Voyages On a Full Sea

  Image by Marc Schlossman

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

 

 

FOCUS, SPRING

What’s hanging in the balance here,
this planet we misname as earth,
when seas topped mountains, they its bed,
then green and pleasant, for its turf,
but born blue cradle, life rebirthed,
a cycle onwards, rough terrain.

The dial, it hovers, waiting turn
of mind and culture register,
some due weight given to its cause,
while man kind only to his own,
though all that’s owned, joint stewardship,
and daily undermined for wealth.

As Eve draws near, a clearer voice—
for lunar’s cycle moves the tide—
if nature heard, some wayward learn;
but is the dusk too far advanced,
those adamantine chains too rust,
the diamond facet hard to cut?

Maybe the newborn lust for life
will cry out loud, not whimper soft,
awaken those whose slumbers last,
and force them rise and too attend.
All held meanwhile in this suspense,
our focus, spring, anticipate.

 

 

 

 Seascape-Jetty

—Henry Ossawa Tanner (USA), 1879

TEMPLATE WIELDS

Near fifty years since I in Sceaux,
not knowing Henry Tanner there—
a grave place for a starry son.
I would have honoured him:
mother a slave till underground,
Wesley episcopal, father brand,
and he debated octoroon.

He detailed real rather than type,
his daily frame, as middle name,
a battleground for freedom fought—
from canvassed shades came life and height.

His passage first on seascape rocked,
the horses riding in their rage,
the roar of forties turning bend,
the swell, walls, gulfs topography,
sourced bubbled springs, drops of rain,
oasis cloud or ice-melt stain.

That water of the gully drift,
should visit berg and sailing ship,
moisten lips, xylem, tree of life,
intricacies of massive maze,
the plumbing of a worldly sort,
nature, nurture, experience.

So of Sarah, Ossawa welled and willed,
pattern against the template wield,
some hope in stratified, stultified,
a point of light in layered dark.

 

 

 

Lovers on the Beach

—Müfide Kadri (Turkey), 1913

LIMINAL LOVE

But love, not lovers, sea translates,
Sahil’de Aşk, a wider wake,
much broader canvas, miniature.

With notes, piano, oud, kemenche,
now liminal, as woman’s craft
observes herself, in scape with folk.

Presenting strong, hand belt, her arm,
pure she, white-dressed, moonlight and hope,
a tonal spread in dreams of young.

First teacher, Ottoman female,
art, contra-diction sets apart,
juxtaposition, empire, she.

Against the tide of current flow,
she sets a course that followed through,
a novel homage, Last Work penned.

Such works of forty, twice her years,
as sold, support, Society,
calligraphy that marks her grave.

Like any cocktail, shaken, stirred,
Love on the Beach, a heady mix,
talent ingredients, short life.

 

 

 

Lovers in Small Boat

 (sometimes called The Demon Love) 

—Maximilian Pirner (Czech Republic), 1884

TROUBLED WATERS

Before the launch, encomium,
assumed fare suit for season’s mood,
and illustrate for secret cards—
why my unease, discomfiture?
Reading romance or demon power,
ask who or what is at the heights,
emotion, power of love displayed
or dominant ascendency?

This separates the lads from lass,
in what they see, or choose to view,
and on which side might dare to be,
some gilt enhanced or guilt betrayed?
I wonder, one neck-gripping hand,   
another, tense, seeks gunwale cloth;
is one in charge, or charge in both,
a supplicant or slave entwined?

The mastery, line sinuous,
said compliment, or complement
to devil lover—even pair?
In dusky shade, her flesh must cool,
unbalanced strain, skeletal thrall,
I fear abuse is, hear, laid bare,
pink ribbon, pinned to prize displayed—
is small boat universe, or cell?

 

 

 

 Snack

—Daphna Kato (Netherlands), contemporary

INKSPIRED

Languorous lie, less stretch as loose,   
acute, obtuse round island rug,    
a carpet fringe, frieze hieroglyphs -
by fall of things, a pattern type.
Though parallels do not conform,    
accoutrements of lazy life,
of physics serendipity,
here’s surreal to mark our ways.

