Into the Darkening Woods

A Dark Note

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

 

 

WHERE SHADOWS PLAY WITH SUNBEAMS 

—Joyce Odam
After Wistman's Wood, Devon, Dartmoor, England

In the woods, many shadows and
many sunbeams play through trees that
guide me in, and in, till I am deeper in.

The trees grow thicker. The shadows shift.
The sunlight flickers in and out of branches
that replicate their patterns on the moving ground.

Turning circles lead me deeper—hearing now,
the snaps and rustles—the loss of place—
the alien blend of peace mixed up with fear—

the feeling that I don’t belong : shadows turn into
night,
unseen birds are closing up their songs, and I am in
the center of a center with no direction now.

How do I belong to this…


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17;
12/24/19; 10/25/22)

 

 

 

Against the Dark II

BEGIN WITH A PARABLE
—Robin Gale Odam

Before the measureless sky a
hill rises out of a black forest
of trees.

     in the firmament
     outside of eternity
     in another life

On the slope of the hill a small
tree holds fast to its leaves,
leaning away from the shade
they cast—leaning toward the
seraphic light cascading over
the tops of the forest trees, the
ones in the darkness.

     under the heaven
     tragedy and ecstasy
     there is a season

______________________               

A THREADING OF WORDS
 —Joyce Odam



 

I thought it best to weave them


as they came, let them be what they are


to each other—I, their collector—



 

late October words


at the verge 


of winter.



 

Verge:—


there’s a word,


I let it merge with the others,



 

turn gold, 


turn rust red 


on surrendering trees,



 

let the words color


let them fall


like October leaves—



 

I, who love them, summer the words,


and some of them take pity,


saying, here, take me.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/18/11)

 

 

 

A Guarded Woods II—The Raptor

 

breath of aging tree
all of thunder in one sketch
darkening the sky

—Robin Gale Odam

_______________________

THROUGH THE TREES
—Robin Gale Odam

lacy nest of eggs
filled with fragile promises
bird of cliché blue
holding heaven in its beak
the sigh of wind—the dreaming girl
                       

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2018) 

 

 

 

The Lullaby of Another Time

 

THE DIFFERENT LANDING
—Joyce Odam

A child
going into a fairy tale,
that woods
of deep light,
the playground
full of childhood rules
and riddles…

what waits in the center?
                    a way out?
a way never to return?

the child goes in
and becomes a part
of what is there,
becomes the hushed sound,
the figment of light,
the different ending
to the story.
                           

(prev. pub. in Red Cedar Review (Of Colorado)
Issue #4, 1993; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/29/19) 

 

 

 

Beautiful Weeping Bird II

PROPHETIC DREAMING 

—Joyce Odam

every night the horse gallops through the frantic
dream through the white trees in the moonlight
carrying the frightened princess away from
the danger—everywhere now . . .
 
the horse
never catches
its flowing mane in
the rustling branches,
or loses its footing in
the agitated roots or in
the loosening stones of
the wakening woods
that have only one
way through . . .

do not worry—this is a story I made up to scare
you :
the princess is the dreamer—the horse is the
memory
the princess will lose when the dream is over . . . 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17)

 

 

 

Her Counterpoint

TWO OBSERVINGS
—Joyce Odam

Strangely sensual without the body—flattened into
pure shining texture for the observing room light.
her kimono, lying open on the bed—

            ~

In the late summer woods—a leaf has fallen into
a shaft of sunlight and lies, softly shining there,
its edges lifted by the occasional small breezes.

