Whisper of a Song

 The Soul Of A Bird

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

 

 

CIRCLE ME DEEP
—Joyce Odam       

arc me into long flight
indiscernible curve
arrival
no thought backwards
sigh
whisper
here

pin me into staying
I with my
butterfly shape
and moth journey
and no love for velvet

circle me deep
of one continuous spiral
I who am always falling

brace me with edges
I who collect things for boxes
and fill them with dust and
never open them

scribble me sane
I with my loud dark line
all in a tangle

blot me with slow surrealistic white
in drift of easiness
tender phasing into dream flight
fancy me the soul of a bird
no song
no care
vision me everywhere

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/13/13) 

 

 

 

 A Torn Page Lies Waiting

IN THE RECESSES
—Joyce Odam

In the murk of remember,
a torn page lies waiting
for this poem:

I prefer the damaged—
the substandard—over the
sleek perfection of unmarred pages;

I favor this wrinkled sheet with its fading,
its stain from some old spill, its torn corner
from an uneven stack of such pages.

this page will do for my first draft
of whatever poem will come to me—
those phantom words I try to find

to honor the imperfect moments,
the illusive and unexplainable,
unworthy of acclaim.

I would dig deep into the rising
of mind-fragments for
what I would say

in empathetic musing
that would mean
the way my heart feels when it is broken.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16)

 

 

 

 Before I Wake

INSOMNIA XI
—Robin Gale Odam

Eyes closed in the dark of the hour
I remember a melody, where it lifted

into its higher register—I used to sing
when my voice was younger, resilient

and fair as daylight. I hum a rasp of alto
in the asylum of nighttime.
                            

(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2016;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/4/23) 

 

 

 

 I Remembered

INSOMNIA XXI  

—Robin Gale Odam

crescendo of night
silver light through window blind
whisper of a song
syncopated memory
hollow night, echo of prayer
                           

(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/26/23)

 

 

 

With Hours Made Of Time

TO A MENTOR

—Joyce Odam

I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,

and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—

thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :

poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind

with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back

—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/7/17; 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

Promising Everything

 

THE WAY OF WORDS
—Joyce Odam

You touch the gray light
at the edge of that dark word.
How you speak—

so dense and deliberate.  
Is it regret you say—
so heavy with pleading—

promising everything . . .
                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/9/22)

 

 

 

 The Perfect Day

PSALMS
—Robin Gale Odam

i read your
beautiful songs,
closed the book,
dusted the cover
         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/23)

 

 

 

She Wanted Me To Know

  

 

MOTHER CALLS ME WITH HER DYING
—Joyce Odam

Mother says she is dreaming that she is dying and
just wanted to warn me, prepare me for the phone
call that would come.

I am calm, remove myself from responding. I
don’t want to hear this. Mother’s voice is turned
down low. I can barely hear her.

She says she has to be careful, that they listen at
the Nurse’s Station, but she is dying in her sleep
and she wanted me to know—wanted to hear
my voice—hundreds of miles between us, and time
itself three hours away.

Now, I don’t want you to grieve, she tells me in her
old no-nonsense voice, and though I try to open my
mouth to answer, she keeps on talking.

I cannot interrupt her, though she dwindles off again.
Wake up! I want to say—but don’t know what that
would mean—if she is really dying—in her sleep—
in her mind—in my imagination.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/13; 10/22/13)

 

 

 

You Whisper Back

 

I WHISPER INTO THE TELEPHONE 

—Joyce Odam

I whisper into the telephone.
You whisper back.

We talk of silent things . . .
we talk of silent things . . .

repeating ourselves
and offering questions.

Oh?
and, Yes?

Dyings are like this.
And waiting for dyings,

which is what we
have no words for,

though we speak and speak
in these whispers.

                     
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, 1994;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/11;
10/22/13, 1/5/21; 7/19/22) 

 

 

 

Confess Myself

 

ADMISSION
—Joyce Odam

Talking into a dead phone, I apologize
to the silence, confess myself
to the listening . . .
as if through a
curtain . . . imagine a
response . . . imagine a sigh of sympathy.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/19/22; 

9/20/22; 3/19/24) 

 

 

 

 The Long Quarrel With Time

Let it whisper away

all you meant to say

the long quarrel with time
and its occasional rhyme

all the sorrows and woes
all faith as it goes

wondering again
in search of an amen

to contradict the prayer
that is ever there

beginning of the aftermath
in God’s hollow laugh

whisper then alone
faith is the undertone

that burns into the soul

the part of you that’s whole

 

—Joyce Odam

                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16) 

 

 

 

 Life And Its House

Today’s LittleNip:

TEARS
—Joyce Odam

They were never for this symbol
—not the tender image of a poem,

softly jeweled by a glint
of light
on a smooth face—but a

smear of dark feeling, salty to the taste,
making wet stains upon some pillow.

