Flood Watch

FLOOD WATCH
—Steve Williams, Portland

The Willamette is mud puddle brown,
logs meander under steel bridges,
their branches swim and stroke;
crooked fingers on black sax.

The evening news gives updates
on how many feet over the banks.

I steal some caution tape from an orange
cone to take home and frame.
We’ll hang it over the bed.

My daughter finds a penny, tosses it
over the wall, into the flood
of ragtime, never asks where
stray wood that dunks and dips will go,

never asks how trees become logs
the way people become homeless,

never asks about the blankets,
cardboard, or castaways
under the bridge.

____________________

UNTITLED
—Ryan Davis, Elk Grove

The sky is overcast today,
meaning rain is going to fall.
but water won't be the
only thing falling.
Along with it
will be the drama
that'll fall like hail,
maybe roar like thunder,
or even strike like lighting.
Every hour that the rain fall,
will probably resemble
some kind of injury,
and it's going to feel like a cut,
or perhaps a bruise,
or more like a scar,
or maybe even like a burn.
It probably won't be long,
before the bleeding starts
from the kick in the ass,
from the flash flood
that couldn't be stopped
by mere sandbags,
or by leeves,
or even by a dam.
In fact,
it'll probably be feel like
a natural disaster,
since there are days
where there's a feeling
that everything is going
to fall apart,
and today seems to
be no exception.

____________________

Thanks to local poets Steve Williams and Ryan Davis for weather poems. Well, okay, Steve has moved to Portland, but he was in Sacramento... And weather we have had, which brings wild critters closer to my semi-suburban retreat: the birds and the squirrels hang around the feeders all day, waiting for the weather to clear, and this morning I woke up to (1) the smell of skunk—! and (2) garbage strewn all over the porch—apparently the raccoons have been by again. Gadzooks... I guess I better turn it all into some poems.

Tomorrow is the deadline for VYPER, the Snake journal of poetry from people ages 13-19. Send 3-5 poems to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or 4708 Tree Shadow Place, Fair Oaks, CA 95628. This issue will appear later in March, and will feature many poems from young poets in New Jersey, thanks to Snake-pal and poetry teacher Sal Buttaci, who regularly appears (every issue since the beginning, I believe) in Rattlesnake Review. Here's a poem from Sal; see Snake 9 (due out March 8) for more:

HELP WANTED
—Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci, Lodi, New Jersey

Cleaning woman,
come visit my lungs
on Wednesday afternoons;
make a new man of me!

Two floors up in the west wing
Harriet, who's been here before,
shoos away flies from a heart
sulking after another of love's delusions.

Cleaning woman,
come with your humming vacuum,
past my ribs,
into the dusty vaults of lungs,
and let me hear you
whistle while you work!

_______________________

A closer now from Bill Williams:

THE STORM
—William Carlos Williams

A perfect rainbow! a wide
arc low in the northern sky
spans the black lake

troubled by little waves
over which the sun
south of the city shines in

coldly from the bare hill
supine to the wind which
cannot waken anything

but drives the smoke from
a few lean chimneys streaming
violently southward

___________________

—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.)

Celebrating with Hank, plus po-events 2/27-3/5

THE CROSS OF SNOW
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face—the face of one long dead—
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, though all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

_______________________

Longfellow would've been 199 years old today. Celebrate his birthday by going down to HQ at 25th and R Sts. in Sacramento to hear Mo Stoykoff read for the Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30 pm. Other readings this week (that I know about—send more if ya have 'em):

•••Wednesday (3/1) Sacramento poet Kimberly White reads at The Sacred Grounds Cafe, the oldest continuously-held poetry reading in San Francisco. The Cafe is at the corner of Hayes and Cole Streets. Poetry is read every Wednesday starting at 7:30 pm. Come early for a hot meal, a glass of wine, and outstanding poetry. Info: JOELFALLON@aol.com.

•••Friday (3/3), The Other Voice in Davis presents Kathleen Lynch at 7:30 in the library of the Davis Unitarian Church at 27074 Patwin Road, Davis. This month's featured poet, Kathleen Lynch, is widely published and has won innumerable awards. Her chapbooks, How to Build an Owl and Alterations of Rising were awarded publication by Small Poetry Press as part of their Select Poet Series. Pudding House, in its invitational series, released Kathleen Lynch—Greatest Hits in 2002. Her poems have been included in many anthologies and appear in a long list of journals, among them: Poetry, Nimrod, Spoon River Poetry Review, Runes, and Northwest. Her most recent publication, The Hinge, released in February, 2006, was the winner of the 2004 Black Zinnias Prize in Poetry. Kathleen Lynch lives in Sacramento and works as a clay sculptor. She has also published B&W photographs, essays, and fiction. Friday's program opens with a presentation on Jane Kenyon by Betty Vlack.

•••Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac, presents poet/performers Ethnic Theatre Workshop from Sacramento City College, 8 pm.