                                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/20/12; 3/17/20)

 

 

 

 A Listening

certainty of wind
measured whispering of time
migration of song

—Robin Gale Odam
After “The Aim Was Song” by Robert Frost


(prev. pub. in Brevities, February 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2018)

_______________________

OH, HUMAN MIND
 —Joyce Odam

. . . as far as the cold white moon can see
that mountain range
that cold gray sea
that tiny ship
adrift in time
that endless sky
through which one final soul must climb

. . . what loneliness is quite as deep
what vow to break
what promise keep . . .
oh, human mind
that wants to stay
and wants to go
and dares not pray
to emptiness, or its rebuke

. . . what is the scope in such vast reach
beyond what eye
and mind can know
one brilliant moon
shines like a clue
horizon gone
the mountains strain
the waves repeat
time’s ship has vanished . . . far or deep

                                             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/15/20)

 

 

 

No Echo

 

THE ULTIMATE RELIGION
—Joyce Odam

Unable to breathe
city man
longs for deep woods

for green silences
for snap of little sounds in
night’s sharp cold

for long hill to climb
to find
a virgin place

in which to plant
the acorn that he carries
in his pocket.

                        
(prev. pub. in Driftwood, 1972;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/15)

 

 

 

Stillness of the Quiet

 

REVELATIONS OUT OF INEXPERIENCE
—Joyce Odam

. . . so swiftly go the shadows of Time, the shifting
of balances, the paths we took into the tangle . . . a
wonderland of unreality . . . the woods so soft in the
filtering moonlight with their tiny trees and dim-

inishing distance, their curious paths of strained 

light into another opening . . .

. . . it was the cure, the cure for silence and inter-

ruptive sound, a moment out of such a word as 

Time, immeasurable, such a word as, ‘lived by’ or 

‘waited on’, and we lost it after all, being too im-

mersed in trying to realize the meaning, and 

import, and how strange it felt, saying it, as if it 

were a miracle, somehow that was believed in

. . . and it was so small we almost missed it, so real
we almost didn’t believe it, it was something we
wanted to remember, tell each other about, like a
confession, it was that important . . . and here we 

are, trying to conjure it again, as if our love 

depended on it.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CALANDO
—Robin Gale Odam

When the credits roll, when happily
every after is embraced and the story
cleaves to a strand of illusion, the music
becomes slower and softer, dying away.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Oct 2016;
Sacramento Poetry Anthology 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2017)

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have led us into the woods today—our Seed of the Week was Dark Sounds in the Woods, and Joyce and Robin have taken us there with their fine poetry and visuals. Our thanks to them for these dreams and fantasies! For more about Wistman's Wood, including lovely photos, see https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/wistman-s-wood/.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Lust”. Yes, lust. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “How do I belong to this…”
—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
presents
Moira Magneson, J. Rowe, &
Carol Lynn Stephenson Grellas
tonight, 6pm, in Sacramento.
For info about this and other
future 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!

 

Did someone say, “Lust”?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flowers in the Woods

 Good morning!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Victor Kennedy, Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa,
and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos by Joe Nolan
and Medusa

 

 

FEEL IT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Long before it reaches
out with scratch you,
you can hear the darkness
of the woods surround you
with a hissing sound
that raises hairs
upon your arms.
You walk more quickly,
break into a run
as if a run was what
your feet were meant to be.
Cold sweat runs down
your cheeks, your chin,
you know you’re in
for it unless you pick
up speed. Indeed,
you’re in the house.
You latch the door.
Now you can breathe.
You peek out curtains.
You expect to see a beast.
You look into the beady
eyeballs of a

mouse.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BUT SEMITONES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Deflected, echoed, tree by trunks,
most masked by thickets, thickset shrubs,
cue clouded cover, canopy,
but bound by buffet, brushwood’s sway,
bough bow limbs lurch, low bend the knee.
Beware rough bark, like snap yap dogs,
sense snarl, howl, growl, imagined whines,
how can these sounds seem dark, save mood,
for pitch is not illumined tone.
but resonance that we supply
sonorous deep, without bell toll?

Wychwood of tempting candy peal,
that waking kiss or breadcrumb trail—
those nightmares laundered through deep sleep
as if our frights, rescue, conjoined.
Is it the tales of yore, our lore,
the grimmest which, so fairy called?
Is it to exorcise that steer
we exercise, rehearse their name?