                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/21/10)

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was Whispers in the Night, and the Odam poets have sent us whispers of all kinds—whispers in the night, whispers of words, whispers of a song—and we are most grateful for their magical touch.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Vacation”. 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

 

 

 

 “. . . a glint of life on a smooth face . . .”

Woman in a Red Head Tie
—Painting by Constantin Aleksandrovich, 1939



















 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wispas in the Night

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,

and Medusa

 

 

WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Grandchildren snacking, midnight feast,
their Wispas shared, hushed giggle fun,
aerated dense chocolate bars,
beneath the duvet covers, done,
their whispers heard, memory Mum.

Lit by the moon, lace tracery,
those wispy clouds, more air than drips,
keep searching out substantial cloud,
though sympathetic fallacy,
white wispers floating cross dark skies,

Deprived of sight, where nothing’s bright,
all other senses to the fore
with space for fear, first nurtured hint,
here’s echo chamber for afraid,
each noise, sound basis, further fright.

Boy Samuel on Temple mount,
Elijah quaking, still in wind,
there, lores galore would claim the voice—
though prophets rarely spoke so soft—  
breath, spirit, ruach, whispers, God.

But Chinese, most, such whispers ‘heard’,
from ear to lip many a slip,
long distance call, and cheeky too,
translated as men wont to do—
a late night party strategy.

So gossip tendered, palm to mouth,
campaigns to undermine some truth,
Iago to Iachimo;
by sleight of hand or slight from tongue,
the green-eyed monster is released,

In folklore of strange histories,
here horse and whispered mystery;
I heard achieved by biting ear—
expected pain, so Pavlov’s dog.
It dawns that day has followed night.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

IN THE NIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Gossip floats in windy dark
from tree to tree to tree.
In moonlight, branches
wave their leaves
to tap-tap on my window.
Did you hear? they whisper,
knowing I don’t know
the language of the night.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

I LIKE TO BELIEVE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

nearest stars to earth
whisper in the night
in lullabyes that
babies listen to.

Some whispers we hear
are nearly drowned out
by moon’s loud chuckles,
by planets in choirs.

If you ask some stars
to whisper, they won’t.
Then, slipping to sleep,
one hears that soft sound. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WE’VE MET THIS CAST OF CHARACTERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(prompted by Rachel Maddow’s recent mention
of a “protean set of facts”)  

To say that something is a "protean set of facts"
means that the facts are exceptionally changeable,
variable, and capable of taking on many different
forms or interpretations. This phrase is derived
from the Greek mythological figure Proteus, a sea-
god known for his ability to change shape at will
to avoid answering questions.

Koalemos is the Greek god of stupidity, considered
a daemon or a minor deity who personifies foolish-
ness and stupidity.

In Hinduism, Apasmara is a demon who embodies
ignorance. He is often depicted as being subdued
by Lord Shiva, symbolizing the constant struggle
between knowledge and ignorance. In some inter-
pretations, Apasmara is considered immortal,
representing the ever present nature of ignorance in
the world.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

IS MY BATH READY?
—Caschwa

Sure, just walk out to
the end of the pier and then
take a few more steps

* * *

RIGHT SIZE
—Caschwa

This is the secret
How to please everybody?
Keep household at one

* * *

FIRST AID
—Caschwa

Hit by a heart attack?
Grab the foil of one corner,
peel it back and chew

 

 

 

 

Naked Lady Lilies

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

My mother-in-law has naked ladies in her yard, and the welcome sight of them inspired me to dig out this old poem of mine. Maybe, if you listen, you can hear these ladies whispering in the night:


NAKED LADIES ARE DYING
 
in dusty fields alongside abandoned farm-
houses, where well-worn hands once planted
a few friendly faces. . .  Late August heat
 
has finished short leafless lives:  faded pink
bonnets bob away from searing sun, bow
to the golden grass crowded around their
 
feet. Farmhouses are just as faded: porches sag
as paint peels off the dry wood.  But the naked
ladies will be back when next year's sun climbs
 
once again into August:  fresh faces will
remember those well-worn hands that
planted them in the past.
 