See flex as spring, aerial view,  
curl fronds, though not acanthus, phew!
Framed heavy dark, yet flecks, grain, rain,
what midnight hour for fairy tail?
Of mermaid form, those weightless legs,
her limbs a tale of trailing lithe,
line crested spine of dorsal fins,
a stegosaurus costume break?

A piece of cake, this inkspired plate,
or is it pizza, box wide eyed?
Do snakes snack after jaws engorge?
No apple of that Eden’s eye.
Remote at hand if surf the strange,
defy the gravity of all,
break out the order of the day
to dream beyond the pre-set staid.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

—William Shakespeare

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to BritPal Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine Ekphrastic poetry!

 

 

 

 

Wordsworth’s Bad Day

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Cindy Ok
will be reading in Davis
tonight, 7pm, with  

Jade Meshew and Roy Magat.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 LittleSnake, "bound in shallows"~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something Unexpected

 —Poetry by Taylor Dibbert, Washington, D.C.
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

TIME TO GIVE UP

If you’re a
Dude and
Your wife
Tells you
That she has
Something unexpected
To share
And if that
Unexpected thing
Is that
She’s now
Into women
In general
And one woman
In particular,
Then it’s time
To give up.

 

 

 

 

PARENTING LESSONS

He's young enough
To remember
Thinking of step-parenting
As an unalloyed treasure
But old enough
To know the truth.


(prev. pub. in Poem Hunter)

 

 

 

 

GRATEFUL

He's looking back
On his first marriage
And feels
Increasingly grateful
That no small humans
Were added
To the picture.


(prev. pub. in Poem Hunter)

 

 

 

SOMETHING LIKE THAT

He's walking along
Maple Avenue
And sees
A couple
Holding hands,
He has no idea
When he might
Be able to do
Something like that.


(prev. pub. in Poem Hunter)

 

 

 

 

REGRET

He wasted
A lot of
Good years
On her,
Regret all over.



(prev. pub. in The Piker Press)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Nice people don’t necessarily fall in love with nice people.

—Jonathan Franzen, Freedom

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Dibbert for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

It's tulip time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

Spider Circles

Exit Winter

* * *

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

 

 

RECLUSE AND KNOCKER AT THE DOOR 

—Joyce Odam

I must not leave the house today. The sky is wild.
The tardy birds are worried. Grass is clawing in a
yellow clutch of wind, (…what is that sound…?)

It’s only Tom. He skitters beneath the bodiless
dresses that hang like other selves so limply in
my closet. (Here, Tom. Here, Kitty Kitty…)

The nervous windows of the house rattle to one
another. The dusty curtains quiver in that conver-
sation. My ghosts make movement. Tethered
darkness holds them, but I will not have the light
lest they be seen by anyone but me.

There is a touch of cobweb on my skin. The
spiders put it on me while I sat day-dreaming,
waiting for the clock to finish out the hour. I hold
a broken handle and look for me in something half-
remembered. (Just the dream.)

The childrens’ voices tell me, coming thin and
crying from their flaw of time. I silence them. (No,
little curious hands. No. Don’t let the knocker in.
The faithful door insists we are not home.) We
cannot find ourselves. Once, when I was frightened,
I broke every mirror. The image still splinters when
I turn my head. And now I search for my whole face
in slivered glass.

(…Sh-h…Hush, Kitty Tom.) Hush, children in my
mind. The wolf is knocking at our door. He’s going
to huff, and puff, and blow our house down. I told
you this would happen.
                                                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/6/15) 

 

 

 

 Year By Year

HOUSE OF WEB AND DUST
—Joyce Odam

Cobweb Lady
lives in her large house
of web and dust.  Her windows are filmy.
Her cats groom themselves endlessly.
                 .
She sits in her gown of velvet,
reading diaries.
Everything is written there.
                 .
All day she recreates memories.
All night she suffers their transformations.
She has no energy for the spiders
or their works of art.
                 .
The spiders work around her,
patiently busy,
making the dark house corners elegant.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/16/10; 6/8/21;
2/1/22)

 

 

 

In Shade

MY ABHORRENT FASCINATION 

—Joyce Odam

Handsome spider
       swift as shadow
             dark as thought
                   makes its way
                          across the wall
                                seems to notice
                                      my attention
                                             hides behind
                                                   Picasso now.

