Private Arts

 

 Still Life With Basket of Cherries, Oranges 

and a Chinese Blue and White Vase

—Arthur Dudley (Britain) 19th/20th Century

* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy
 of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

ORANGES AND CHERRIES

The daily privilege of choice
was known by me when moving house.
Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish,
but evening drab, dirt fog the murk,
vast unattractive sea scape spread.

I chose the black-framed Dudley print
cherry basket, vase, oranges.
No cash value attached at all,
but print hangs from the wall at home.

Behind us, sixty years ago,
I trace the bookshelves—upstairs now—
tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell,
and from the twenties picture rail
hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom,
but family tradition grew.

In snaps, black and white, first colour,
the fruit seemed always edible.

I wonder who acquired and when;
did they find the peel, pips and pith
so realistic, palate won.

I look at artist's other work,
the still-life items re-arranged,
pot boilers, but each richly juiced.

 

 

 

 Fantasy on Faust

—Mariano Fortuny (Spain), 1866  

 

ALCHEMY

How grandly played—though scores so low—
to gain the Casanova’s love,
the art of music, paint, as one
at home with classmate, Catalan,
Flor Baja studio, Madrid.

The canvas notes the evening’s frame,
inspiring sketch by trinity;
performance wild as Goethe’s hand,
a purple suit, embroidered gold,
a silk cape, cock-a-hoop with hat.

Low sweeping owl speaks evil, death,
the devil’s revels, Brocken Harz,
where pines would weep their resin tears,
till May Day closed Walpurga’s Eve—
Frank abbess blessed, Pope Adrian.

The strokes brush freely, energy,
Mephisto’s magic alchemy,
fortunate pact named Faustian—
near heavy cloth, weaved dyeing nap—
so far from feather flying cap.

So celebrate as picture tells,
not dubious deals, immoral tales—
though warnings voiced in Johann’s play—
but sheer spiration forte’s keys,
Fortuny’s tag shared everywhere. 

 

 

 

The Best is Yet to Come

—Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada), 2019 

 

REALIZED

Do I take the obvious,
leaping from the screen?
The influence that money bought,
the products made to hear?
And when my eye, forced to view,
the pupil, parrot-taut,
do I relax and broaden scape,
seek out the reticent?

Collage or is it collagen,
body parts that no one sees?
When norms retreat,
life back to front, or mirror images,
pretend not there, just look away,
or lay-by, temporary?

For my control to overwrite,
to colour as I choose;
transform the landscape overlaid
and mindfulness pursue.
The canvas mine, the palette range,
the dominating seen.
What scene is in my orbit scan
to cast or grasp or field? 

 

 

 

 Woman Holding a Balance

 —Vermeer

 

CHOICES

Compose, delineate by draught,
to judge frame set, below, above,
the weight between the pearls or price,
choice made before the box is closed,
but pregnant maid now wimple hint,
rich trim of fur, a question mark?

Vermeer invites to peer within—
who would not welcome, seen at home,
to celebrate our core of life,
or distance us from its abuse,
to draw contrast, privileged tour,
but most, on course, our history books?

But what the story, steered response,
who painted words but victory—
whoever vanquished, patron gained?
If won by jewels, hang, the face,
intensity of commonplace,
rare string, glance gold, posed glimmer sight.

The dimmer brick, silk buckled blue,
who threw rich cloth, firm table top,
an exercise, some Mary view,
chance mediate, loyal a truth,
unbroken mould that rules the roost,
manipulate, thrice cock to rue?   

Light upper left that seeks to seep,
as if epiphany at hand,
but will it pause by window veil,
while meditate on what before?
Will it prevail that darker place,
stark eroteme, interior?

My creed tells stain birthmark is strong
and black holds sway within our room;
but age, my route, suggest a wrong,
that folk who move where I have walked
the better scene, their street seems good.
The art, theology alert?

 

 

 

 Still Life 

—Giorgio Morandi (Italy), 1956 

 

PRIVATE ARTS

Monaco springs with vibrant pulse,
spin low tax, grand-prix, roulette wheels,
sum wealth, full fashions for display.
Il Monaco, the monk, as known,
Bologna cell for eremite;
here brush the tranquil of still life,
years spanned as Studiorum stands.
Bottles and boxes, vases, jugs,
as dun-baked village on the hill,
San Gimignano and the sky.
The monumental brought to ledge,
all labels gone, letters erased,
glare glass reflections glazed with matt.
Provincial tag, intended slur,
but early buds showed renaissance,
light slowly passing into night,
serial time encapsulate.
So paint the seen and not the scene—
that is the space that needs the art—
as most find time for neither part.
Some private prayer externalised.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

—Pablo Picasso

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine Ekphrastic work today!

