Seekers With Dreams

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

SKY OF INNER VASTNESS

Sky is a divinity
It is a wish of abundance.
I walk out of my aesthetic collage
And script the longings.
Accepting the melancholy
I want to tune a true harp.
In completion
The house becomes home.
Falling in love and affection,
Care and wisdom showers
Perfume of colorful abundance.

 

 

 

 

BRINGING YOU CLOSE

I brought you close
To the bosom of rich joy.
You left in an awakening.  
The thorn is no more a bouquet
Even in an imaginary touch.
Pain changes the seasonal artist
And he colors the melancholy.
A new way becomes the highway
Once it is accepted. 

 

 

 

 

I STAND STILL

I am a tree
I have heights to attend
And yet I am a seed to be stepped on by  
The boot heels of burden.
Art is my way
To the salvation.  
I keep the wayfarers,
You have the piper,
And those that seek have dreams. 

 

 

 

 

INNER DIMENSION

Mind is a cooking pot
Hunger is for the body.

I wake up to the light
Like every darkness that passes away.

Some wordplay, some thrilling insights
A wild play isn’t a strict parade.

Time is a healer
Gifting every day.  
The ordinariness is lifted
Like a winning cup filled up to the brim,
A slight perspective changes the seasons
For tremendous good,
In what you feel.

The inner dimension is a reservoir well.  
Rules make a man,
Passion builds immortals.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Reality is wrong. Dreams are for real.

—Tupac Shakur

_____________________

—Medusa, with welcome back and thanks to Sushant Thapa for today’s dreamy poetry—

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

The thorn is no more than a bouquet~

Turkey Treats & Teacup Tantrums

 —Poetry by Snigdha Agrawal, Bangalore, India
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

BAD WRITER’S DAY

With an anaesthetised mind,


unable to put pen to paper,


I called upon the muses—


but they ghosted me. Typical.
So, I fled to the kitchen—


where creativity doesn’t


come with rejection emails.


Gathered random ingredients,


fired up the burners,


and voilà!


Spaghetti with prawns,


drenched in pasta sauce,


with a pretentious hint


of oregano and basil.
Now, I await the verdict—


from self-proclaimed food critics,


armed with sarcasm


and Michelin-level expectations.


Because why fail as a writer,


when you can fail as a chef too?

 

 

 

 

 

RECIPE FOR GROWING



 

Ingredients:



 

1 cup of self-discipline


1 cup of tranquillity


1 cup of an open mind


(freshly picked, not canned)


1 cup of willingness to rise (preferably unfiltered)


1 sturdy stick of wisdom


(aged, not brittle)



 

Method:



 

1. Take a walk of life,
    

    add self-discipline,
         

    and fry till golden brown
    Watch closely as the ego starts bubbling up
    

    like froth on a bad latte

    

      

2. Scoop out the ego with a ladle of reality checks
    (Warning: Ego is sticky, don’t let it splatter!)

 



3. Add a generous splash of tranquillity
    and stir like you mean it—
    no half-hearted whisking, mind it



 

4. Turn the heat down on negative thoughts
    If they persist, switch off the gas
    

    (always safety first!)

 



5. Carefully open the cover of judgment
    and throw in a stick of wisdom
    Watch it dissolve like magic—
    no stirring is required!

 

Serving Suggestion:


Best enjoyed with a pinch of laughter
and a side of perspective


Beware:
overconsumption may lead to
glowing self-improvement


and unsolicited advice-giving


 

 

 

 

STILL TOO ADORABLE

He’s got flaws.


Oh, plenty—annoying habits so ingrained,


they’re practically in his DNA.


But then there’s that IQ,


so high he could calculate


the square root of my patience.
Beneath his tough shell


is a rare kindness,


like a pearl in an oyster.


Except oysters don’t leave the cupboard


doors open or tap running.
Loving him is a tug-of-war—


half admiration,
half the urge to scream ‘close’


And just when I’m ready to quit,


he flashes that grin.
Love is blind—or at least needs glasses.


Cue applause... or therapy.

 

 

 

 

TURKEY TREAT

At Hong Kong Disneyland, under the sky so blue


A turkey leg awaited—a feast for me and you


Golden-brown and sizzling, its aroma filled the air


A carnival of flavours beyond compare

 



I held it like a sceptre, a monarch of the park


Gnawing through the tender flesh 'til well past dark


Juices dripped like treasure, rich and savoury gold


A taste so bold, a story to be told



 

Pirates cheered, and Mickey smiled—was it for
my snack?


