Various Forms of Ruination

HORSES ABOARD
—Thomas Hardy

Horses in horseclothes stand in a row
On board the huge ship, that at last lets go:
Whither are they sailing? They do not know,
Nor what for, nor how.—
They are horses of war,
And are going to where there is fighting afar;
But they gaze through their eye-holes unwitting they are,
And that in some wilderness, gaunt and ghast,
Their bones will bleach ere a year has passed,
And the item be as "war-waste" classed.—
And when the band booms, and the folk say "Good-bye!"
And the shore slides astern, they appear wrenched awry
From the scheme Nature planned for them,—wondering why.

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James DenBoer gave a great reading last night at The Book Collector from his new book Black Dog: An Unfinished Segue Between Two Seasons and from other work and translations that he is currently absorbed in. Thanks, Jim! And congratulations! I'll send anyone a free copy of his rattlechap if they'll send me a poem about black eyes.

I really will send you a book if you send me a black-eye poem. Honest. Not all poetry contests are on the up-&-up, though. Check out the Wind Publication website (windpub.com/literary.scams/) for links to descriptions of questionable sites, with explanations of their dangers and why they are hazardous.

I'm still typing up Snakelets, the journal of poetry from kids 0-12, if you have any spare kid/student/grandkid-poems lurking about. Halloween can be the inspiration, or...? Get 'em to me by the end of next week. And while you're at it, try to inspire the teens, too (13-19), for the Nov. 1 Vyper deadline.

And the deadline for the grown-up Review, (Snake #8), is only about a month away (11/15), so git crackin'. Don't let the columnists do all the work, either—if you have an idea for a prose article, now's the time to suggest it to me so we can get it going in time. Or, if you don't have a specific idea, but feel like writing something, I have several ideas for interviews and other coverage simmering on the back burner that you might pursue. Remember, Sac is a bubbling cauldron of poetry life, and the Snake has only scratched the surface so far! Help your community by using your considerable writing skills for the good. Sometimes we don't use or appreciate what we have:


THE RAMBLER
—Thomas Hardy

I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat
When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!

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THE RUINED MAID
—Thomas Hardy

"O 'melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"—
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

—"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"—
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

—"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon', and 'theas oon', and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"—
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

—"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"—
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

—"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"—
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.

—"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"—
"My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined." said she.

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—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.