 

 

 

 —Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Still Cove of Clarity

 —Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A STITCH IN TIME

Sara sits at her sewing machine
trying to patch her life together.
She has chosen soft, silky fabric,
and strong thread, cut the material
carefully to fit the way she wants to live.

She must maintain control as she feeds
the fabric into the machine,
pedaling and guiding it through,
for the needle lays down stitches
faster than she ever imagined.

 

 

 

 

IN MEMORIAM

At the beginning of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day
of Atonement,
I arranged four glasses, memorial candles, on two
small, metal trays,
two on each.  The glasses were half-filled with
tallow.  A cotton wick
ran down the center of the wax and was affixed to
a metal plate
at the bottom of each glass.

I decided the first candle should represent the souls
of all the people
who had died during the past year, whether or not
I knew them.
With a fired match I lit the candle and invited them
into my home,
all those souls, regardless of race or religion.

Alongside the first, the second candle, represented
the soul of my father.
On the second tray was a candle for my mother's
soul, and the fourth
candle was for my brother.  I burned these candles
in their memory.
Their spirits would inhabit my home for the next
twenty-four hours or as long as each candle burned.

The flames flickered with life, casting shadows all
through the night.  I watched them dance into dawn,
wondering which would leave first and what the
order of their departure might mean.

I saw the first candle go, then the second.  Only the
two on the second tray remained when I fell asleep
again.  I thought, when
I awoke, that I would not
know which was the last to be extinguished.  Soon I
realized it was really each
candle's proximity to the windows in the room and
the amount of wax in each glass that determined
when each spirit left.

 

 

 

MINNOWS IN A POND

We create the water's fluid motion
like minnows in a pond darting frantically,
going nowhere, afraid of what may happen next
when a veil of disappointment falls over us.

Do not despair.  Be calm and stay aware.
Let the water settle.  Hold onto hope,
the lifeline of humankind.  We must wait patiently
in a still cove of clarity before — —

we are able to act or react in our own best interests.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FIND STRENGTH IN ADVERSITY
—Linda Klein

There is something good about adversity.
It brings like-minded people together.
We must seek each other out.  I feel more than ever
that you are my sisters and brothers.
Together we can accomplish anything.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Hold onto hope!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Feral Wind

Songs From The Wind

* * *

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

 

 

YELLOW TREE LOSING ITS LEAVES
—Joyce Odam

Sound of wind in sudden bursts
in yellow autumn sunlight,
howling free—letting be—all

the restrictions of the mind—
in the half—into the whole, of
listening. What of such a sound

to the ever-lonely—or the
seldom lonely—there—outside
my late-morning window—

interrupting my book, my music.
Come to me, it cries—
has always cried—come to me.
                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/12/13; 11/3/20)

 

 

 

Early Light

                                                                                   
out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

The Passionate

 THE FICKLE LOVERS
—Joyce Odam

We are full of that furor known as love.  
We are not to be trusted.  We are always
bereft.  We are always without conclusion.

You should not respond to us—who
among us can be constant and never change
our stage-setting or conditions :

the light is never enough;
the dark is always too much;
we have the temperament of the weather.

You cannot hold us—you can only
regret us.  And when we abandon you,
you can only tell us goodbye.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/11)

 

 

 

 Gauge

 

THE POET IN THE PARK
(“Sacramento Reads” Event)
—Joyce Odam

He bends like a sad whisper to the grace of her
eyes.  She is saying goodbye to him, there in the
park, in the turbulent day, children all around.

He seems to need her, his vague melancholy upon
him like a familiar thought for which he has no
control.  He is a mute gray in the catch of light

that finds him lingering; he will stay a little
longer in the crowd—some purpose here that
holds him; she will wander off among the others,

the children following, straggling apart in future
directions.  He will watch them from the shade of
a tree awhile, then turn away, forgetting or

remembering this or that of himself, of her, of
the why of anything he cares about, then turning
to listen to the something else of himself that

is so quiet now in the family-light that bears the
summer down upon him.  He sees her and the
children
disappear in the crowd as if into time, that mystery

through which he suddenly feels so cut apart.