 

—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

OBJECTS OF DESIRE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Objects of desire
Are drawn away,
Stretched into abstract
Things that pull away
From every form of substance,
Into papier-mâché,
Slopped onto
Rounded hubs
Brought into play

Throwing plaster
Onto molds
Carved and shaped from clay,

We feel the way
The hollows
Bring forth what we would say
When they are filled in
And brought to
Permanent reflection
As granite shines like skin.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LOOKING BACK
—Joe Nolan

All messed up
And all gone, gone.

All the ones I catered to
Have all moved on.

Was I so unworthy
To keep them here with me
Or was it just they
Never identified
With what I mean?

Looking back
On every broken urn
That used to hold some water,
But only for awhile,
I think about living and capture
That go into raising a child--
Taking up the yolk
And plowing down a field
Over and over each year
With blinders on
To not stray from the track,
Always keeping busy
With no time to look back.

 

 

 

DIno Buzatti

Dino Buzzati is an Italian fabulist 

whose novels and short stories are 

often called “Kafkaesque.”

BIRTHING BUZZATI
—Joe Nolan

If existential dread is your flavor,
Then Buzzati is for you.
Who is Buzzati?
What does he mean to you?

The flavors of summer
Are meant to be sweet,
Juicy and delectable,
Joyful, without retreat,

Ripe fruit
And ripe women,
Bared skin
From the heat,

As every heated hunger,
Unleashed, without surcease,
Inclines toward winter’s
Later births
That come in from the Fall.

We wince.
To acknowledge it all
The way that surly winter
Brings forth the births of Fall.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A HUMMINGBIRD
—Joe Nolan

A hummingbird
Fetches drops of water
In the air
From an oscillating sprinkler
Set out on a lawn.

It seems the bird is happy,
Delighted to drink pure,
Pure water
Before it touches earth.

It moves so lightly,
Dancing from place to place
Around the streams of water,
Taking just a drop each time
It goes in with its bill.

Delighted,
Like a man in love.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

Forever and always with you
I find the beauty of your soul growing
With your blues
Thunderstorm over this town
I can escape burning with your hand
The little unnamed flowers along the path
where river flows a sublime zeal
Dance and music nature's flowing through
Shimmering and shining with your cityscape
I always find a reason to be with you
My forever and always earthen song.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

—James Joyce

 
______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our contributors for their poetry and photos today, some of which are responses to our Seed of the Week, Whispers in the Night. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. And check each Friday, too, for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be closed for reforms
throughout August.
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.

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!

 

 

 

Death's Delicate Silence

 Can you see the critters hidden in the shade?

—Photos of River Red Gums in the
Flinders Ranges, South Australia,
by Ginette Pestana

—Poetry by James Aitchison,
Melbourne, Australia

 

 

river red gums

gray sentinels
rising from
forgotten creek beds
spreading love
twisted roots
tussling the rock
holding stories
remembering old storms
praying water will again
this way come

 

 

 

 

power lines

is this where they’ll run

across this valley,
gossamered in mist

where quaint old farms
guard lush treasures,

and will they squat
on ugly haunches

predators in repose,
 
and will they corrupt
the landscape

to feed far distant
cities

and will no one care? 

 

 

 

 

INGRID IN THE BUSH

When light of sun fades
The bush softens,
Becomes softer, the translucence
That once lit Bergman,
The soft deflected haze of
Eucalypt-scented air in lazy
Twilight, the dewy composition of
Her face, in wan tones devoid of color.
The day is closing,
Ingrid fading now,
Into the eternal evening.


(First published in Quadrant, Australia, 2021)

 

 

 

 

LOST

There, on uneasy hills,
pastures are appropriated.

And on the river flats,
where vegetables like
soldiers marched, machines
crucify mortal soil.

Morning fences lean into
one last sunrise that spikes
with gold the mourning shed
where harnesses once jingled.

In one eucalypt, magpies are
demagogic in its naked branches.

A farmhouse, beyond redemption,
its chimney brick and staunch,
soon will be devoured.
 