(prev. pub. in BOGG, 1998)

 

 

 

 Until

FEAR OF SPIDERS
—Joyce Odam

I’m sure there are spiders enough
to go around.

They shine in the eyes of birds
and crawl in the dark of sleep.

They are poisonous, every one, with a
tiny bite so you will learn them slowly.

They own the night of things,
all its dark corners, all its deep.

You are only the center for them to find.
Be patient, they will come:

When you close your eyes; when you are
fastened down between webbed levels of sleep.

 

 

 

 Another Flower

THE GLISTENING
—Robin Gale Odam

After “Spiderweb” by Kay Ryan

we couldn’t know how frail she is,
she toils at daybreak, gathers dew,
a glistening

her web extends from thorn-to-thorn,
it glistens with the morning dew,
a suffering

the sweat of dew, the sip of blood,
the daily bread, the rigid thorn,
the toiling

we sweep it all away each day,
she toils at daybreak, gathers dew,
the glistening

                           
(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2017)

 

 

 

 To Be Written

WOMAN CAUGHT IN A BLUE DREAM
—Joyce Odam

After a photo by Gjon Mili, 1944  

 

Caught in moonlight’s floating web,
in breeze of silver—shred by shred,

of dream sensation, yielding deep
into the curtain of her sleep,

enveloped by the closing room
wrapped and wrapped in sleep’s cocoon.
                                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/22/11; 10/10/17;
12/18/18; 1/9/24)

_________________

HE TAKES THE SPIDER
OUT TO THE YARD
—Joyce Odam

A huge black spider
in the bathtub—she will not
turn on the water—
but she wants a bath;

he gathers it onto
a piece of cardboard—
gentle as it takes—
and leaves the tub to her;

she pours the musk-lotion in—
turns the water on—full force,
and bends to froth it deeply
with her hand.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/16/21; 11/14/23)

 

 

 

 Another Time

ALONE AT THE LABYRINTH
—Joyce Odam

Again I misread the signs I must construe
to get through this haunted land.

How many ghosts have gone before?
I see their footprints everywhere,

that not even rain has washed away,
nor wind with its ragged broom.

I hear the howlings in the maze
and pray to some god of entanglement

for release from this confusion.
My maps are useless here . . .

the way-back is closed . . .
the way-in has four directions.

The high walls glint with mirrorings
that seem to quarrel with each decision.

                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/10/17) 

 

 

 

 Spacial

CIRCLES
—Joyce Odam

The circles of rowing :
oar patterns every
three lengths
of the boat,
leaving little oar-dips
that make circles that widen
until they match the rest of the water.
            ~
The circles of rain :
little
droplets
that bounce into rain-circles—
over-lap and
blend
with the raindrops to come—
oh, making mirrors.
            ~
Circles of knowledge :
tree circles of growth—
you can see the circles
when the tree is cut down.
            ~
Spider circles :
circular and circular and circular
strands
of creation,
of simple intention—
an apparent lure for trespassing

 

 

 

 Thinking

LABYRINTH 

—Joyce Odam

Web
is mental,
not unlike
the will of
righteousness—

do not test it
as test is wont to do,
nor argue with it,
there is no frame of thought
it cannot override—

don’t tempt fate
as innocence
will tempt—
let it be,
unless you
are a labyrinthine spider, too.


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

 

 

 

As Day One

THAT ONE ROAD
—Robin Gale Odam

there might have been another breath
of time—the sigh of the greater day would
ripple the grasses near the edge of the
road, then veer inward through the
brackish prayers of souls

far ahead the muse would approach the
shore of the mirage, motion for us to depart,
disappear into the illusion of water beneath
the haze of night, at the bend where shadows
turn—that one road we all must go

 

 

 

 As It Was

THINGS THAT REMAIN
—Robin Gale Odam

the perfume of sage, the dust on your old
watch, the handful of marbles dug out of the
dirt and the gauzy web in the corner, near the
feather duster.

cold black coffee. two chairs in the back yard.
                                                              
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE USEFULNESS OF ART
—Joyce Odam

A tantrum wind—
a window rattles in the dark,
and something wild
breaks the glass and leaves its mark:

a broken web
by only tantrum threads now held,
its art destroyed,
where once a fussy spider dwelled.
                                