So rustle, breeze, cracked greenstick tears,
those tiers of fear, of Babel din,
those masked, well-hidden, concealed tears,
confessional from undergrowth.
Our footsteps crunching over twigs
is isolating, if at night,
as moonlit shadows trail our own—
no comfort, seeming not alone.

But look, hear, listen in the woods—
its mycorrhiza underground—
some birdsong, creepers, nuthatch search,
leap squirrel, badger, even deer—
but fallow, not the stag with bark—
and find diversity at work.
Less forest as a dapple glade
with music for a classic taste;
here shades mix with a brighter note
leave groundwork of a golden fall.
To me the screech owl natural,
like stretch of bat wing, pipistrelle,
as hungry hedgehogs snuffle through
the peaty past, harmonious,
key only dark sounds, semitones. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WHERE HAVE THE MUSES GONE?
—Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia

When I held her in my arms
I felt that something had gone.
She was still warm, but still.
I was young and it was my first encounter with death.

Since then, I’ve met death often,
pets, parents, friends.
After the last breath comes a stillness
and life is gone.

I feel that absence too
in people who are still alive,
but something is missing:
love, joy, desire.

I feel it in myself,
something slipping away,
love of music, of connection,
curiosity, novelty, interest.

The God of the Waxing Year’s battle
draws to its inevitable end,
but I struggle on, writing down memories,
trying to find meaning in them.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

The maple trees told me it's in the ashen branches
Where the squirrels hide
Their little child-soul set afar from human conditions
I surmise the longing of things
From near and far
Where the river is spread out against the sky
The night stars are falling around
I saw in a sleep
The jumpings and quiverings of non-living things
Stay in my mind like a biscuit parchment paper
I blew the dandelions too loudly
Alas they catch the midheaven star
The North node of all our dreams where they shine
I now think of the maple trees
The red apples sodden
With arched bow whites
I know not what to name these
Perhaps they carry their own destiny
A hidden blush of lost stars and milkyways
I breathe in thee. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

VILLAGE
—Sayani Mukherjee

A lonely cottage by the river wall
The sun-scooped daisy under my beige wall
A pointed facade, a long overturn over there
To mend and bask the town meadows
As I lay dipping in the river
I hear cascades over my rimmed lens
A lovely blossom it was, it lay open dust
The moonbeamed sun is lowly now
To hung the home-grown lilies
The blue painted carpenter sang a choir
A thousand lullabyed biddings
For the village was aglow in the pure love. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ANCIENT
—Sayani Mukherjee

The drunken swiftness of the waves
Calms me
From a reverie of unpredictable marches
A lost song of victory and losses
As she possessed the divinity of all things
Things high and low lay bare
The stratum of bounty Hastings
The unnameable spoken mantra, the soma of life
Lying all over the fringe of all things
Knitted in a divine mastery
I knew the ancient waters, the green scenery
As the rivers co-mingle with the ever-chanting song 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CONTEMPLATING HERBICIDE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

got a lot of plants
the work of my son and me
but there’s a dark cloud that mires
the delight of victory
the weeds are winning

Dandelions on
the lawn, uninvited guests
dark sounds fill the morning air
didn’t come at our behest
the weeds are winning

Grandpa Weeder works
one at a time, all day long
push down, pull up, toss in can
not a lovely dark woods song
the weeds are winning

Morning Glories, known
to be photogenic plants
vining everywhere there is
handy pathways for the ants
the weeds are winning

Oleanders, ugh!
toxic root, stem, and leaf, too
paid a service gobs of dough
to remove all, but they
left one here, wouldn’t you know?
the weeds are winning 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE OTHER MEANING
—Caschwa

drown spelled backwards is:
N-word

bump stock spelled backwards is:
Weapon of Mass Destruction

campaign donation spelled backwards is:
lobby influence

unreported income spelled backwards is:
primary support for Supreme Court Justices

Civil War spelled backwards is:
Survival of the Fattest 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BONE FETISH
—Caschwa

why is it that the parlors
of tattoo artists seem to
feature more bare bones
than painted skin?