After pillage—an exhibition village;
an unpretty paradise with plastic flags,
manned by flash-suited locusts,
honey tongued.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

DAWN
—James Aitchison

I saw the sun rise,
rise into the truth,
the truth of the soul,
and I saw we are eternal.
Dying, I saw white light
at the end of my days,
death’s delicate silence
as soft as butterflies
on clouds, and I saw
we are eternal.

_________________

Aussie Newcomer James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet. Of his 203 books, many are horror stories written for middle readers, written as "James Lee". They inspired the Netflix series, Mr Midnight: Beware the Monsters. He believes in the transformative power of poetry; many of his poems address mental health issues as well as the beauty of the world around us. Welcome to the Kitchen, James, and don’t be a stranger!

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 James Aitchison

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreams Full of Star Fire

 —Poetry by Michael Dwayne Smith,
Apple Valley, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Medusa

STARDUST TELEGRAM TO
MELODIOUS PITY

Poetry magazines stink
with the fear of death—

O poem, I’ve dreamed about you,
or was that your shadow,
sooty sequins up and down,
heaving black sighs,
tragic and disinterested.

This poem demands a sleuth
and a witness. This poem
appears before the Poesy Circuit
Court Judge. It looks suspicious
and wants a rap sheet.

When I started college,
I drove around the desert smoking
OG Kush and throwing
rubber-banded folds of the
L.A. Times. One June somewhere

near four a.m., the headlamps
of my flibbery Toyota long-bed,
its hood held down by bungee cord,
thrattling in a sandy dark,
lit up what looked to be

a hundred blind rabbits bobbing
across some pot-holey road.
With no time to stop, my brake
pads burned away, it was
thumpity-thump-thump for bunnies

up and down my wheels.
I think about those hares
when my eyes roll over the pages
of a poetry rag, all those poems
victims of their own thanatophobia,

dying of self-pity in the
starry blind light of brightness.

 

 

 

 

DICTATION

When I was then, I wandered into a bobcat den,
rubber suited and oxygen masked, feral, guttural,
underwater in my own skin. When those lights
came on, there was a wet mattress on the floor
and rings around my rubber head, two thousand
blue pigeons, stunned one-by-one by young Father
Thompson. In the name of Jesus, he did it. And
in the name of a thousand burning pianofortes.
Faceless melodic voices rang out from a walk-in
closet, broken, yet in flight, yet featherless, yet
placenta shiny, as they lifted a field of boulders
and held it in the hot black sky. I remember moss
on the mountain, the weather churned dichroic,
colors in utero, and all the stiff old men, in their
fascist convention, with grotty scales, smelling
of decomposed torsos, heaving snake heads like
stroked-out Joe Stalins masturbating in spring.

 

 

 

 

FINESSE

You hand me a bouquet of tombstones.
A dream full of star fire stares me down.
You look away, crestfallen.
Whispers of smoke love you,
slithering like rumors through your hair,
coloring your ear, undressing you
with misty teeth.
Cemetery clouds hover my eyes.
Anise in the air, mascara black, I drop
the bouquet on the ground,
next to your dress. We hold hands,
walk down into wet grass, muddy soil,
where wise dirt roots absorb us,
and now to seed, to flower, to flavor
the herbal tea of the actor learning
to play fresh depression, deftly,
on an out-of-tune lover’s burning piano.

 

 

 

 

MARS IS STARING RIGHT IN MY FACE

The moon isn’t killing anyone, isn’t
really concerned with dark matters.

A moon only looks good when some
star is violently aflame. But Mars

is another story: his blood is real,
his sword is true, at least according

to the cop I flagged down this morning
in front of the dispensary. Orange

has become the color to care about,
the color to watch. Sneaky, like a

sick dog, it creeps around with one
eye half-shut, the other bulging. Cops

know more than astronomers about
all this stuff: their blood is orange

when it should be martyr red. No,
not anymore, the cop told me as he

patted me down, nicked my eightball.
There is no heaven, he said, then

cuffed me, coughed, and he added,
We’re eating the cats, we’re eating

the dogs, and we’re shipping all you
Martians back to your planet to die.

 

 

 

 

JAMES WRIGHT

And why are you not reading James Wright
right now? He’s got the true heart down pat—
his first drafts were often written in sky blue

chalk, on a sidewalk Whitman refused to use,
even when Uncle Walt was saddled by extreme
feelings of Big-J Joy and Big-B Brotherhood.