(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998)

 

 

 

Somewhere

IF THEN
—Robin Gale Odam

What if you meant to say a thread of
uncertain synonyms for if and then,
and then I looked away—a fine strand
of twisted fibers—

I tried to write this letter, I thought
I heard you say,

for if and then, as statement of fact—
and then you looked away

—starlings in the sky again, the flurry
of startle—

evening divides into two evenings.
If you arrive then I shall go.

 

 

 

Whispers

 

WOMEN MOVING AMONG WOMEN
—Joyce Odam

You see how it is—women moving among
women like a dance of loneliness—or like

a practice of memory when life was free and
no one guarded their secrets, which were pure,

when only the long blue sands of twilight
would remember their dance. The reaching sea

would try to belong—but it too would leave them,
pulling at them to follow, or let go. The white gulls

would turn silver and vanish, leaving their
threading
shapes in the turbulent air. The women would try

to forget those cries and emulate that grace;
the sands would cover-over as the sun lowered

and erased everything but this memory of women
moving among women in a dance of loneliness.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/9/19)

 

 

 

Something For The Dreamer

TERRAIN
—Joyce Odam

I will take the sad earth of myself
and make a poem.

Hear me.
Speak me well.
Arrange me in lines of sound.
Your eyes will know when to pause.

I will be hills
and more hills.
I will be
bleak weather
and go barren of everything.

I will be
desert stretches of emphasis.
No map will cure me.
I will not come to an end when I am done.

I will begin again,
uphill.
I will begin again.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts)

 

 

 

Saying Nothing

             

TO BE SET ADRIFT
 —Joyce Odam

To be set adrift in the boat,
the water lapping at the sides
the companion sitting at the other end
comparing me all this time to its own silence . . .

and the thought of land, and the thought of sky,
and the turbulent depth, and to learn the motion
and sense of direction, and learn the patience
it takes, and never ask where we are going.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 6/14/11; 9/1/15;
9/15/20)

 

 

 

Landing

 

WE’LL JUST STAY IN

, watching through the windows—
the trees catch and cast the wind,

the last of autumn’s leaves cling
to their branches in brightness

of gray, the morning holds the sky
over the city—the baying dog,

the hollow of cold, the tameless
raging shadows, the feral wind.


—Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 Beckon

 

PRAYER OF A LATE SEASON
—Joyce Odam

Come, let us
dance the joy of words,
speak music.

Come, let us enter
the howling house
with its swirling of leaves.

Let us assign ourselves
to each other’s prayer.
Let us kneel and hold each other.

And if the wind stops howling
to hear its own silence,
let us sweep leaves.
                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/25/14)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I AM SO SORRY
—Joyce Odam

One by one the animals disappear.

The land that held them
yields to houses.

Windows
glint at other windows.

Ghosts of animals drift between.

__________________

It’s a Blustery Day (our Seed of the Week) when the Odam Poets are on board, and here they are today, telling us about the wind and love and the final flutters of dying autumn leaves. Our thanks to them for their fine poetry, and for Joyce’s eye-catching visuals.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Refuge”. As always, go wide, go deep; the types of refuge are limitless, one might say. I, for example, find refuge in Medusa’s Kitchen… 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.

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

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Come, let us dance the joy of words . . . 

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that all day today
is GivingTuesday. To find out
how to make a donation to your
favorite non-profit, and also find
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All A-Bluster~

 —Artwork by Nolcha Fox
(with Microsoft Image Creator)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael Ceraolo, Devyanshi Neupane,
Charles Mariano, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Shiva Neupane
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Charles Mariano, Joe Nolan, and Medusa
—Original Artwork by Nolcha Fox
and E. H. Shepard

 

 

STUBBORNNESS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A single leaf declines to leave,
though chill winds offer bargain flights.
It will not cry for autumn’s end,
nor shrink when blizzards layer snow.
It wants to watch the sun melt ice,
and fling itself on greenery.
An iris or rose would do
as perfumed landing from the sky.
Much better, it might find its tree
and perch on branches,
singing to its brothers rustling,
welcoming another spring.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration by E.H. Shepard

BLUSTER WAYS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I grew with Pooh, his windy days—
less fiction now, strewn sticks surround
the roads where elms once proudly stood.
The poplars sway, long avenues,
but brittle breakage took its toll
on branch and twig of ancient oak
as brutal battle followed calm.