Even the teacups twirled in awe, I felt the world
retract


Each bite cast a magic spell and with every chew


The castle seemed more surreal



 

The fireworks danced, and the crowds began to cheer


But I stood triumphant with my turkey spear


A taste of Disney wonder, a memory to keep


Of a turkey leg adventure—delicious and deep!

 

 

 

 

MANTRA FOR ANGER MANAGEMENT

When anger strikes, it’s like a toxic spill


on the river of my emotions,


turning the Picasso of my life


into finger-painted chaos.
It’s a full-body workout, 


draining all my energy while fuelling


an ego trip that’s about as useful


as unrisen dough.
“Try meditation,” they say. Sure, because


nothing cures rage like sitting still,


thinking about why you’re mad in the first place.


But fine, I’ll give it a go—


breathe in, breathe out,


and maybe toss in a glass of wine for good measure.

After all, most storms turn out to be


nothing more than a teacup tantrum,

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

GUMS OF GLORY
—Snigdha Agrawal

Oh, brave sir, who took the punch
Thought he’d dine on pride for lunch
A brawl to prove his manly might
But his teeth took flight into the night

Now he grins a gummy glee
Whistling tunes out of key
“Who needs teeth?” he boldly claims
As soup and broth become his flames
A hero’s tale? Perhaps, in jest

His ‘chompers’ are gone
He’s earned his rest
Next time, dear sir, pick words, not fists,
Or invest in dentures that don’t twist.

__________________

Newcomer Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) has an MBA in Marketing, and corporate work experience of over two decades. Educated in Loreto Institutions (run by the Irish Nuns) and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she has learned the best of the East and West.

Snigdha enjoys writing all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, and travel diaries. She is a published author of four books. Her works have appeared in several anthologies/e-journals, published in India and overseas. She has recently been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2024 for poetry. Snigdha lives with her husband in Bangalore (Karnataka), India.

Welcome to the Kitchen, Snigdha, and don’t be a stranger!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Snigdha Agrawal

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

Queer Sacramento Authors' Collective

presents six readers today at

The Avid Reader in Sac., 2pm; 

Capital Books in Sacramento

will present Grant Faulkner

today at 3pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
meets today at 4pm, featuring
Lee Rossi and Nick Minges.
For more 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!

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Woods

 This mycelium blossom is known as The Goblet.
* * *
—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 (Carl Schwartz), and Claire J. Baker

 

 

AMAZING MAZE

I’m footloose in unknown woods—
a sign says Big Trees at a fork.
No one has mapped the trails
of which there are so very many.

A sign says Big Trees at a fork
and where do the other ways go,
of which there are so very many?
Here’s Oak Canyon going east

and where do the other ways go
in the silence of living trees?
Here’s Oak Canyon going east
at a 4-way junction without signs

in the silence of living trees.
Am I lost in this adventure?
At a 4-way junction without signs
I might discover wonders.

Am I lost in this adventure?
I’m footloose. In unknown woods
I might discover wonders!
No one has mapped the trails. 

 

 

 

 

COUNTRY ROAD, DOWNPOUR

He walks clutching bedroll to chest. Where did
he sleep last night? Where tonight?
What shelter in between? 

 

 

 

WINDS OF WARNING

The rest of the Wilderness trail crew
was gone, fighting lightning fires. I stayed
on patrol. Why did I choose to hike
up to the crest as the storm closed in?
From such a vantage, thunder-
clouds were everywhere the sky was.
Sudden bright zigzags to the north,
northeast, east, south, behind me.
Wildfire wind pushing me down—
wind of warning: Stupid
to stay so high. Hustle down.
Not yet. I had no camera. It takes time,
to record a picture in my mind,
while the mind keeps saying “Down.
Now!” How I love thunderstorms. 

 

 

 

 

WINDS OF CHANGE
a fantasy

It came so gradually, after so many hurricanes,
        tornados, firestorms swept thru, destroying,
                devastating—the winds
began to lessen, and the people rejoiced, forgetting
how everything is bound together in its cycles and
currents, nature’s laws bowing to climate change.
Winds were failing, fading. With not a puff of
moving air, flags hung heavy on their poles. Where
were the sea breezes,
        the zephyrs, breath and songs of sky,
                winds flying kites, thermals
                        lifting birds to soar?
Cities stagnated under polluted skies. People had to
wear masks. Sailboats were becalmed, wind turbines
stood still. Poets languished in doldrums, no gusts
of inspiration. They fell back on imagination and
memory of winds—
        winds that once blew words and phrases
                thru their heads.