it follows to reason that
cemeteries for tattoo artists
would bury everything
except the bones, leaving
them above ground for
full viewing

maybe there are some people
(start with me) who would
prefer that the implements
used to paint the tattoo not
descend all the way down
to the bone 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE MEANING OF JANUARY 6TH
—Caschwa

people ask me what January 6th means to me
to which I reply that it was a very, very dark
time in my life; they like and accept that short
answer and ask me to elaborate, to which I reply
that was 8 days before I was born

then comes the spin, that was not the answer
they were hoping to hear, they wanted me to
list all of the bad people and bad acts from
that fateful date, and my answer didn’t touch
on those. However, my answer aptly did
fulfill their hopes, if one knows how to employ
the poetic device of metaphor

a very dark time could be likened to the black
blindfolds worn by the people responsible for
vetting the nominees to be the 45th President;
if only they had done their job competently and
faithfully our nation might have been spared
quite a bit of pain and suffering

so I’ll stick with my original answer, and if
someone doesn’t understand all that it means,
they need to read more poetry

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LISTENING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Listen to
A lantern
In the corner

Shining sound
That lights up
Like a flute

Underneath
A canopy
Shading a
Bright, sunny day,

Yesterday’s
Nightmares
Still haven’t
Gone away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

OSMOTIC PRESSURE OF MASS CONSENT
—Joe Nolan

The osmotic pressure
Of mass consent,
Like a tsunami,
Pushing information
Through all
Brain-cell walls
Nearly
Simultaneously,
By signals sent from cell-phone towers,
By the power of 20G,
Would infiltrate our dreams
With images of Grand Kum-Bah-Yahs—
Dancing around bonfires
Burning away all dis-consent
Leading us into the hive
Or the borg
Or the new, universal religion
Where man is god and
Earth rules over us all,

Would replace fraudulent elections
Conducted with black-box
Digital voting machines
Hooked up to the internet
In which votes could be flipped
From any location on Earth
With just a tapping of keys.

Pressure would build
Beyond all control.
Incumbents’ heads would roll.
The same information
Would block all disinformation
Resulting in nearly
Universal acclamation
Of new candidates
Who’d won our hearts and souls
To lead us into damnation
Under a one-world-government  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DE NOVO EMPORER
—Joe Nolan

The king wants to always be king
No matter who kneels at his throne.

So does Xi Jin Ping.
He changed the rules
To be leader for life.

Deng Xiao Ping
Put term-limits in place
To time out
Hungry kings,
But another hungry king came along
And turned back the clock to the time of Mao,
When latter-day emperors
Could be so forever.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MISTER SAM
—Joe Nolan

My favorite furry creature
Is my sweet dog, “Mister Sam.”
Although she is a lady,
She thinks she is a man.
She practices her manners,
But her friends think it’s a scam:

“How could you be
So eager to please?
It’s shameful for a dog
To beg on its knees.”

“It’s because
I love my man!”

She’s just as strong
As any dog
And loves to run
When she’s set free,
Released from her leash.

It doesn’t matter
Which she
Thinks she is,
I love her.
She’s my darling bitch.
I run her when I can.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FRIENDLY BLESSINGS
—Joe Nolan

God bless you
Dear friend,
God bless you!

Or maybe you’re
Blessing me?

Maybe you’re not
In some bardo
Or suffering
Purgatory.

Maybe you came
To visit—
To smile
With your biggest
“Hello!”

Maybe your spirit is free
As it always used to be
When you were
Still here
With me.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Where flowers bloom so does hope.

—Lady Bird Johnson

____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors, and a fine showing it is (some of them on our Seed of the Week, Dark Sounds in the Woods).

In addition to the readings coming up this week, don’t miss the annual Ekphrastic Art, Poetry & Jazz Night in Carmichael on Friday; and on Saturday, both the 3rd Annual Calaveras Poetry Festival: A Cavalcade of Laureates in Murphys, and the online Sierra College Intro to Eco-Poetry. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events on the calendar this week.