There is no rhythm, sympathy,
when stills give way to sudden blows;
though mother’s pegs still hold the line—
delighted, shirt sleeves full blown sail,
like bellows filling, billowed scare,
that tacking, spinning rotary,
a swinging compass of the air.

They say it’s bluster, not for real—
for sometimes that’s how father is—
but I have seen the damage caused,
that need to swerve from course ahead,
avoid the littered, swirling scene,
await that moment, still returned
but knowing blows’ result again.

I see her turning, riding winds,
adjusting course to temper stings,
the quaking aspen, trembling face,
a weeping willow oftentimes,
then bowing poplar, coming terms.
Some days after the storm has passed,
we search, find conker, yet encased.

Beneath her mirror, bedside stand,
‘amor vincit omnia’ plaque
belies reflection, blue-eyed black,
her made-up cover well rehearsed.
Her one report, authorities,
pooh-poohed by husband, Sergeant Strong,
so I expect more bluster ways. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FOUR CLEVELAND HAIKU
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Cleveland Haiku #670

Four houses in a row—
address numbers painted on
wooden snowmen


Cleveland Haiku #671

October—
showers of leaves
fall from the trees


Cleveland Haiku #672

November—
the port-o-potties have been
removed from the park


Cleveland Haiku #673

Decorations—
Halloween skeleton
now wears a Santa suit

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

MY BED
—Devyanshi Neupane, age 4,
Melbourne, Australia

My bed is purple
It is my favourite colour
So, I like my bed.

 

 

 

 Mama at the Back House Holding Virgin Mary Pic
—Photo Courtesy of Charles Mariano

FAMILY
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
(2009)

i keep seeing
faces
fleeting glances
of familiar,

at street corners,
store windows

and i get closer
anxious
to embrace,
and it’s not you

at the last second
arms half out
face, mid-smile
i pull back
embarrassed

“Sorry, thought you were…”

in the glimpse of my current
days
mortality, tragic loss
my rooms seem empty

everyone leaves

i find myself
slightly longing,
faintly hoping,
missing

“I know you’re gone
and yet,
I see you everywhere”


(prev. pub. in The Whole Enchilada
by Charles Mariano)

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

 

ONLY ME
—Charles Mariano
(1987)

You have to write it,
he said,
Only you can,
only you

our lives,
our time on earth
is lost,
unless you put it down

we’ll vanish
and the only way to preserve
even the slightest thread,
is to write it

women, money, family
it all disappears,
if you write it
our spirit lives on

stories, poems
to leave
as a legacy
to learn from

you have the means
at your fingertips

I’ve done it all,
he says,
everything
and it’s meaningless

this is the time
of our lives

write it

let the pages grow
come to life
breathe

no,
don’t take these words
lightly

this furious, confusing
pounding rage,

takes on
a higher importance

gotta do it
even if i won’t be here
leave it for others

the incredibly mindless
deliriously passionate
embarrassing,
painful tales,

of a bunch of nobodies
who did nothing
except,
live the hell out of life

like he said,

if i don’t write it,
we disappear


(prev. pub. in The Whole Enchilada
by Charles Mariano)

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

I DON’T REMEMBER…
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

…if it was a blustery day
when my motorcycle and me
were both totaled by a car

surgery to reattach my right thumb

bone grafts on both hips

extensive surgery on my left leg and ankle

placement of a surgical pin in my left leg

examinations of my head

being in a coma

responding “I’ll never get out of here alive!”
when hospital staff told me where I was

my boss’s daughter, a Candy Striper, attending
to me in the hospital

but if we open that big door marked “HEARSAY”
I could wear your ears out with the details


(Inspired by “Sunrise” by Charles Mariano,
https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=charles+mariano/) 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

 

NOT SO BROADBAND
—Caschwa

Friday, I had access to the Internet
on my desktop computer, all was well
Saturday, the scenario was pure Hell

the light went out on my modem
I checked all connections were secure
then I called the carrier to be sure

sure enough, they had an “active outage”
and a response plan that was to be feared
routine maintenance until outage cleared

impossible to ask what caused the outage
or if they were able to send a full crew
or if the crew’s leader knew just what to do

their Customer Service enlarged on impossible
said when outage was cleared they’d send a text
that’s their final word, there is no what’s next

so here I am on my offline computer
waiting more than a day to access the Net
the longer I must wait, the unhappier I get

