I'm in the Mood for Lowell...

A RAINY NIGHT
—Amy Lowell

Shadows,
And white, moving light,
And the snap and sparkle of rain on the window,
An electric lamp in the street
Is swinging, tossing,
Making the rain-runnelled window-glass
Glitter and palpitate.
In its silver lustre
I can see the old four-post bed,
With the fringes and balls of its canopy.
You are lying beside me, waiting,
But I do not turn,
I am counting the folds of the canopy.
You are lying beside me, waiting,
But I do not turn.
In the silver light you would be too beautiful,
And there are ten pleats on this side of the bed canopy,
And ten on the other.

__________________________

Speaking of sexy lady-poets, Sacramentan Claudia Trnka will be releasing her new littlesnake broadside, Public Places, Private Spaces, from Rattlesnake Press at tomorrow night's reading at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30-9 pm. Here's a tasty sample:


STRAWBERRY
—Claudia Trnka, Sacramento

The scent rushes ahead,
its light, sweet promise
sweeping over my open lips
and across my tongue,
stalling my eager bite.

Eyes closed, I linger—
savor the aromatic invitation
as if nosing a fine wine
that speaks of sun-filled days,
cool nights, slow ripening.

Teeth pierce its smooth skin
releasing a burst of acrid tartness,
ruby-fruit complexity speaking tales
of dark soils and deep soaking,

warm mulch and sharp-edged hoes,
its wholeness blending with my own—
from subtle, sweet seduction
to surprising sharp tang.

_________________________

Thanks, Claudia!


DISSONANCE
—Amy Lowell

From my window I can see the moonlight stroking the
smooth surface of the river.
The trees are silent, there is no wind.
Admirable pre-Raphaelite landscape,
Lightly touched with ebony and silver.
I alone am out of keeping:
An angry red gash
Proclaiming the restlessness
Of an incongruous century.

________________________

THE MIRROR
—Amy Lowell

Opaque because of the run mercury at its back,
White with a breath of yellow, like tarnished silver,
The old mirror hangs over the chimney-piece
Incased in its carved frame, and reflects the room beneath.
It is warped and bulging, because of the great fires
Of other years; and dim with the sun shining in it every Spring.
Old men and children move before it, and it reflects them all,
Pulling them this way and that in its uneven surface.
The pictures pass over it like mist over a morning window,
And it hangs in its carved frame, tarnished and beautiful,
And reflects everything.

______________________

AFTERGLOW
—Amy Lowell

Peonies
The strange pink colour of Chinese porcelains;
Wonderful—the flow of them.
But, my Dear, it is in the pale blue larkspur
Which swings windily against my heart.
Other Summers—
And a cricket chirping in the grass.

______________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)