Tim Kahl’s new book, Drips, Spills, Bursts, Tangles & Washes, will soon be available from Cold River Press. Info and order it at https://www.coldriverpress.com/HTML/AUTHORS/kahl/drips.htm/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will feature Bob Stanley,
Lawrence Dinkins, and Mike Shea
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
future 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!

 

Beachin'!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trigger Point

 —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

 

1

the shower
screen door shrouds
with mist
before his reasoning
passion

 

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 

2

clutching her chest
gasping for breath
crawling
to the dresser
inhaler

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

3

room door
she calls for help
asthma attack
tobacco smoking
a trigger point 


—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 
4

limp
at the ER
fighting for life
on a drip
reverse blood flow

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 
5

husband
called to the bedside
she breathes her last
seated with
the last words

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

People say smoking will give you diseases. What they don’t know is that it cures salmon.

—Anonymous

_________________

—Medusa, thanking Christina and Uchechukwu for joining us with another fine collaboration today! For more about tan-renga, see https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
features Dianna Henning & Lara Gularte
today in Camino, 2pm; and
Poets in the Vines meets in Lodi, 6pm,
with Jazmarie LaTour & Tama Brisbane.
For info about these and other
future 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frosty Dreams At Sunrise

 —Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar, Nepal
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

I KEEP ON SINGING

I keep on singing
And humming the tune
Of dew like glistening smile.
Again, I secretly tiptoe
And peep through the drape,
I find the world needs
Peaceful anthem of devotion.
When the evening falls,
I recollect the day.
A stream of happiness
Gushes down like waterfall.
Expression is numb,
When spontaneity hides.
Frosty dreams
Leave weaving their embroidery,
When reasoning fades. 

 

 

 

 

LET ME KNOCK DOWN THE DOOR

I want to leave the weariness
And be part of minimalism.
I want to catch the first glimpse
Of simple and serene
Sunrise,
Above the hills.
I will descend down,
And tattoo the treasure of
That sunrise in my chest,
Let me forget
That the heart is mine,
I want to give it away
For kindness
To the streets of dismay.
There is also life,
Which I should sing  
After descending
From that sunrise.
Let me memorize that serenity. 

 

 

 

 

AN IMAGE

A painting,
A moment,
One mad melancholy,
Healing dart.
An image rises
Like the romantic moon;
The red dot of holiness.
I listen to the breeze,
The coffee is set
And the clock-work writes
The alphabets of the night.
The night speaks in silence. 

 

 

 

 

PART TAKER AND OBSERVER

Feel the ambience
Of the stars,
Return to the society
With a championing heart.
Stars are the truth
Of the night,
And you wish to become
An observer,
This event of observation
Is greater than truth.
Nature is always higher
Than what personal
Avalanche you witness.
See the morning fog is
Also your witness
And you know what happens
To the morning fog
As the day clears its own avalanche.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Seduce me at sunrise, dance with me barefoot in the dew on the grass.

—Bodhi Smith

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sushant Thapa for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that a
“Most Kissed Reading”
with author Patricia Caspers plus
Moira Magneson and Robin Center

  takes place
in Auburn today at 5pm.
For info about this and other
future 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remind Me To Be A Kid

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa

Barbara Leonhard and Melissa Lemay

 

 

HOW TO WALK, DANCE, CUT A LOG

I’m waiting while my car gets smogged.
Time to take a walk—
and here’s a little side-road beckoning.

My dad—simple farmboy become
doctor (not a sawbones)—
without a word would take the trail.

I’d have to catch up, stretch my legs
to match his stride, his love of walking,
observing things up-close.

And look here! in somebody’s yard,
a giraffe! of rusted metal,
its neck a 2-man crosscut saw

like my dad’s. With barely a word
he taught the give-and-take of down-
pull cut, then release-&-let-it-glide,

a seated saw-length dance with partner.
Decades later I can feel the rhythm,
muscle-memory of lessons in few words telling.


