Sometimes Whistling

THE PIECES OF MY VOICE
—A.R. Ammons

The pieces of my voice have been thrown
away I said turning to the hedgerows
and hidden ditches
Where do the pieces of
my voice lie scattered
The cedarcone said you have been ground
down into and whirled

Tomorrow I must go look under the clumps of
marshgrass in wet deserts
and in dry deserts
when the wind falls from the mountain
inquire of the chuckwalla what he saw go by
and what the sidewinder found
risen in the changing sand
I must run down all the pieces
and build the whole silence back

As I look across the fields the sun
big in my eyes I see the hills
the great black unwasting silence and
know I must go out beyond the hills and seek
for I am broken over the earth—
so little remains
for the silent offering of my death

______________________

B.L. Kennedy's Urban Voices reading series next Wednesday (10/19) at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Road, Sac., has had a time change. The series has been running from 7-8 pm; now it has switched to 6:30-8 pm. This is a definite plus, allowing more time for readers and conversation. This month the reader will be Todd Walton.

This Saturday (10/15), Underground Poetry Series features the Black Men Expressing tour at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, Sac. Info: 455-POET. $3. Sunday (10/16) the Poems-For-All Sunday Afternoon Series features Donald Sidney-Fryer at 4 pm, reading from his latest book, Songs and Sonnets Atlantean (The Third Series). Then Monday, Sac. Poetry Center presents Claudia Epperson and her new book, The Warrior King (HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac, 7:30 pm).

_______________________

WIRING
—A.R. Ammons

Radiance comes from
on high and, staying,
sends down silk
lines to the flopping
marionette, me, but
love comes from
under the ruins and
sends the lumber up
limber into leaf that
touches so high it nearly
puts out the radiance

_______________________

BEES STOPPED
—A.R. Ammons

Bees stopped on the rock
and rubbed their headparts and wings
rested then flew on:
ants ran over the whitish greenish reddish
plants that grow flat on rocks
and people never see
because nothing should grow on rocks:
I looked out over the lake
and beyond to the hills and trees
and nothing was moving
so I looked closely
along the lakeside
under the old leaves of rushes
and around clumps of drygrass
and life was everywhere
so I went on sometimes whistling

________________________

Medusa will be taking a short rest tomorrow; see you Sunday.

—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.