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/10/17)

___________________

Our Seed of the Week was—can you tell?—Spiders, and the Odam poets have risen to the occasion, as always. Most spiders spin webs, and the possibilities of a metaphor there are endless, as Joyce and Robin Gale Odam demonstrated.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Highway Robbery”. Had something stolen lately? Your wallet, your heart, your government, maybe? 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 our latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Photo 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet Another Web of Intrigue

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox

 (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Devyanshi Neupane, 

Sayanı Muhkerjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Illustrations 

Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

SNAZZY SPIDER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She spins a web of finest silk
adorned with dewdrop diamonds.
She gathers it to float away
and sail high seas in style.

 

 

 

 

 WINDFALL
        San Rafael, Ca
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

A Victorian mansion
stands deserted
on a hilltop,
while its
ancient
apple trees
drop
windfall
gems
in
piled leaves
where spiders
nurse, wait
& hibernate
under worn
pup-tent webs.

 

 

 UNSEEN PERILS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

not all spiders are celebs
nor do all make homes in webs
deadly threats that hide in dark
could be strangers in the park

checking account off by some
trouble lurks and will soon come
missed a lecture in tough class
it’s on test to bite your ass

bought a car, it looked so nice
engine fails first roll of dice
man proposed and she said yes
outcome still anyone’s guess

“fresh until date” days away
don’t read label, price to pay
use a ladder for repair
add more weight than it will bear

first to use poetic form?
reading shows that it’s the norm
waiter gives you the best seat
cannot get enough to eat

 

 

 

 

 

SPIDERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The letters wander, paper place,
as if the writing lacks control,
a waste of space, yet occupied
by gliff marks, stains claimed, moving hand,
so spidery, when compact sought.

This cottage, wood work, timber beams,
with nooks and crannies every turn,
where webbing trembles, trampoline,
a battlefront for type of clean,
what template set, clean living met?

For her the years’ deposit mess,
for him preferred to flying corps,
in dust and ashes, soup unseen,
these weightless in their waiting room,
or drop in, abseil from thin air.

It’s leggy scurry, knees, unease,
coordination, moving parts
that causes shudder, or ignore,
for harmless against global scores
core native species here before. 

 

 

 

 

TOO EXPENSIVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

(After last week’s SOW, “Too Expensive”)

Most all on offer, all we buy
is too expensive—pensive thought.
It’s less our pockets bear no gold
as Mother Earth has less supplies
than that demanded, us, our seed.

Through our sailing close to wind,
as though our current, currencies
should sustain such, much growth on growth.
Though barns be full, we build still more.

Accounting in not cash alone,
but social credits on the books,
as too those debits, prices paid,
a balance, as art of the deal;
the art of ancient stories’ line,
creation myths by wise designed.

Expense of spirit, waste of shame,
misuse of others, Eden’s blame,
so as creation’s myths are shared,
the challenge posed, but what is dared?

Ensnared by Zeitgeist, very, few,
a greater mass has riches too,
yet even greater, poverty;
when will those barns be battered down? 

 

 

 

 

I LIKE WEATHERS:
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

I like cold weather
I like warm Weather
I like Rainy weather
I like Sunny Weather

 

 

 

 

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

Purple hibiscus and the tears of tomorrow
Bleed a thousand promises of faith
I breathed a heavy breathing of autumn
Of memories and March days
Of banal thoughts and the heights of the promise
An autumn day of quiet and solitude
The river runs a deeper knife
Of past statues and quiet evenings
A little day of yellow faces
My poetry is for roses and dandelions
Dancing around the river green
Till the moonshine kisses the rain. 

 

 

 

 

YOUR GRAND-DADDY’S CAR
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

This is your Grand-daddy’s car
One that puts your head back
When you step on the gas
It’s got power
Under your ass.
This is your Grand-daddy’s car

This is the one
He drove for fun
At a hundred miles-per-hour
On Sunday afternoons
Down a long, straight, road
With its V-8 humming
“Just to blow out the carbon,”
He said,
But people standing
Alongside the road
Swore they could hear him
“Whoo-hoo!”
When he passed by.