 

—Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

LET IT BURN DOWN
—Caschwa

seems like the new normal is to
require people to change their
user names and passwords at
whatever point AI decides to
insist that you do that or else!

the new password must be much
stronger, and have more weird or
odd characters in it, etc.

imagine if they imposed those
standards to use a fire alarm…
first you’d have to show at least
2 forms of identity to confirm
that you are indeed someone who
belongs in that building, before the
device will let you trigger an alarm

maybe it is just me, but I would
be predisposed to run outside and
let the building burn to the ground,
since that would undoubtedly be the
best messaging tool I would have at
the time

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

REVISIONISTS HISTORY
—Caschwa

We the Peons of the United States,
in Order to bow in perfect submission,
respect the King, insure domestic
autocracy, provide for the wealth of
the Crown, promote the welfare of the
Sheriff of Nottingham, and secure the
shackles of detention for ourselves and
our Posterity, do ordain and establish
these scribblings on wet bar napkins as
the Rules of our Lord for the United
States of the Colonies.

When the top rule-makers own all the
Land and everything developed upon
it, we become part of that property as
well, subject to the whims of the Crown.
We part with more than we can afford
to pay our taxes to the Kings of Industry
who live the high life at our expense, but
it is written that thus is the law, and any
form of disapproval is dealt with harshly

Hail to the Tax Collectors, who must
distance themselves from family and
friends to make the rounds and grab all
our money; We the Peons have no voice
in the daily operations of government,
even ones that affect us dearly, but we
bow and obey and accept our fate

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

PALESTINIAN CHILDHOOD
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

“Is it safe
To go outside
And play, yet?

Or will bombs
Go off
In the streets?

How long
Do we have to
Stay inside?

When will
The war be over?’

My best friends
Died last week.
Some snipers
Gunned them down.

They were playing,
‘War,’ I heard
‘Bang-bang!
You’re dead!’
Were their last words.”

 

 

 

—Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MODERN FAMILY
—Joe Nolan

Into furrowed ground
To place a seed,
Into a yearning place
That feels the need
To produce life
From life,
Tree from seed,
That pulls up all its roots
And runs away
Off to distant city
To work and play.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FISHES IN A WELL
—Joe Nolan

Deep inside
The bottom of a well
Are secrets dark
No one will tell—

Just little
Slipping fishes
That touch their fins
And tales of vast,
Open oceans
And whales
Larger than their
Minds can comprehend
In which they’ll swim
When comes their end.

Slimy, little fishes
In a dark, dark well
Living out
Their little lives
With secrets,
Oh so dark
That none of them
Will tell.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa

 

ASSISTANCE LEAGUE AD
—Joe Nolan

Because you are not special
You have a common
Kind of comfort
You can offer,
Asking no reward,
Save for your own sustenance,
To be of service to others.

Surely, there are many
Who need assistance.
Time will wash us
All away,
But in our brief time,
You can be available,
If you are willing.


Ed. Note: Tomorrow is GivingTuesday; you can help by donating to your favorite non-profits at https://www.givingtuesday.org/participate/?gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQiAo5u6BhDJARIsAAVoDWvP-o1xi_eY2EctYPvZs333-Qe62d2nVtamaqIxYHxakCmFhfV2-mUaAtJsEALw_wcB/.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE FALSE REALISM
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

The epistemological complexity
baffled me,
I couldn’t decipher the truth
because my philosophical erudition
went south
Everything I claimed to know
may not be knowable,
because it is the projection
of my sensory mantras
If you will.

___________________

The Kitchen is action-packed today, with lots of fine poetry from lots of fine poets of all styles, geographies, and ages! Many thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom gave us a weather report on our Seed of the Week, “Blustery Day”. And some of today’s poems were blustery, too—SnakePals are never shy in that department. 

 

The December issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Check it out for area poetry events (including the Bay Area), poetry, submissions, workshops and more!

Watch out for your “its’s”! A couple of weeks ago on Form Fiddlers’ Friday, I strongly suggested that the poor little pronoun, “it”, often gets its apostrophe misused because this is the only pronoun that doesn’t use the apostrophe for the possessive. (Otherwise, there could be no “it is” contraction.) This week, I received poems from three different poets with misplaced apostrophes, resulting in...

