Dark Moon/Earthrise

 —Collaborative Poetry (tan-renga) 

by Uchechukwu Onyedikam of Lagos, Nigeria, 

and Christina Chin of Malaysia
(Italicized lines are by italicized authors)
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

haunted house—
the twisted shadows creep
into fertile minds
a ghoul peeps
through the door


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin 


* * *


punching bag
drills…
the boxing
heavyweight
an elephant


—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

 

 

 

 

cast-off feathers
curiosity draws me
to a red-tailed hawk
soaring
in courtship


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin 


* * *

the edge
of the green leaf
a ladybird
in the mantis'
hold


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin 

 

 

 

faith granted—
the old blind man
without his cane
poses
for a photoshoot


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

* * *

standing up
a pair of feet
Kilimanjaro
the mobile signal
gets weaker


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

 

 

 

 

holding hands up
out of the darkest night
hosanna
reaching the peak
of Mt Kinabalu


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

* * *


there's a house
we are looking for
a home in the country
a Ugandan settler
in rural China


—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin


* * *

dark moon
in the horizon
earthrise—
the day I want
still to come


—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

 

 

 

 

ironing by the door
her children trot home
from school
greetings—
in mother tongue


—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

____________________  

Today’s LittleNip:

A worthy relationship is an agreement that challenges and supports both participants.

―Joseph Rain, The Unfinished Book About Who We Are

____________________

Medusa’s Kitchen welcomes collaborations, and today we have some tan-renga from two newcomers from half-way around the world—Christina Chin from Malaysia, and Uchechukwu Onyedikam from Nigeria. For more about tan-renga, see https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga/.

Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet who is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California; 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest; and 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan's prestigious monthly, Haikukai Magazine.

Uchechukwu Onyedikam is a Nigerian mad creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists, and The Hooghly Review, as well as in print anthologies. Christina Chin and he have co-published Pouring Light on the Hills (2022), and, for forthcoming release in 2024, Clouds of Pink from LJMcD Communications.

Welcome to the Kitchen, Christina and Uchechukwu—and don’t be strangers!

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

Christina Chin

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Uchechukwu Onyedikam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Unplugged has returned
to Sacramento and will meet
tonight at the Silver Lining
Cocktail Bar, 8pm.

And there will be a tribute to

D.R. Wagner in Davis tonight, 7pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Insane, Self

 —Poetry and Photos by Kushal Poddar, 

Kolkata, W. Bengal, India

 

 

INSANE, SELF

Insane, if you call me
I'll agree, not because
of my soliloquies frequent
in front of a ghost audience
and not because provoked,
I turn violent,
because I repeat my old defeats.
I shall answer, desire to know
about your children and you will show
anger because you have blue
and gray at heart regarding that.
Look at me watching my dirty water
trembling twin. Look at that toenail
born and reborn yellow between
flesh and reflection.
A wind touches your head, glad
that madness is not airborne,
you say, "Stay well." I see you go.
I shall see you go again.

 

 

 

 

BODY

He asks, "Did you enjoy?"
His eyes blade though her,
and she bleeds silence.

The pimp has nine toes,
a dance in his gait.
The girl has pox-bitten cheeks.

She makes a rat her pet.
The room comes with a porcelain set
no occupant ever used.

The tale of a cup of poisoned tea
shared with some client who
found a heart where legs meet
roams in the room like a vermin.

 

 

 

FOLLOW THE LIGHT

The examiner says, "Follow the light, please."
The man closes his, and a summer dress
flower garden replies to the wind by stirring.
It is left on a blackened wood chair.
Half of the house imagines its other half, gone half.
Half of everything works full-time. The wind burns.
The crepitation forms an 'O' around the sight
of another explosion nearby. He follows the light.
Which period of time is this? It matters little.
The halved room exists since someone discovered
how to light up a fire. 