But it just wasn’t the same.

 

 

 

 

DOG OBEDIENCE

A Doberman and his handler were in line,
waiting at the obedience ring. As the judge,
a Black man, turned to face them, the handler
declared loud enough for all to hear: My dog
hates Blacks. His turn came, the rest of us
dreading the stand-for-examination, when
handler leaves his dog on a stand-stay, then
walks leash-length away, and the judge
approaches, touches the dog on head, body,
hindquarters. What would this racist dog do?
He wagged his docked tail, vigorously, non-
stop, delighted to meet such a nice human.
Clearly, the handler had not trained his dog
well enough to meet his expectations. 

 

 

 

 

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

Remember when we’d do Improv Poetry
on Main Street, typing original poems on request—
folks fascinated by our on-the-spot creation
of verse composed just for them, on a real-live
manual typewriter. Some people were too young
to have seen one except maybe in a museum.
We’d sit on folding metal chairs—no cushion—
under a popup or not, summer sun or cold winter
evening. Remember how we sat outside
the news store while people got rides
around a city block in a real-live stagecoach
from Gold Rush days. But all good things must
end and, without discussion, our typewriter
gig died abruptly with Covid, and
it never came back.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WIND DANCE
—Taylor Graham

Fallen leaves skitter
down just-swept sidewalk, released
to their winter dance.

___________________

The wonders of winter and our Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Winds of Warning”, are on Taylor Graham’s mind today, and we thank her for her fine poetry and photos!. Forms she has used include two Kimos (“Country Road”, “Downpour”); a 14-liner that is also an unruly Sonnet (“Dog Obedience”); an Ars Poetica (“Winds of Change”); a Pantoum (“Amazing Maze”); a Haiku (“Wind Dance”); and a Word-Can Poem (“The Good Old Days”). The Pantoum was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week.

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, there will be a Poet Laureate Trail reading by El Dorado County Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows in El Dorado Hills on Wednesday, 1/29, 5:30pm. Plus, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news 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), too. 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!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

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


LOOK CLOSELY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m not another pretty face
in thick fur coat with
diamond rings.
Before you leave,
I’ll have your wallet
and your safe deposit keys.
Look closely and you’ll
see my mask, and you
will know you’re skunked.

• • •

STUNK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Though reputation goes before—
not native of my homeland soil—
there’s hint of mink or ermine stole,
the skulking plots, ignoble Lords,
that stolen standing, woman, man.

It smells corruption, Tudor Court,
like Henry and his many wives,
a renaissance of burning stakes,
as axemen at the gallows lopped,
soiled rank was pulled, creating stink.

With polecats, nobles, weasel words,
Algonquin for its likely root,
the skunk, known, ‘urinating fox’,
though spray deployed does not enhance
implied insult, abusage term.

Their spray preserved by warning signs,
of hissing, stamping, raising tales,
the smell of papists, heretics,
once in their nostrils, prey pursued,
foul stench of devil, so abhorred.

That reek for course was on all sides,
religion used, supposed excuse,
ambition of the king, his men
for lineage as divine right
with lands, more wealth, best patronage.

But as for where those skunks are scene,
they’re not just ancient history—
that motivation everywhere;
it is the scent of politics,
sent into would-be stratosphere.

* * *

WHAT ABOUT PEPE LePEW?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Pictures of skunks
Inspire poetry
That stinks.

It’s hardly worth
Its paper’s ink.

What shall we say
Of skunks?
It’s better to keep your distance
Than get a spray
That takes weeks
To wear away.

If left alone
Far distant
Skunks might have place
In our world.
What is it that skunks do?
What about that sex-fiend,
Pepe LePew?

* * *

Joe has also sent us an Elegy:

 

 

 

THE DEATH OF THOMAS MERTON
—Joe Nolan

Did you at least find
Peace of mind
Inner poise
Contentment or satisfaction?
At least a
State of grace—
A holy place
To which you could retreat
And call home?

All the mystics have known
The Temple is within,
That the Son is in the Father and the
Father is in the Son and
That we are all one
In the unity of the Holy Spirit
Forever and ever,
Amen.

They just have to be careful how they express it,
If they even choose to,
So as not to run afoul
Of the laws against blasphemy.