(prev. pub. in Walk the Bones by Taylor Graham)

 

 

 

FATHERING

        for H.

He knew this mountain from the back
of a horse, as he knew so many
things about the wild.
You were just a girl, feeling
your saddle slip—between cutbank
and dropoff. You called to him.
He said, grip with your knees, hang
onto the mane. The first time
you hadn’t felt safe in a father’s keeping.
But you didn’t slip, you didn’t fall,
you grew braver. 

 

 

 

 

BIRD COUNT

In bullrushes, two blackbirds are singing;
on the pond floats a single white swan—
this June morning, almost solstice.

Weed-eating my right-of-way
I came so close to mowing
a free-range hen on her nest of three eggs.

Last winter there were five white swans. 

 

 

 

 

UNDER THE HEAT DOME

The first lesson is, seek shade. Everything else
seems extraneous. How about the homeless man
in front of the library? with all the shaded benches
taken, and even the lawn—a young couple laughing
under a single pepper tree. Frankly, I suspect
that man asleep on a xeriscape boulder in full sun
with his loaded cart beside him is a sign
of something gone wrong in the world. How, why
does this originate? How to fix it? Could I
find it in a book in the library? 

 

 

 

 

OTIS-WEEK IN REVIEW

         Wednesday thru Tuesday
         for my “Shepherd-mix” rescue dog

Ten weeks here, just starting to settle, calm down—
I hope.
A lovely walk with Otis to Slate Creek, moth mullein
in bloom.
They’re analyzing genetic markers, I’ll know who
he is!
Oh. He’s part Husky, a quick-footed Houdini. Watch
him close!
SAR dog training, he’s head-high, prancing, follow-
ing Cathy’s trail.
Nudge+bark means he needs out, or tug-o-war, or a
tummy rub.
Trail joy, Otis at trot, ears tuned back to make sure
I’m coming. 

 

 

 

 

BUBBLEGUM

Excited as a kid for adventure.
Trail-mix peanuts & raisins, banana.
Headed upcountry with dog,
we’re hungry for altitude, granite, lava,
lodgepole, juniper, aspen meadow.
Stick of bubblegum among the snacks?
Haven’t chewed bubblegum in years.
I could remind me to be a kid....

__________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FROZEN ON CENTERLINE
—Taylor Graham

It’s up to Squirrel to decide,
when a pickup comes roaring west
when a sedan comes speeding east
and Squirrel in midst of crossing:

go left or right? the dice tossing
when a sedan comes speeding east
when a pickup comes roaring west
it’s up to Squirrel to decide.

__________________________

Welcome to one-day-past-the-Solstice, with news from El Dorado County and from Taylor Graham (and Otis), and many thanks to TG and pal. Forms TG has used this week include a 7 days in 7 lines combined with a just 15s (“Otis-Week in Review”); a Word-Can Poem (“Under the Heat Dome”); a Sevenling (“Bird Count”); a Quadrille (“Bubblegum”); and an Octo (“Frozen on Centerline”).

The Summer Solstice issue of Canary is available now at https://canarylitmag.org/.

Patricia Caspers will have several readings over the next few months from her new book with the intriguing title, The Most Kissed Woman in the World. The first of these readings will be with Placerville’s Moira Magneson tomorrow, Saturday, June 22, in Auburn. Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Most-Kissed-Woman-World/dp/1639805516/.

For more news about this and other El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

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

 

This week, we received Ekphrastic poems from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):


PUPPETS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Puppets dangling in the air,
waiting for the show to start.
They can’t move as they would like.
Something bigger guides their way.
As I watch them on the stage,
I wonder if I have more freedom,
or am I tied by rules and love
and other things that I can’t see.
As others laugh and clap,
I leave the show quite thoughtfully.

* * *

PARAWHOOPS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Invasion! I saw paratroops,
my first shortsighted blue-sky thought,
from thin air, dropouts, through the clouds
in silken share, parachute jump.
Confused—as Germans, eighty past,
those D-Day landings, sea mist ships,
with Juno, Gold, Sword, Idaho
and Utah beaches, then above.