 

 

 

 

A GRAVE PROVOCATION

After a sudden friend's old death
we found it hard not to make love
every dusk, returning home mid-work
as if that could cure gunshots
and the memories not bled
because death didn't delay
pushing through the café door.

Death could have been late, kept
the bullet for a day in May or thereafter
and found our by then best friend
sad with his love for both of us.
He might not have any solution,
startled and relieved, desired to ask death,
"Why are you so late?" The café
would have the same white out.

 

 

 

 

REFLECTIONS

That year reflections, shadows
and shades grasped my heart.
I shivered seeing shapes and light,
not quite, the opposite of it and
what it co-creates with our flesh,
its interpretations of us.

This year following the halo of our
headlights on the pitch-black path
I wonder if heart died after a long
convulsion. We throttle the gas.
Even the glory they cast on the big screen
doesn't make me feel anything.
The red car, premium retro drive-in revival,
home videos of my mother back at home
or your kisses all swirl, scatter and fall
like grey flakes.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

—Jean Cocteau

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen. Kushal first visited us in December of 2022.

 

Kushal Poddar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

Tigers in Red Weather

 The Perfect Day

 

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

MORNING PROCEDURE
—Joyce Odam

The cat has been stroked
and has left my lap to the
lamplight in the dark morning.

Hum of early traffic begins . . .
no . . . it is only an airplane drone
—gone now.

My pencil scrapes the page with a
strange sound—whisper of language
a pen does not know . . .

A thin whine in some far background
says,   Here . . .     Now . . .
in my ear only.

Shall I rise to the dark morning
and put all this away,
unfinished?

Now that morning no longer
belongs to me,
I am distracted.

But the words still compel me with their
illegible scribble; time is going,
and they accuse me.

Where is the comfort-cat now—
that silent shadow
of casual existence?
                                   
____________________

PICTURE A GRAY GIRL SITTING QUIETLY
—Joyce Odam

Well, all is neat now in the tidied room, fringe
of a shawl hangs down in silky perfectness, she
is sitting upon it so carefully so as not to muss it;
she is reading a magazine with her eyes. She is
dressed in dark—she has not smiled today. She
does not know what to do with herself. An old-
fashioned radio on a small end table does not
seem to be playing. Everything is orderly. She
is pretending to be comfortable. It is 1937.
Small edges are squeezing in. She draws her
feet up. Her hand is resting on the edge of a page.
Her eyes are not noticing the subtle changing of
her timelessness. She is in profile to all that is
altering the room. Her mood is untouched by this.
She has created it.

 

 

 

Sundown

NAKED
—Robin Gale Odam
After Staircase de la Rochefoucauld,
France, by Leonardo da Vinci, 1517

In vivid percipience the spiraling floor
with doors to dark and night all naked,

with rooms in riddle for me to remember,
and the ceiling of helices calling me down

into the hallway—or into the past
of secrecy where I was born

when I was born in secrecy—
into the dark where I was born. 

 

 

 

 Penny Jar

PICTURE FRAME
—Joyce Odam
After Time and Eternity by John Haberle, c. 1890

Torn notes and one small photograph
—all thumb-tacked inside a frame
to mean what they mean.

Pocket watch full of lost time.
King of spades and nine of hearts.
A crude cross on a wooden-bead chain.

The watch says 2:27.  It hangs on a nail.
The cross is a rosary.
Or not.

The nine of hearts and king of spades
have no significance
out of the deck.

Bent nails stick up from their shadows
where
there used to be glass—

the backing,
a wall of yellow—
the frame, a thick-door brown.

A tarnished plaque is tacked
at the bottom with some words
too faint to be read.

It’s all there
to be seen.  And we look.  
What is Art?

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen,
7/24/18; 12/14/21)

___________________

PLAGIARISTIC
—Joyce Odam
After “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock”
by Wallace Stevens

The word is disillusionment. Let’s study this.  
Has it not to do with expectation, say, or
one’s ability to sort out truth from truth.