The powers that be
Don’t want all the little peons
To be too free.
They might get uppity.

Stake-burnings
Are so cruel.

What happened to Thomas Merton?
Another electric crucifixion?
There are risks
In making it all-too clear
To the minions, the millions,
The classic masses
Who, left in ignorance,
Would just remain asses—
Meat for the grinders
That twist and turn
Mangle and burn
Underneath flags,
They parade for the lasses
To whom they hope to return.

Did you at least find
Peace of mind
Inner poise
Or was all the beating of drums
For rhythm-work
Just more noise
And a search for reckless abandon?

What of staring at walls
And watching your breath?
Did it ever lead to your ego’s death
And the advent of satori?
Or did it only bore you?
Make your legs sore
Make you wonder if there
Were not more
For you to do with your time
Than try to control your mind?

Thomas Merton never claimed
He would return
Or asked his students
To remember his name or proclaim
That He had entered the One,
To take up cups
Or break bread
In his honor.
He just went away
When his body
Was fried in a tub.

* * *

Carl Schwartz has been fiddling with the Nonce form; this one is axax axax axax:

 

 

DEMOCRACY, IN SERVICE TO THE KING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

in bowling, the kingpin dares the ball
to push it aside in a way to
topple nine more pins so that they fall
out of line, out of order, just down

our Colonies stood together, all
united by grievances, they were
strained and tired of the King’s beck and call
defied gravity, remained standing

now each with their own flags flown so tall
united by government that serves
the people first, not royalty’s doll
at least that’s how it was intended

* * *

This Nonce of Carl’s (17 lines, 10 syllables each) is a response to a recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Light/tunnel/and all that...”:

 

 

 

THE STUFF OF DREAMS
—Caschwa

the most beautiful poem in the world—
really had you going there, didn’t I?
because this draft is still searching for that
light/ tunnel/ and all that, the rest is fake
but let’s stay on that very thin thread of
hope, dope, lope, rope, cope, nope, magical soap

“my dog ate my homework” doesn’t work here
we lie down to tell the truth, transparent
not a plus for folks who won’t embrace the
LGBTQ whole line of thinking

soon we usher in the 47th
White House squatter-in-Chief, our top exec
whose mindset is like a medieval king
I, personally don’t mind treating him
like someone dead and buried more than a
thousand years ago, spit on his grave stone
bring my dog to water what’s left of him

* * *

And here is a closing Triolet (with variations) from Claire Baker, a response to our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Midwinter Moonlight”:

 

 

 

SNOWY LANDSCAPE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

A gull is now so slowly winging
across midwinter’s full white moon,
it’s silhouetted. Snow is clinging.
An inland gull is warmly winging,
unaware its flight is bringing
my pen to move, and not too soon.
A gull is drawn to slowly winging
across midwinter’s full white moon.

____________________

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.) Claire Baker has sent us one of her many Triolets; why don’t you reply to hers with one of your own?

•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry

•••AND/OR watch for snipnets from news, print journals, social media as sources to be put together into a Found poem, new piece of art:

•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem

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

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

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem

•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Kimo: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form AND/OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo
•••Nonce: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Pantoum: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html AND/OR https://poets.org/glossary/pantou
•••Triolet: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry
•••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.)

* * *

—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 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As They Crackle and Scream

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

FIRE

The fire has spread
from the mountain
to the shore,
from the cities
to the ruins of cities
burning
burning
burning
and it will catch you,
however far you run,
however fast you run
away

Death is running faster.
Soon only the dead
can stay.

Now even the sea is flaming
as oil burns in the water
burning
burning
burning
and however fast you sail,
however far you row
away

Death is moving faster.
Soon only the dead
will stay.



(First published in Gorko Gazette, December 2024)

 

 

 

 



FEED THE FLAMES


Gather round
the hearth
it’s a cosy place
if the fire is burning
and we’ll keep it burning
never fear
the flames
flickering
dancing
alight
alive,
a living fire.
Gather round,
we’ll keep it burning
the home fire
watch
closely
let yourself
be hypnotised
bewitched
be mesmerised
by the flickering flames,
waving and dancing.
Listen to them
as they crackle
and scream
as a living fire must.
Gather round,
never fear
only
feed the flames.