Last veterans on pilgrimage,
recall of shadows, shades on sands,
with so much hanging on their dare,
faced barbed wire, minefields, pillbox shots.
So far from funfair, allies sought
beginning of the end, they said—
a unity to end the war,
craft to outwit sniper fire.

No paratroopers, realised—
let freedom ring despite the pitch—
for strings attached in dizzy spin;
like LSD sill, flying scam.
A frying pan for pancake toss,
wisp candyfloss by skydive fun,
the wheel of fortune, slides and glides,
a time warp from old battle cries.

Hear whoop and holler overhead,
here gameplan for the longest day,
amusement park for fun-set fair,
without risk potshot, tangled wires.
What was the price for dangling limbs,
what cost for swinging as if wings,
what charge, pass sale for sailing free?
Some billets doux, passed, agèd men.

* * *

WHEN YOU DIE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when you die
they smash your face
with a lemon merengue pie

put you in
a wooden box
completely devoid of sin

take you back
to gentler times
to swing until dawn would crack

write a book
about your life
and all of the hands you shook

sign a card
written to ease
the pain that hits us so hard

when one of
our special bunch
can’t return unending love

* * *
 

Caschwa tackled (and won) the Irish Droigneach, which was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week:

 

 

 

 KITCHEN SINK ETIQUETTE
—Caschwa

In normal use there is a whippoorwill
astutely standing on guard to direct
traffic waiting upon the windowsill
listen hard or you cannot reconnect

because you will be owned by gravity
swishing you to fine China’s cabinet
cloning ho-hum conundrum, a pity
that you could not stay for the pirouette

* * *

Three SnakePals—Barbara Leonhard, Melissa Lemay, and Nolcha Fox—have collaborated on what they’re calling “a broken Rengay—broken because our little band of thieves doesn't like to follow all the rules. We followed line count, but not syllable count.” 

 

 

 

 

OFF THE RAILS
—Barbara Leonhard, Melissa Lemay,
and Nolcha Fox

The vagrant clouds hitch a ride
on an empty train car,
headed to Who Knows Where.

All they have is water and
backpacks containing rainbows.

Gale-force winds swirl
in overhead compartments;
the moon sighs

The stars sing three-part harmony
to the clack-clack-clack of the wheels.

Rain sheets the empty
seats, dust dissolves, the fresh air
holds its cool, damp breath

The station disappears…
a three-headed dragon
                                         emerges

* * *

Stephen Kingsnorth says he has contacted a bug called Quadrillitus; like Taylor Graham (see above) and some of our recent poets, he has also used the cue word, bubblegum, in his Quadrille. This single Quad wasn’t enough to cure his Quadrillitus, though, so watch for more of them from Stephen in future weeks:

 

 

 

 
POLICE STATEMENT:
—Stephen Kingsnorth

For soldiers ranked, square, on parade,
formation as centurions,
or riot squad in tortoise mode,
clear cover shields above shaved heads,
their battle plan, defence secured,
to engage enemies without;
protesters who have had enough
reclaiming streets, vox populi,
free speech balloons, bubblegum quotes.

___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? 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 challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) How about a dandy-zette?

•••Dandizette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dandizette

•••AND/OR: something Taylor Graham found us (see above):

•••7 Days in 7 Lines: https://talesofafamily.blog/2019/03/31/7-days-in-7-lines

•••AND/OR join the rogue-poets (above) and hijack one of your poet-friends into putting together a Rengay:

•••Rengay: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay

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

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Dandizette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dandizette
•••Droigneach Poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/droigneach-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Octo: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/octo
•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you
•••Just 15s (Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Rengay: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay
•••7 Days in 7 Lines: https://talesofafamily.blog/2019/03/31/7-days-in-7-lines
•••Sevenling: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sevenling
•••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

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
future 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!