How variable is this? How does assumption
involve one’s relevance to random outcome?

Let’s say a color is involved. Say green to
replace white. Other colors come edging in :
purple rings, and blue umbrellas, as many as

you need for argument. Say time is involved—
a moment—to never. Some specific, some example

to garner arguments of reference. Night will do.
Ah, distraction. You’re good at this. Only envy
now remains, and not the ‘not’ of poems—

as if you could have written this—the old
sailor—the white nightgowns—the baboons,

the periwinkles—all the old originals.
Where goes the point of this? Put something
there and let us get to the tigers in red weather.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/2/21)

 

 

 

 And These Nightbirds

INSOMNIA XXXVIII
—Robin Gale Odam

My pen is lost, somewhere in the
dark—the finest fine ink, for placing
the time signature, the note, the rest—

I write the song in dull pencil so as not
to rouse the cat, who would then meow
his song of hunger—he stares through the
window, keen eyes searching—he leaps
to the back of my chair, bites at my hair—
best not to rouse him—he flexes his
claws, bites at my pencil.

It will be Winter’s Berceuse—the blowy
wind is blowing, cold and melodic, the
wind of early winter—I draw the bass clef.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020)

_____________________

THE MIND’S BITTERNESS
—Joyce Odam

He knows the way of this travel—
this long stretch to somewhere
with somewhere—
maybe a map he stole
from a rack of maps
—that had stood
untouched
for years—
nobody
needed them
so nobody
cared—
this caring
was expensive,
curiosity
and sureness
of the mind’s
bitterness.
How escape?
How know where to go?
But the map would tell him,
so he took seven pills and slept.

 

 

 

 What Makes You Happy

RUMINATIONS OF A MISANTHROPIST
—Joyce Odam

Nothing wrought from memory feels true.
Take that love with all its loss and gain—
infatuation—love that is insane—                
so much that ends with everything to rue.
The oldest invitations of allure     
still prick at love until the passions blur
and retrospect is harder to endure.   
Or would you let the passions have their say,  
how they can make the willing heart obey,    
with memory that makes a promise last      
if you just let illusion have its way.            
Obsession has a way of holding fast.
Never mind the ultimate remorse      
when love bails out, preferring a divorce.

     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/21/20)

 

 

 

 Passing By

VIOLIN ADAGIOS
—Joyce Odam

My cat and I are listening to violin adagios.
I think he’s dying. It is mid-August,
a cool morning, no one home but us.
My cat is sleeping on my chair, the one
we fight over—his favorite—my favorite,
because it fits us both, and because
it’s mine, and because I let him claim it
when he imposes sulkingly—and
stubbornly, as I am apt to be sometimes.
But this is a quiet, still okay, morning.
I am fussing around, doing little things
to avoid the one thing pressing.
But we are listening to violin adagios
and the outer world is quiet so far—
no traffic—no voices passing by.
But he has not eaten—he has not
eaten—nor do I care to, and this is
just the right kind of slow-paced morning
that suits us both—my old Spirit cat and I.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/4/20)

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

chroma by sunrise
seraphim—a paradigm
phantom in stained glass

interlude of fallen leaves
paragon of memories 

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020)

________________________

Joyce Odam and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam, have written to us today about our Seed of the Week, A Peaceful Place, sending us messages of different places thereof. We thank them (and their illusive kitty!) for that. For Wallace Stevens’ “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock”, go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43429/disillusionment-of-ten-oclock/.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Brutal Weather”. 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.

________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Time and Eternity 

—John Haberle, c. 1890

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Kathleen Lynch, Laura Hohlwein,
and NSAA (Lawrence Dinkins)
will read at Twin Lotus Thai  
tonight, 6pm.
Reservations STRONGLY recommended.
For info about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peaceful (and Not-So-Peaceful) Places

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Shiva Neupane, Sayanı Mukherjee,
and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan 

DON’T BELIEVE WHAT YOU SEE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The cat is curled up on my lap.
This sense of peace is a mirage.
She digs her nails into my leg
and leaps. If cats could smile
this one would grin.
You’d think I’d learn
by now, a happy cat is
up to no damn good.