(First published in Truly Unique, October 2019)

 

 

 

 


THE DAY THE SUN BURNED


The sun is burning
molten
falling to earth little by little
Turning the sea to fire first.
The land will be next,
forest and desert,
mountains and plains
flaming.
It’s falling little by little
like blown glass
melting
It looks like a bright angel now
but the angels have burned
and this final fire
will pipe
the last post
as it crashes and burns
leaving nothing,
but darkness
when the fires burn
out
and the light
melts away.


(First published in Red Planet, 2020)

 

 

 

 

MELTING


The rock looms large above me,
the petrified remains of the last time the sun burned
in the time of giants.
Giant rocks and giant creatures fused together
in the fire.
Look!
There's one with a long nose!
Or maybe it's a beak.
And there's a human molar,
surely.

And here I stand now,
on my tiny rock.
Now I'm lit by moonlight,
but soon the sun will rise
and consume us,
fuse us together
and we are both so small,
I am not sure anything will remain
after.


(First published in Visual Verse, December 2016)

 

 

 

BURNING UP

The sun has risen
and it’s burning,
burning up
everything.
And I’m raising my arms
to worship
or plead.
Not sure which.
Praise or prayer,
perhaps they’re the same.

That’s my thought
for the day.
Quite profound,
I think,
for the day when I’m sure
I’ll be going home.
What do you think?
Are we of the same mind?
Great minds thinking alike again.

Come, it’s time
to go.
Hold my hand.



(First published in I Become the Beast, Spring 2023)


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EVEN BABIES ARE BURNING
—Lynn White


We have to save the planet
so we can’t burn coal.

But in Gaza babies are burning.

We have to save the planet
so we can’t burn oil.

But in Gaza babies are burning.

We have to save the planet
so we can’t burn gas.

But in Gaza babies are burning.

We have to save the planet
so we can’t burn plastic.

But in Gaza babies are burning.

The forests are burning

but

in Gaza even babies are burning.


__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry. California is all about fire these days~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Mobilizing For Spring

 Red Balloon

—Poetry by Ma Yongbo, Nanking, China
—Public Domain Artwork by Paul Klee (1879-1940)

 

 

PURE WORK

It took a whole morning to write the following
verse
“with every step closer, relatives of summer
approaches
on every inch of land, tears are shed”.
I cross it out the next day
I’ve been writing much less these days
Now I decide to do more

“I see relatives of summer
dreaming each other like mirrors”
or “I remember your expression of meditation
in a quarry in Greece, sunset glow and milk……”
energy of summer is distracted—
Grey glow on the clouds, stains of the window-
panes, butterflies
water drops on swallow-tailed wings, high towers,
footprints vanishing in the sea
As things seem to bear no relation with each  
other
One can go freely through the gaps between them

Another day, I wrote things
loosely connected with functional words
Behind the castle built with chessmen
Someone is turning a paper cannon
“Relatives of summer approach, every step closer,
exposing smiles and teeth.”
I wonder if things will change when I revise my  
writing,
or even postpone time and fate
But I care more about weather (many elderly lost
their lives
to this unbearable heat), or prepare myself some
lunch

So I drift a whole day on the river
Or walk on quicksand, kicking the gravel,
Look up into the “clouds”, “reflections of clouds
on water”
and “white bridge”, but I still feel unreal
As if I’m still passing through words
Still wearing myself down in a poem

 

 

 

 Park Near Lu

    

KILLING THE PIG
 
It’s already midnight. In the yard, the pot still boils,  
the smell of meat mingles with vague human voices.
They are still bustling about. The Spring Festival
[couplets] are red.
In the crabapple trees blanketed by snow, the
lanterns burn red.
The gate is ajar. Down the alley, the firecrackers’
confetti shimmers red.
 
Our four little black heads in a line on the kang,
we pretend to be asleep, and then I do fall asleep.
I am lifted, dazed, half-awake.  
A big bowl of pork with soy sauce.
Twenty years later, it’s still not digested. That pig
we raised—
I used to tickle it all the time, scratching it until
it rolled over, showing its fat belly, its red nipples.
 
We don’t have pigs anymore, and in the kitchen
no grown-ups bustle about, shrouded in savory
steam,
occasionally peeking in at their children,
those four little black heads, sleeping, at peace.