Walt says you didn’t know that. James Wright
knows you knew it was fake. Poets do that. Lie,
I mean. There’s no profit in banditos on a beach

unless you can shape their moves, speak their
truths, rock the heavens with their big, pressing
questions. Veronica never wrote a sonnet, but

she wanted to be compared to a summer’s day
by someone, preferably a Malibu lifeguard on
the prowl for a divorcée with two disgruntled

kids. “Destiny’s legs are wide open,” she’d say,
“You just have to strap it on and ram it home.”
This fluorescent light is flickering. The battery

in your remote is low. Gotta get my Superman
cape to the cleaners by five, so next time just
remember: James Wright. His heart was in it.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Summer is the annual permission slip to be lazy. To do nothing and have it count for something. To lie in the grass and count the stars. To sit on a branch and study the clouds.

—Regina Brett

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Dwayne Smith for today’s fine poetry! Watch for more from him next Saturday.

 

 

 

 

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.

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!

 

 

Waiting For The Next Miracle

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

 

 

 DUA 4    

lightning thunder

waves splash to squall, wind has its way

*
summit rocks graven with uplift and crush
 
spurting fire and fusion

*

ages-worn stone sits staid as a vicar

waiting for the next miracle

 

 

 

 

WHERE’S THE CAT?

Yes, the art of ambush is known to cats.
The ones too large to hide in paper bags
or boxes in the closet—the ones whose
waiting needs free air—might be anywhere
invisible, shadowing our footsteps,
our lives as we venture the woodland trail.
My dog in the lead, I watch his posture,
stride, the lift of his muzzle. His senses
keener than mine, but I’m looking behind
us up ahead and above for the cat—
a cougar lying silent, motionless
on an oak limb for the moment to pounce.
Oh where? lurking in imagination.

 

 

 

 

HE CUT THE WRONG DEAD BRANCH

Crazy with a buzz in his bib overalls,
elbows flailing—is it hornet, yellowjacket,
wasp? He’s doing double-time
to get rid of the hitchhiker, escape
to any place but here—to just be sitting
bored at his desk.

 

 

 

 

RED DOG SPEAKS

Patience is a virtue
for the wild dog—subsistence
hunter—hoping to catch scent
or sight of its prey,
for the herding dog waiting
for Master’s whistle-release
to drive his sheep over the hill
or down to the creek.
But this—
sitting motionless for an hour or more
while Mistress sits on a park bench
reading yet another chapter
of her fantasy . . . . 

 

 

 

 

WINDOWS WIDE OPEN

Golden Shovel on a line from John Haines

Listen for the horned owl calling, while
the only sound is a ceiling fan, the
predictable night-breeze in these long
sweaty months under a chill moon
that shimmers silver as it drifts.

Young doe stares at me
across such a great distance—
she and her twin fawns.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

XMAS IN JULY?
—Taylor Graham

Why’s
this stuffed
reindeer in the
ditch? Was Santa’s elf
mistaken?

__________________

As usual, Taylor Graham’s poetry and photos “spit fire and fusion”, and we are always grateful for her visits to the Kitchen. Forms she has used this week include the Dua, which is also a Word-Can Poem (“Dua 4”); some Blank Verse in Response to Katy Brown’s "The Art of Ambush” at https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=katy+brown+the+art+of+ambush and our Tuesday Seed of the Week); another Word-Can Poem (“He Cut the Wrong Dead Branch”); some Prosopopoeia in Response to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge in Medusa’s Kitchen (“Red Dog Speaks”); a Golden Shovel (“Windows Wide Open”); a Haiku (“Young doe staring at me”), and an Elfchen (“Xmas in July?”). The Prosopopoeia and the Elfchen were last week’s Triple-F Challenge.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, info about El Dorado Country’s regular workshops is listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and about EDC 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/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
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.)


Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

A Quiet Moment by Edwin Harris, Newlyn School
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:

LASS WITH COLLIE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A beautiful young lassie
With her collie,
Attentive and patient
Ready to defend
Against all comers and
Do it to the end.

For now,
Things seem so peaceful,
Picture-perfect to
Read a romance novel,
Think about her future—
What kind of man she’ll have
With children soon to follow,
All dressed-up in white,
For the moment,
A precious, quiet moment
With her loving collie.

* * *

IF WISHES WERE MINUTES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She slipped away
to childhood’s grove,
where clocks unwound
to yesteryear.