 

 

 

WITHIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

What content brings contentment near,
which site or sight berths happiness?
In unity of time and place,
that space lasts through eternity,
for it affects our inner pace
to effect racing rats find calm.

Quite quiet is the atmosphere,
thought silent till you hear yourself—
that beating heart and rhythmic breath,
bird distant songs or waving wings.
Alone and sole, your soul can hear,
or sharing, loved trustworthy friend.

Or here, in threnody of voice,
ring jingling jangling of the hoarse,
we hear in chaos decibels,
down trodden treatment undeserved,
and know in serving those in need
in deed, you satisfy ignored.

So grace can settle, loud or soft,
allow a tranquil piece of span
to see folk be of common wealth,
that comfort zone for all concerned;
this is the case for those who choose
to face, taste phase when peace holds sway. 

 

 

 

 

WAITING ROOM COFFEE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

your car is at the dealer service shop
needing several serious adjustments
the coffee was bad even when fresh
and now they tell you that your car
won’t be ready until 2 more days

so you get a ride home, and back again
ready to pay the bill, decline any more
coffee, and drive your car home
if, after this, it still needs more repairs
the dealer agrees to fix it no charge

now let’s change the scenario to one where
you were a black slave in service to your
white master, and then there was this great
Civil War and the Constitution was amended
to free the slaves, but not everyone all at once

generations later your great, great, great, great
descendants are still struggling to be recognized
as valid citizens of this great nation with a right
to live here and contribute, and vote along with
everyone else. That promise was bad, even when
fresh, and now, more than a century and a half
later, they tell you to stay in your lane while the
great white folk pretend to figure things out

One more scenario: Women, even white women,
were property of their fathers or husbands and
had no right to vote, until the Constitution was
amended and then no one was paying attention.
So that promise was also bad, even when fresh,
and now, more than a century later, they tell you
to stay in your lane while the great, white, men
pretend to figure things out

meanwhile, the rest of the world sees exactly what
is going on here, and bit by bit, as the coffee is now
older than dirt, they are losing any respect they
used to have for our great nation. 

 

 

 

 

WHEN OLD WAS NEW
—Caschwa

    · Mid 1950’s, living in triplex, I was all of
      5 years old
      Dad used an incinerator out back
      Mom used a hand-crank wringer washer
      Brand-new Interstate 405 under construction
      across the street
      Had a neighbor called Sisty, she HATED!!
      that name
      Folks bought a house, and while waiting for
      escrow to close, Landlord raised rent unduly
      high

    · So folks quit the triplex and rented an
      apartment;
      I was attending Kindergarten; school bus
      stopped at my apartment daily, if I wasn’t
      outside waiting, driver sent someone to
      check on me

    · Escrow closed, we got the house, more rooms 

      than before; living room had a fireplace that
      came with a poker, shovel, and flue rod which
      my tiny hands eagerly touched, but never
      learned to use as intended
      Mom got an electric washing machine and    
      drew the line there (pun intended) declining
      an electric dryer in favor of a clothesline in
      the back yard, near the grapefruit tree;
      Dad set up a Ham shack in the garage and
      shot his air pistols in the fenced backyard
      I made some friends from the neighborhood
      and, nearly 7 decades later, I still
      communicate with some of them on
      telephone or social media

    · Dueling hormones phase: my elderly piano
      teacher, Annabelle G., had me study from
      “Teaching Little Fingers to Play” curiously
      overlapping in time with the Bar Mitzvah
      preparation at my temple, which was getting
      me ready for that special moment: “Today
      you are a man.”

