbert sends us what he is calling a “skat poem”—actually a semi-scatological Sonnet:
SKAT POEM
—Steven Talbert, Pollock Pines, CA
Oh, how clean I am today!
Every inch of me ’s thoroughly showered,
All buggers now washed away
And underarms are fully empowered;
The greasy hair become so fluffy
I exude an irresistible scent;
Though the toes still seem a little puffy
Every orifice is free from lint.
Unmentionables are fully renewed
In a full-bodied lathering shampoo
Makes me want to stay completely nude,
Though the time has come for my morning Poo!
But that sweet freshness will come again
From the Hiney-Wipes, in the blue plastic bin.
Well, I guess it’s not that shocking. Not as shocking as the whole subject of Gaza is…
* * *
Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has sent us a First-Word Acrostic (not first-letter—first-word). He’s thinking about money, which is always a shocking subject:
A BIG NOT YET
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
my hopes are bright, my
present situation serves me well,
and my needs are met, though
anticipated changes could alter the
future of my portfolio; if my
income dips to a lower
level, it is no longer a matter of
will but of means, which is
not to say I’d starve, but could
afford less than I’m used to, putting
me in the precarious position of
the frog believing the scorpion’s
opportunity to cross the river
to a new life elsewhere, to
purchase more life insurance, maybe
an island or 2, surrender to the
electric frenzy of having a vintage
vehicle with shiny chrome bumpers.
period.
* * *
In another poem about money, this one based on a previous Seed of the Week, “Here Be Dragons”, Caschwa has used a refrain, which is always a way to lull the reader into a sense of security—and then pop 'em with a surprise at the end:
HOW NICE IT IS
—Caschwa the doctor informs your family that you
have been mortally wounded by gunfire,
but not to worry, it is all for a better good:
in the bigger picture, several industries and
enterprises will continue to grow their fortunes;
we’re talking money here
the yacht-owning surgeon will do what he or
she can to save any life in what is left of your
dying body, and leave you there, helpless;
we’re talking money here
the mortuary, looking like the best dressed
in church, will arrange a funeral, burial, or
cremation, setting prices according to their
own unilateral contract;
we’re talking money here
your family may retain a law firm comprised
of attorneys, paralegals, secretaries, and
other staff to help pin the blame on wrongdoers,
then set a fee for their services based on their
overhead, including high rent, and malpractice
insurance;
we’re talking big money here
your impending death supports the argument
that a gun expressly designed to kill people
actually functions as advertised, and the
companies that design, manufacture, and
market those guns, and their ammo, and various
accessories, will prosper;
we’re talking mega money here
Here and there, people may gather together
with hand-made signs and banners to protest
the private misuse of weapons of war;
we’re talking very little money here.
* * *
When Rattlesnake Review was in publication, Joyce Odam wrote a column for it about forms, and she remains one of our local experts on the subject. Today she has sent us a lovely Nocturnette (6 lines broken into 3 couplets; each couplet rhymed aa bb cc; 4 iambic feet to a line) with, hopefully, comfort for all of us amid this shockery:
REND
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
Now, balance out this night, oh, Lord,
with falling stars––to give reward
to tearful eyes and stricken heart––
to all from which we tear apart.
Flare out the moon to its full eye
to draw this prayer through such a sky.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine,
Autumn 1997/1998, Verdure Publications)* * *
And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth, “casting spells with homophones” which, he says, are likely untranslatable:
ON TRANSLATING POETRY
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s not plain words, like vocab test,
as AI logic might deal terms,
but subtleties, those words in play,
less puns, more homonyms have say—
while they must work from different roots,
then miss their goal, analysis.
I cast my spells with homophones,
take soundings from such interplay,
the cryptic crossword on display,
while hide myself in tromp l’oeil,
or rhyming slang as Cockney lad,
and neither lend themselves to trans.
So most must be as lost this way,
my style, my sway, linguistic fray;
for who can trace translated shades,
the wights, ghosts, wraiths I raise from clay?
___________________
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!
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 A reminder that El Gigante online featuresTora Ghosal tonight.For info about this and otherupcoming poetry happenings in Northern California and otherwheres, click onUPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)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.Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling downunder today; or there's an "Older Posts" buttonat the bottom of this column; or find previous poets by typing the name of the poet or poem into the little beige box at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of the blue column at the right to find the date you want.
Skunkaconda
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)dead skunk on the road;aroma fills the air~at least he got the final say…