But time is cruel.
It ate the hours of her life,
and locked her out
of childhood’s grove.

* * *

VERDANT PASTURES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Appealing dog and peeling bark,
the curse of wordsmith facing art,
save that they’re both demanding paint,
an early brush for fourteen years.
The lady, wood, as birth place suits,
for Birmingham, where biog starts,
but schooled in Newlyn, set apart,
where Cornish light sought the best out.

Domestic to the garden brought,
a harbour of a different sort;
how spent then the unquiet hours—
what etiquette of class obtains?
Green shades of grasses, field and seat,
a benchmark for the meadowsweet;
white space for daisies, page addressed,
tight boddice draped by straw hat plait.

Eyes pause for fur, genius stroke,
with tail, of paws and intense sight;
what would she read, this leisured maid,
cross legged as only when alone?
En plein air as in Brittany,
now more, Lamorna, fishing by,
sum fifty of the colony,
in copper bottomed sanctuary.

I would those trunks be copper beech,
brown golden leaf of beaten trays,
traits other shapes of art nouveau,
that Edwin’s fellows followed on.
As schools trawl seas in Penzance bay,
how come these shoals of artistry
in waves find haven, fisher folk—
net worth well known, community?

* * *

CRITICS ABOUND
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

The large dog in front
has nothing at all to say
but the little man behind it
just won’t let things lay

each gentle turn of the page
by princess white fingers
unleashes new plots and twists
perhaps a murder mystery lingers

she may race to the end
skip a chapter or two
while the little man comments
quick critiques with no cue

* * *

Joyce Odam has sent us a Nocturnette, a short,
evocative poem that explores themes related to
nighttime, often with a focus on mood, atmosphere,
and sensory details associated with darkness. It's a
miniature version of a Nocturne, carrying the same
essence but in a more compact form: 6 lines broken
into 3 couplets, each couplet rhymed as aa bb cc;
4 Iambic feet to a line. Here is Joyce’s Nocturnette:

 

 

 

REND
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Now, balance out this night, oh, Lord,
with falling stars––to give reward

to tearful eyes and stricken heart––
to all from which we tear apart.

Flare out the moon to its full eye
to draw this prayer through such a sky.


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Autumn 1997-98;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen 8/29/17; 11/24/23)

* * *

Here is an Ekphrastic poem from Stephen Kingsnorth
about this photo which appeared on MK on Tuesday,
July 22:

 

 

 

CAN PAST BE YET PARTICIPAL?
—Stephen Kingsnorth

As scan the agent’s market place,
this cottage dream, my fairy tale,
appears on wish list at the top;
until internal photographs
reveal detailed interior.

A pit for privy, mice tails, rats,
that leaking thatch which candles snuffed,
those freezeframe windows, frosted glass,
a handpump, early morning splash,
but dressed as floral choccy box.

Why hanker, I, this fantasy,
romantic vision of our past,
bucolic idyll, winding path,
the ploughman plodding, weary way
to honeyed cott for sanctuary?

Eye candy for buyer’s remorse,
in floribunda, rambling roof,
that blooming scent of sales technique;
though cruder ways predominate,
its cottage industries attract.

Prevaricate, participate,
engage with past, but modernise,
tap into slate roof, double glaze,
replace that pit with sceptic tank,
and, always near, reach terms with rats?

__________________

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.) Follow Joyce Odam's lead with a Nocturnette:

•••Nocturnette: miniature version of a Nocturne, carrying the same essence but in a more compact form: 6 lines broken into 3 couplets, each couplet rhymed as aa bb cc; 4 Iambic feet to a line

•••AND/OR write the more expanded version known as the Nocturne, exploring these warm summer nights in poetry:

•••Nocturne: https://poets.org/glossary/nocturne

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

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

____________________

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

•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Dua (devised by Ai Li): a two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elfchen: https://medium.com/@Stevie.TheWritersRevival/creating-an-elfchen-poem-821eadecb2c7
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Nocturne: https://poets.org/glossary/nocturne
•••Nocturnette: 6 lines broken into 3 couplets; each couplet rhymed aa bb cc; 4 iambic feet to a line
•••Prosopopoeia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prosopopoeia#:~:text=The%20term%20derives%20from%20the,Caecus%2C%20a%20stern%20old%20man
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••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.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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!