 

 

 

 Fairy Tale

THE MELANCHOLY AND MYSTERY
OF CHIRICO

The little train on the top of the wall runs rapidly
and repeatedly
to the empty square waving the steamed hand-

kerchief
on the temple with the triangulated frieze, the 

round clock
always stops at an hour, the skeleton of the bird
scatters from the air
the irregular shadow lying in the center of the
square to gradually rot
in each arch window there is a statue staring out

“The sunset is sad, and the sunset is always sad.”
the conversation starts time and again from the
beginning
with a pipe to draw waves, for them to worship
the empty chair on the sea waves, beneath the tall
square chimney root
the curly farmer is slumbering on the sarcophagus
the head is Venus of balloon, most of the body
is composed of broken violin, plaster mask, rubber
gloves, rules and wood.

“The difference between man and animals lies in
that man has responsibility, and knows to
accompany.”
Two female cadets walk through the endless
arcades that slant toward the horizon
their faces glowing with heat under the leaves
and the well-dressed civil servant
staring into the eyes of a naked colleague in the
pool
with the horn made of old newspaper behind his
back

Perhaps we should climb the red water tower by
the sea
the flags of unknown countries at an angle
from there the shadows of all things can be seen
without the wall white sails are sailing past, the
knights on black horses turning around the corner

How to see things as they are when we are not
there
when we just show up, they stop talking
and freeze for a moment into an empty posture
as we climb the endless slope of light
with nothing but a book and an iron rose on it
where we are going to be smaller than chalk
hiding up, to wait for the girl rolling the hoop

 

 

 

 

View of Saint Germain

KLEE’S WALK
 
As he walks, he takes apart a bird
that is also strolling like a ball of twine
and draws a portrait with the lines
the lines become more and more closely intertwined
until his future feature is a doodle
and he disappears for a moment, the lines at a loss
not knowing where to begin again, temporarily to be
dotted lines and footprints, wondering how to spend
the life
not be cancelled by an arrow pointing to a dead end
back against the sea, to wipe out the straight lines 

on the beach
away from what one is staring at wide-eyed
like a newborn angel, with torn wings
hard to resist the hurricane from heaven
or to place superimposed geometric forms
in any arbitrary place, to make the soil in the box
smell like old cotton thread. Intentionally
translate “still life” into “silent life”
or stop the high-voltage wire that carries
the slope of the rain long enough to form
an empty trap or a pool of water, we are also
likewise
long enough, and dogs will come sniffing at
our broken clues, and travelling circuses will set up
a gold-topped tent
old men replaced with the heads of light bulbs,
machines chirping
witches in their barrels, practicing their flight
from their sleeves they stretch a wire tremblingly
to the sky, here and there no darkness
no thickness, only numbers and bodies drained
of blood.

 

 

 

 Wild Bau

THE UNSEEN RUSTLE OF SPRING

When the unseen bustle of spring—
Birdsong, budding branches, rain, and the stirring
in soil
Turns into the drilling of upstairs neighbors reno-
vating,
Thump, thump, thumping nails above your head,
As if sealing your fate, burying you alive.
Within the taut trunks of trees, countless infants
awaken together,
Countless buckets go up and down in the well
shaft,
Countless sparkling little gears gnawing at each
other,
All mobilize for the unseen revolution of spring.
Meandering and splitting paths
transform into a bustling construction site,
A vast laboratory filled with pots and test tubes,
Colors, movement, and stillness, Sudden chemical
reactions.
When I think that after my death, everything I've
loved,
And those I never had time to love—people, books,
landscapes—
will continue to exist in a world without me.
I cannot bear it. If only I could vent all my frus-
tration
on that noisy neighbor with his hammer and drill,
He is determined to change his life,
A courage and enthusiasm I've long lost.
I won't knock on his door, I'll thank him
for juxtaposing wrinkled and sordid ventilation ducts
And bags of garbage next to budding flowers,
And Duchamp's urinal left behind in a hurry.
I'll thank these garbages for exposing
parts of life I want no part of.
Unable to change the world, I'll start a revolution
at home,
Standing at the window, gazing at the still world.
So, when this unseen beauty is yet incomplete,
I'll sit and bless it, awaiting the next roar and
tremble,
to prove that poetry can make the unbearable
Bearable. I'll thank him
For draining the gray pond of my mind
And driving me outside to join spring,
The torrent where all things merge and flow.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.

—Pablo Neruda

__________________

Newcomer Ma Yongbo, Ph.D, was born in 1964, and is a representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published more than eighty original works and translations since 1986, including seven poetry collections. His focus is the translation and teaching of Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half-a-million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprises 1178 poems and celebrates 40 years of writing poetry. He lives with his wife in Nanking, China. Welcome to the Kitchen, Ma Yongbo, and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Ma Yongbo (2018)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!