All Is Not Lost?

IN THE CAGE
—Robert Lowell

The lifers file into the hall,
According to their houses—twos
Of laundered denim. On the wall
A colored fairy tinkles blues
And titters by the balustrade;
Canaries beat their bars and scream.
We come from tunnels where the spade
Pick-axe and hod for plaster steam
In mud and insulation. Here
The Bible-twisting Israelite
Fasts for his Harlem. It is night,
And it is vanity, and age
Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear,
The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.

______________________

All is not lost! Taylor Graham writes to say that the four wayward dolphins Down South did not evacuate the planet after all [see yesterday's post], but apparently have allowed themselves to be re-captured, rather than risk life among the sharks. *sigh* We all make our choices.

I, for one, continue to live among sharks. This time it's the metaphorical shark of technology—actually, it's almost always that same rascal who stalks me—who is holding up the production of FANGS, which Robbie has done a dandy job on. Now all we have to do is get it mass-produced, which is proving more elusive than the diddling dolphins. All is not lost. We shall prevail...

While you wait, head over tonight to either The Book Collector (1008 24th St., Sac., 7:30) to hear Elsie Whitlow Feliz read from her new rattlechap, Tea With Bunya, or go to hear Jose Montoya read at South Natomas Library on Truxel Rd., 7 pm. Usually our two reading series don't conflict; this was an unfortunate convergence of the planets (my fault) that hopefully won't happen again. Sorry, B.L.

If you're of a mind to attend the SPC Writers Conference (The Poetic Experience) October 7-8, or even just the single day on the 8th, you can download the registration form from their website (www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org), or Robbie or I will send it to you.


More from Bob:


RETURNING TURTLE
—Robert Lowell

Weeks hitting the road, one fasting in the bathtub,
raw hamburger mossing in the watery stoppage,
the room drenched with musk like kerosene—
no one shaved, and only the turtle washed.
He was so beautiful when we flipped him over:
greens, reds, yellows, fringe of the faded savage,
the last Sioux, old and worn, saying with weariness,
'Why doesn't the Great White Father put his red
children on wheels, and move us as he will?'
We drove to the Orland River, and watched the turtle
rush for water like rushing into marriage,
swimming in uncontaminated joy,
lovely the flies that fed that sleazy surface,
a turtle looking back at us, and blinking.

_____________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.