This is your Grand-daddy’s car
With paint that shined like the sun
When you’d wax it
On Saturday morning,
Before the sun got too strong,
Getting ready
For that Sunday ride
With the top pulled down
For the sun to bake your skin
And the wind to whip your hair
Leaving the world behind.
This is your Grand-daddy’s car.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web.

 

—Pablo Picasso

____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for writing about, among other things, Spiders (our Seed of the Week).

 

The March 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!

 

A note that the tribute to B.L. Kennedy which was scheduled for March 1 has been re-scheduled to March 8, Three Penny Theatre in Sacramento (next to SPC), 7:30pm. 

____________________

—Medusa

 

Words to the wise:

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents
 Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here

open mic on Freedom of Speech/Press
tonight, 7:30pm, 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stale, Stale Saturday Nights

 —Poetry by Richard LaDue, Norway House,
Manitoba, Canada
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A LIBERAL ARTS SORT OF
SATURDAY NIGHT

Listening to classical music while drunk
seemed to lessen our drowning,
and maybe even gave us a reason
to do a dead-man float inside our empty glasses
until we sank too easily
underneath refills
that guaranteed slurred words
more pebbles placed inside our pockets.

Your vinyl record of Mozart
a lucky find from a thrift store,
leaving me to point out his love of shit jokes
as a way to sound witty
among all that dead genius,
and our traumas babbled at each other
like two people who never learned
how to listen
or the river we fell in too often
to die of thirst.

 

 

 

 

IT’S A GOOD LIFE IF YOU DON’T WEAKEN

Tuesday night beers helped the darkness
enter the corners of my brain,
where lies about the yellow flowers
inside my glass grew
and made more sense than the truth
of my escape being just
a room with the lights off. 

 

 

 

 

A VICTORY

I remember the choruses now,
instead of waking up the next day,
knowing there was music,
but the words blacked out
like information I made confidential
just to make more questions
out of another stale Saturday night.

The hangovers desperate to end
up meaning more than cheap whisky
and eggnog not mixing well,
only to surrender my favourite songs
to the drink without realizing my defeat
an old one, like a scratched record
grandparents never thought enough of
to mention in their will.

 

 

 

 

AS A COASTER REASSURES ME

I remember when that vacant lot
was a home to an empty house,
where my grandmother used to live,
and as tall as the grass is now,
it seems shorter than the beer bottles
piled in boxes on top of each other,
waiting to be turned in for nickels,
teaching me early about nothing
being free in this life.

She never owned the land,
yet her third husband decided to plant
strawberries that we liked
to theorize were still thriving
(hidden behind a pine tree,
similar to a breath-mint covering up
whisky breath at 10 AM),
even if his recipe for homemade beer
lost as an alchemist's secrets
to change the colour of lead.

Meanwhile, I peal the label off
my beer and hear the silence
give me its family history,
only to stop listening as my own ghosts
never arrive, leaving me alone
with my golden inheritance.

 

 

 

 

AN OVERCOOKED TV DINNER
ON A SUNDAY

Waking up in a cold sweat
in a Winnipeg hotel room,
wondering why the whisky
had all the solutions last night

instead of a kiss in the rain
that never came,
an overcooked TV dinner
on a Sunday, baseball scores
still as strangers' obituaries,
the right to vote for a millionaire,
hungry children, overfed people
unable to taste the pesticides
in their blueberries,
another dying soldier
staring at the sun and seeing god,
or a lotto ticket lining
a pocket seduced by lint,

only to go back to sleep
because all the problems
that trouble the world
sound like a lullaby
the longer I think about them.