    · The economy for kids like me was built
      around pocket change; a local phone call was
      a dime, one could get a penny candy, 5 cents
      for a regular candy bar, 25 cents for the large,
      comic books were 10 to 15 cents; Admission
      to the movies was pocket change. One could
      bicycle around the neighborhood and pick up
      stray soda bottles, etc. and turn them in for
      cash. Back then the manual typewriter key-
      boards simply had the cent sign already on
      one of the standard keys, no internet search
      required to locate and apply it.

    · My 5th-grade teacher volunteered me to
      assume the role of AVA, Audio Visual Aid
      monitor, which put me alongside the old reel-
      to-reel film projector, to keep it on track
      while showing a presentation.

    · In order to form a more perfect: pledge, a few
      words were added or changed here and there;
      flag, a couple of stars were added; bomb
      shelter, duck under your desk on Fridays at
      10:00 a.m. when you hear the air raid sirens;
      educational system, my Southern California
      town was a sundown town, which basically
      didn’t sell or rent housing to blacks; when my
      (future) wife attended high school in Dallas,
      TX, they struggled with implementing
      Integration, and had to deploy National Guard
      Troops to keep a lid on the hostilities.

    · Four decades ago worked as a teller at a
      Savings & Loan which kept on the floor a
      shoulder-high Rolodex to retrieve signature
      cards. The routine was to check and confirm
      a customer’s signature on each transaction.
      Computers were very new at this time and
      had to be “booted” as often as one breathes.
      ATM’s were brand new, also, as was the
      learning curve of adding the right currency
      in the right place. I believe I had 1/3 of the
      combination to access the machine when it
      needed servicing.

    · About three decades ago, worked at a small
      law firm when they got their very first Fax
      machine. I think we charged a dollar a page
      for sending or receiving faxes.

    · To this day, it is not yet my habit to take my
      cell phone with me everywhere I go, being
      that for at least the first quarter-century of
      my life, cell phones did not even exist.

 

 

 

 

A RUTHLESS CORPORATE WORLD
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
 
To tolerate the intolerant
Is very difficult
But this is the corporate cult
You have to accept their fault.
 
At the end, the company cares about money
The feelings do not have value
In this notorious corporate world
Unfortunately, money influences everything.
 
You’re a great person today
But you never know
What will be your status tomorrow?
If you attach importance to morality
But not money.
Because you are living in
This ruthless corporate world.

 

 

 

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

The changing weather of
Winter is masked.
Sometimes a little grey all along
That bruised my palm
All alone as if hanging
The dewdrops in a muddy bowl
The flowers are sordid
A little pansy, shiver stricken
I took my notepads out in the
Blueish grey
The parchment of winter hang around
Drinking, seemed a little noble
As it stitched my past
Into grey sweaters
The touch and go all ripened
And new at the same time
The falcon flew over all along
Waiting for the winter
A little long with grey walls
Of fortresses. 

 

 

 

 

CHOIR
—Sayani Mukherjee

Sunday, an epiphany found
Breeze toiling outside the church
A Shepherdess in warm moonshine
A prosaic piece of some bliss
Writing with changing weather
An ever-brimming motion
With each cessation a new sun rises
And Swirls in outside venture
The autumn aurora came
A little too late
Bringing forth history
Nation's bringing clamour
Epiphanies shoved into
My cosmic zeal of a suspense high
Then I found bright torpor of choir
Singing an ever-brimming motion
Writing delivering with churches
The sun shone a flagship high
For autumn that came a little too late. 

 

 

 

 

THE HEADER-OF-THE-SHOW
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
There were deep-dark secrets,
Concerning our band’s formation,
Before we signed with a label,
Had any money
Or way to get-on.

Now, we never talk of that.
We just get on
The best we can
As the header-of-the-show. 

 

 

 

 Dolphin in the Womb

ONLY TO BE WITHOUT YOU
—Joe Nolan

Thank-you, Mom,
Thank-you, Mom,
Thank-you.

