And Miles To Go...

Winter is finally here, with some rainy miles to go before the Solstice turns us around and the days start getting longer again.

WINTER'S WORK
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Rain scrawls down windowpanes like smashed bugs.
Makes me remember my California childhood.
We trimmed the Christmas tree with aluminum icicles
mother called rain. Every winter I unfurled
strands of it, placing each laboriously on the tree
until they grew into a downpour. Afterwards
I packed each disintegrating string back into the skein
of rain, out of thrift, the nemesis of Christmas.
One Christmas day the uncle who always needed
to get a breath of air, swung up the stairs to the porch
and yelled, "It's snowing, it's snowing!" He led me out
with his big firm hand. Then all the cousins rushed
out of the house and we tried to catch snowflakes
on our tongues. Fog blew in and hushed everything,
but it didn't measure up to snow. Cards came,
with a single house in fields of snow, windows
glowing, a fox popped out of its den, unafraid,
and there were no quarreling families inside.

____________________

Thanks, Jane! See more of Jane Blue's poetry—and some of her photographs—in Snake 8, coming to warm up your cockles in mid-December.


SONG AT THE YEAR'S TURNING
—R.S. Thomas

Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream decays.
The props crumble. The familiar ways
Are stale with tears trodden underfoot.
The heart's flower withers at the root.
Bury it, then, in history's sterile dust.
The slow years shall tame your tawny lust.

Love deceived him; what is there to say
The mind brought you by a better way
To this despair? Lost in the world's wood
You cannot stanch the bright menstrual blood.
The earth sickens; under naked boughs
The frost comes to barb your broken vows.

Is there blessing? Light's peculiar grace
In cold splendour robes this tortured place
For strange marriage. Voices in the wind
Weave a garland where a mortal sinned.
Winter rots you; who is there to blame?
The new grass shall purge you in its flame.

_______________________

LORE
—R.S. Thomas

Job Davies, eight-five
Winters old, and still alive
After the slow poison
And treachery of the seasons.

Miserable? Kick my arse!
It needs more than the rain's hearse,
Wind-drawn, to pull me off
The great perch of my laugh.

What's living but courage?
Paunch full of hot porridge,
Nerves strengthened with tea,
Peat-black, dawn found me

Mowing where the grass grew,
Bearded with golden dew.
Rhythm of the long scythe
Kept this tall frame lithe.

What to do? Stay green.
Never mind the machine,
Whose fuel is human souls.
Live large, man, and dream small.

_____________________

—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.)