 

 

 

 

MEMES AND THE NEWEST PHONE

Bukowski drunk again and picking fights
just to prove to anyone watching
he was a man, until he died
and left behind a bunch of poems
published like he was some sort of spirit
haunting a typewriter,
except we know better now
than to believe in ghosts,
instead finding faith in things
like memes and the newest phone,
leaving the dust to write love sonnets
to all the wannabe Bukowski's,
who struggle to find the right words
to describe our encroaching loneliness.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AGAIN
—Richard LaDue

I try so damn hard not to worry
about my worry of all the little things,

but I can never squash it,
even if it no longer makes cobwebs in my brain,

because its eggs are still somewhere
out of sight like any smart bug,

waiting for me to miss some crumbs
or spill a beer I never thought I'd have

again.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Canadian Richard LaDue for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 More than one way to drown those sorrows…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Celebrating The Kanchenjunga

 —Poems and Photos by Mitali Chakravarty,
Singapore

 

 

KANCHENJUNGA SUNRISE

Today I celebrate
the Kanchenjunga
with words. I bow to
her plenitude.

Pristine and white,
she turns gold as
the first ray radiates
a new day, new-born.

And yet, she stands
there, old as the hills,
older than you, me
and all our past lives.

She absorbs to
irradiate peace and
benevolence to
those who believe.

Grandeur, abundance,
opulence that nature
nurtures with love glow as
the Kanchenjunga turns gold.

The Kanchenjunga was,
is and will be—we may
fade but the golden
Kanchenjunga will remain. 

 

 

 

 

FROM THE ZENITH

The Kanchenjunga—
Was she gold when
Lucy sang lullabies
in arboreal Africa?

Did the sunrise shine
on her pristine slopes,
when humans walked
across the Bering bridge?

Was she there when
Genghis or Napoleon
with their hordes dreamt
of conquests and empires?

Did she weep mists  
when borders spilled
blood to incarnadine
sunsets, darken nights?

Does she still watch history
unfold daily from her high
vantage point at one of
the zeniths of the Earth? 

 

 

 

 

SUNRISE

The grey town
wakes up to a
bustle of colours.

The sun shines
shades into our lives,
vernal green into trees.

Bricks and mortar
intrude into grassy lands.
They stand unmoved. 

 

 

 

THE RIVER

Glittering, the river flows
towards the sea, burying
mysteries in its dark womb.

Timeless stories, adventures,
pirates, ships and mermaid
tales grow out of waves.

The sailor weaves a tale
while gazing at an expanse
of malleable watery stretches.

His stories are fluid like the
liquid on which he lives. We
believe or not is our own will. 

 

 

 

 

A PAGAN PRAYER (OR A LOVE SONG)

Let the peace
of birds, skies
and greens seep
into me.

Let the rays of
sunshine peeping
out of clouds
energize my being.

Let me feel the
Universe within
my lungs, my heart,
my head, my feet.

Let me ride the
breeze to distant
lands, touch the sun
with unscalded hands.

Let me dissolve
my every molecule
into the grass that
covers all land.

Let me be
a part of this
borderless entity
wafting… living… loving... 

 
Today’s LittleNip:

COOKING
—Mitali Chakravarty

I cook stories 

 of my life. Long
ago, I broiled,
   boiled and basted
food. Now I only
cook stories in
broths of imagined
worlds to seal
with love.

___________________

Mitali Chakravarty, who first visited the Kitchen in June of 2024, has two books of poems: Flight of the Angsana Oriole (2023), and Cities, Nomads and Rocks (2024). She has edited two anthologies, one on violence against women in South Asia, Our Stories, Our Struggles (2024), the other, a collection from Borderless Journal, Monalisa No Longer Smiles (2022). Mitali rests in clouds and edits borderlessjournal.com/, an exploration of a world beyond borders.

About her photos, Mitali writes: “I am sending you photographs of a Kanchenjunga sunrise which I took on 2/2/2025; I have sent you two poems about the sunrise. It’s a stupendous experience. I saw it from an altitude of 2.5 kms, from a place called Ghoom.”

 

For more about The Kanchenjunga, go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kangchenjunga/. And see yesterday's Kitchen for a couple of limericks by Mitali.

Thanks for the exhilarating poems and photos, Mitali, and don’t stay away so long next time!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Mitali Chakravarty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
 Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair
will offer a workshop in Lodi
today, 11am; there will be a
jam and show in memory of
B.L. Kennedy today, 3pm,
in Sacramento; a fundraiser
for Sacramento Poetry Center
happens in Sacramento at 5pm;
and The MVPs of Poetry read
in Sacramento tonight, 8pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!