Your bulletin
Brought distress,
To everyone who had loved you
And pulled upon your dress,
That draped across your ankles
As your spirit cried, “Relent!”

We, of the lost penumbra,
Pull on your dress,
Hoping to catch
A blessing of love from your eyes.

Yes, indeed,
We are much in need
Of a smile from your
Infinite head.

Dear Mother,
Dear Mother,
It is not
Our death that we dread,
But only to be without you. 

 

 

 

 

OLD AGE
—Joe Nolan

Old age is just
An afterthought
That lingers on
For years,
Contemplating mysteries
Of how we disappear,

From the Earth,
From the Earth.......
And measure our own worth
By what we’ve done,
Instead of just the miracle
Of life beneath the sun.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NOTHING HERE CAN STAY
—Joe Nolan

The cast of characters
In attendance at this play,
The members of our audience,
Changes from scene to scene,
From play to play,
From day to day,
Throughout our
Extended season,
Roving from stage to stage.
Nothing here can stay.

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s poets, and to Joe Nolan for today’s public domain photos. Our Seed of the Week was A Peaceful Place. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, and keep looking for those peaceful places.

And be sure to check our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for poetry events in our area this week and beyond.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Dorothy Rice

will be featured at  

Sacramento Poetry Center

tonight, 7:30pm.

For info about this and other

upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

Dog-Kus For A Winter's Day

 —Poetry by Laura Stamps, Columbia, SC
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

10 DOGGIE HAIKU

My problem: I want  
all the senior Chihuahuas  
at the shelter. Help!
 
Pockets full of dog  
treats make me the popular  
neighbor on my street.
 
Max barks like crazy.  
Silly boy! But then he’s a  
Pomeranian.  

 

 

 

 

 
Luna, sweet Pittie  
mix, loves to see me because  
I’m the “Treat Lady.”
 
King, the Frenchie pup  
is missing. I bought a leash  
in case I see him.
 
Can my Chihuahua  
have too many cute outfits?  
Not! (Are you kidding?) 

 

 

 

 

 
In PetSmart I find  
“Perfect Digestion” dog food.  
Dear God, let this work.
 
The dog toy aisle at  
PetSmart. It’s my crack. (Try to  
resist. Try.) I can’t.
 
Such cute sweaters and  
harnesses at PetSmart. I  
want. I want. (Resist!)

Hazel, my senior  
Chihuahua, loves PetSmart and  
shopping. That’s my girl! 

 

 

 

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.
 
―Groucho Marx, The Essential Groucho: Writings For By And About Groucho Marx

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Laura Stamps for her rambunctious dog-ku this morning! Yesterday we talked about war, today's it's about Chihuahuas. What can I say? The world of poetry is a wonderfully diverse place...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Capturing Wakamatu's
workshop in Placerville will not take place
this morning (postponed to 1/28); but
Storytelling Sundays will take place
in Placerville today, 4pm; and
Rumi’s Caravan fundraiser
takes place in Davis tonight, 7pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

“Max barks like crazy…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Swallowing Butterflies

  —Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

NOW AND THEN

Now the clouds are pressing down
making everything grey,
everything misty.
It’s impossible to discern which way
people are facing.
It looks like everyone
is facing both ways,
so it is impossible to know who to follow,
impossible to know which path to take,
which is the good and which is bad.

Then, in the old days
it was all so clear.
This was the way.
These were the good guys,
the brave guys with the guns,
sending out their scouts
from the circled wagons
of peaceful pioneers
in search of a better life
in the vast empty land.
Protecting them from
the bad guys,
the savages,
the cowardly braves
with the bows and arrows
and scalping knives.

It didn’t always go to plan.
But the cavalry usually
arrived just in time.
And the good guys
always won
in the end.

Didn’t they?



(prev. pub. in Setu, February 2017)

 

 

 

 

SEND MORE

Please!
Feed us!
We need more!
It’s not enough!
Send us more.
More and more
to feed the fire
more and more
and more.