The fiery emoticon oF editorial wrath!

If this was you, I’m sorry—but who else is going to defend the wee “is”? Heads up, and watch what you do with your its-s!

Nolcha Fox has a new book out with artist Mike Armstrong: End of Earth. Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/End-Earth-Collaboration-Poetry-Painting-ebook/dp/B0DMBG9B9S/. Congratulations, Nolcha and Mike!

 

 

 

 
 

Melissa Lemay is going to be editing a new journal next year, Collaborature, which celebrates collaborative writing. It will be released Jan. 3, and it’s (there’s that little word again!) currently seeking submissions at collaborature@gmail.com/. Guidelines are at collaborature.blogspot.com/p/submit.html/. Congratulations, Melissa, on your new project!

 

 

 

 

Got a project in the works? Let me know at kaathykieth@hotmail.com and I’ll publicize the information for you.

 

Congratulations and thanks to Danyen Powell for facilitating Sacramento Poetry Center’s Tuesday Night Workshop for 30 years! I first met Joyce Odam at the SPC workshop back in the late ‘90s. I remember my first time there; I was early, and so were Joyce and Carol Frith. They were kind, and turned out to be two of my most beloved friends—and mentors, too. At that point I had no clue about what I was doing, and Joyce and Carol and Danyen and the people at the workshop were a tremendous help to me. In fact, I started Rattlesnake Review for the workshop people. So many of them were such fine poets, and I just wanted to publicize them. Then I started the chapbook series, and Danyen was the first poet published by the Snake. (Thank you, Danyen, for your faith in me!)

I’ll never understand poets who think workshops will ruin them somehow, take away their voice, destroy their originality. I couldn’t possibly list all the ways that the Tuesday Night Workshop (and others I attended along the way) fostered my growth and helped me find my voice. Not to mention that Rattlesnake Press (and Medusa!) probably wouldn’t have ever happened without those Tuesday Nights.

Anyway, thank you, Danyen—a fine poet in his own right!—and congratulations on a job well done for the NorCal poetry community.

So buckle up: December is upon us, and it’s always bumpy. (“Load more products!” my Internet says.) So shop early, rest up for the end-of-the-year shenanigans, and do your contemplation about what’s going on in the world and what your role is in it. 2025 doesn’t have to be as confused as 2024 was…yes?

 

 

 

 Kourage Cat
Bon Courage, Mes Enfants!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Watch out for us blustery females!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan









 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Nancy Miller Gomez & Laura Rosenthal
will read tonight at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advent Offering

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

COMING ARRIVAL

While patient waiting not my scene,
this celebration, birth we’ve known,
pretence that past a future gain,
a complement, to be soon seen?
So Advent rings, symbolic signs,
five candles for approaching weeks,
Christingles, calendars, and wreaths
around door knockers, room with inn?

Church cycling starts (in western eyes)—
thematic mix in pulpit talk
with Advent, though the world prepares
for Christmas, New Year, resolute.
The fast preceding season’s feast,
red letter when permission, eat;
but how’s the menu of delight
when cave birth, cowshed, fore in lore?

That pregnant pause, teen testing time,
full weight of truth in motherlode,
as folk alert, talk undermines,
‘no better than she should be’ words.
But there’s the Word in crumbled homes,
in Gaza and the Middle East,
whatever faith, or colour, creed,
the manger lies where rubble heaped.

Cold coming had, those training days
(as four explore what’s to be learnt),
for caravan well under way,
good news beyond old Zion’s walls.
Thus foreign wise or shepherd crew
(ill-disciplined, religious laws)—
more volumes hold (like Disney sold)
their angle (angels?), spin untold.

Each claims their bold theology
(their editorials behold!)—
is that why Advent mix confused,
unstable, as their focus stalls?
Now here’s the preparations laid—
a King whose power swaps might for love,
so lore from Eden, crossroad’s tree,
amalgamated in the One.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Advent is designed to show that the meaning of Christmas is diminished to the vanishing point if we are not willing to take a fearless inventory of the darkness.

―Fleming Rutledge

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine Advent poem today, starting us off on the crazy month of December! May we be willing to "take a fearless inventory of the darkness."

For more about the meaning of Advent, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advent/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!