More missiles and rockets
more tanks and anti-tanks
more aircraft and anti-aircraft
more ammunition
bullets, bombs and guns
without end and still more
to come.

But please
no more
of your rejects
those old things
kept in store
for a rainy day
it’s raining
debris
and dust
here.
And we need
state of the art munitions
straight off the line
to feed our need
for more and more.

It’s piling up
the dust and the debris
the rubble of lives in flames
fed by weapons
and more weapons.
The tears of the displaced
are not enough
to douse them
so they leave,
when they can,
a low priority
as there’s no meat on them
the women, children and elderly.
But the meaty men must stay
to fight like soldiers
to the death
to be spat out
with screaming shells
and vomit
pain and fear.

But victory will be ours
and victory will be mine.
I’m still strutting my stuff
and still standing proud.
The last man standing
I’m planting my flag
in the desert of dust
but I’m still hungry
so feed me
more.


(prev. pub. in Dissident Voice, 4/17/22)

 

 

 

 

THE GREEN LIGHT

When she saw the green lights
her first thoughts were of Triffids.
Of course she knew they were imaginary
but was less sure about the green lights
which enabled their freedom,
an unintended consequence
of the activity
of some government or other,
a terrifying aftermath.

And who knew what the aftermath
of this green sky would be.

She could still see them
glowing above her.
So, not yet blind,
she thought.
But then, she reconsidered.
Metaphorically speaking
perhaps we were all blinded
a long time ago
when the green light was given
to the Triffids
who are already rampaging.

We just haven’t noticed yet,
such is our loss of sight.



(prev. pub. in New Verse News, 9/1/21)

 

 

 

 


PERPETRATORS VS. APOLOGISTS

I think I am beginning to despise them more,
the apologists.
At least the perpetrators have a certain honesty
and visibility
to go with their power.
Like all fanatics they are focused forward.
No lateral vision.
But the apologists are safely waiting
ready to lend a hand.
Some,
like all fanatics, they are focused forward.
No lateral vision.
Unable to see the context.
or ignoring it
or denigrating it as
whataboutism.
But some,
should know better.
They understand the context
but with eyes and ears
closed,
they too join the chorus,
ignoring the context
or denigrating it as
whataboutism.
Yes,
I am beginning to despise them more
even than the perpetrators.



(prev. pub. in Former People, the Journal of Bangs
and Whimpers, May 2018)

 

 

 

THOUGHTS ON SWALLOWING A BUTTERFLY

Butterflies,
such a fragile incarnation
of what went before.
Warriors, according to the Mayans,
dead warriors ready
to be transformed,
transformed into butterflies.
Butterflies,
surely too fragile
to make warriors,
too easily destroyed
in their new metamorphosis.
But  they can wait,
they can wait
for their next transformation
So take care if you swallow a butterfly.
Butterflies,
vigorous egg layers
that can reproduce themselves,
warriors,
mutating again to find
new ways to fight back,
to invade the invaders,
enslave the enslavers,
exploit
the new possibilities.
So take care if you swallow a butterfly.
And I can wait.
I have been waiting a long time
to see Henry Kissinger choke
on a butterfly.
I can wait.
Perhaps there’s still hope
that the butterflies
will worm their way inside
and destroy them all.
I can wait.
So take care if you swallow a butterfly.


(prev. pub. by Vanguard Press in
Rise Anthology, 2016)


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people.

—Howard Zinn

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry on the difficult subject of war~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Francesca Bell,
Connie Post and Luke Johnson will
read in Fairfield today, 1pm;
Sac. Storytellers Guild meets at
Sac. Poetry Center, 2pm;
Out the Way on J features
poets and musical guests
in Sacramento, 7pm;
and Maidu Museum features
Native American Flutist Al Striplen
with music, poetry and artwork
in Roseville, 7pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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 down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!