•••Sunday night (3/5), attend an exhibition and readings to mark the 5th anniversary of the Poems-For-All Miniature chapbooks series! March 1-31, in cooperation with HQ partner Asylum Gallery, the Gallery will hold an exhibition of the over 500 miniature booklets published in the series in the last five years. You can view the tiny chapbooks during regular gallery hours, or while attending readings at HQ: Headquarters for the Arts, located at 1719 25th Street (25th & R Streets), Sac. This Sunday (3/5) at 8 pm at HQ, for example, attend a reading of poems by poets in the Poems-For-All Series along with a series of short films. Readers will feature Arthur Winfield Knight, Kit Knight, frank andrick, Joan Kruger, Rachel Savage and Richard Lopez. Also: Films from Levyfest: A Celebration of d.a. levy. Additional details: www.poems-for-all.com.

•••Also Sunday: before the Poems-For-All celebration, go hear Jeanine Stevens, whose rattlechap, The Keeping Room, was recently issued by Rattlesnake Press, at PoemSpirits in Room 11 at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd. (1 block north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues), 6 pm. A native of Indiana, currently living in Northern California, Jeanine earned graduate degrees in Anthropology and Education, but her poetry is inspired by woodlands, valleys, the Sierra, folk music and adagio dancers. Her poems have been in Poesy, Tule Review, Tiger's Eye, Bardsong, and the Sierra Nevada College Review. The Indian Heritage Council released her earlier chapbook, Boundary Waters. In addition on Sunday night, co-host JoAnn Anglin will present a brief overview of the work of Lucia Perillo, McArthur Award-winning poet who writes on nature and illness. There is no charge to attend this monthly series. Snacks available. As always, bring a favorite poem or two, your own or by another, to read. Info: JoAnn, 916-451-1372, or Tom Goff or Nora Staklis, 916-481-3312.

Coming next week: Save Wednesday, March 8 for the release of Frank Taber's new rattlechap, Northwind on I-5, at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac, 7:30 pm. Also that night, pick up copies of littlesnake broadsides from frank andrick (Aurelia Occultica Lamantia—AOL) and Judy Halebsky (Almost Turning Over), as well as brand new issues of Snakelets and Rattlesnake Review. (Wow—I better get busy!). Then on Thursday (3/9), go down to Luna's (1414 16th St., Sac, 8 pm) for Poetry Unplugged and hear frank andrick read at 8 pm. That's gonna be quite a week for Snake people, starting with Jeanine's reading on Sunday (see above).

Also a week from Thursday (March 9): Cowboy Poet, radio personality and Raconteur Baxter Black will be in Sac, presented by the California Lectures Series at the Crest Theater on K Street. Info: 800-225-2277 or californialectures.org. I personally have a bit of a jones for cowboy poetry, and he has been quite a Force in the genre.

_________________________

THE SOUND OF THE SEA
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.

_______________________

—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.)

The Insouciant Armadillo

COME INTO ANIMAL PRESENCE
—Denise Levertov

Come into animal presence.
No man is so guileless as
the serpent. The lonely white
rabbit on the roof is a star
twitching its ears at the rain.
The llama intricately
folding its hind legs to be seated
not disdains but mildly
disregards human approval.
What joy when the insouciant
armadillo glances at us and doesn't
quicken his trotting
across the track into the palm brush.

What is this joy? That no animal
falters, but knows what it must do?
That the snake has no blemish,
that the rabbit inspects his strange surroundings
in white star-silence? The llama
rests in dignity, the armadillo
has some intention to pursue in the palm-forest.
Those who were sacred have remained so,
holiness does not dissolve, it is a presence
of bronze, only the sight that saw it
faltered and turned from it.
An old joy returns in holy presence.

____________________

WITNESS
—Denise Levertov

Sometimes the mountain
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes
I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatugue,
when I forget or refuse to go
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day,
to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.

______________________

LIVING
—Denise Levertov

The fire in leaf and grass
so green it seems
each summer the last summer.

The wind blowing, the leaves
shivering in the sun,
each day the last day.

A red salamander
so cold and so
easy to catch, dreamily

moves his delicate feet
and long tail. I hold
my hand open for him to go.

Each minute the last minute.

_____________________

A REWARD
—Denise Levertov

Tired and hungry, late in the day, impelled
to leave the house and search for what
might lift me back to what I had fallen away from,
I stood by the shore waiting.
I had walked in the silent woods:
the trees withdrew into their secrets.
Dusk was smoothing breadths of silk
over the lake, watery amethyst fading to gray.
Ducks were clustered in sleeping companies
afloat on their element as I was not
on mine. I turned homeward, unsatisfied.
But after a few steps, I paused, impelled again
to linger, to look North before nightfall—the expanse
of calm, of calming water, last wafts
of rose in the few high clouds.
And was rewarded:
the heron, unseen for weeks, came flying
widewinged toward me, settled
just offshore on his post,
took up his vigil.

If you ask

why this cleared a fog from my spirit,
I have no answer.

_____________________

—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.)

Black History Month, Cont.

MADAM AND HER MADAM
—Langston Hughes

I worked for a woman,
She wasn't mean—
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.

Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too—
Then take care of her children
When I got through.

Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around—
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.

I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?

She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!

I said, Madam,
That may be true—
But I'll be dogged
If I love you!

____________________

I, TOO
—Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

____________________

NICE DAY FOR A LYNCHING
—Kenneth Patchen

The bloodhounds look like sad old judges
In a strange court. They point their noses
At the Negro jerking in the tight noose;
His feet spread crow-like above these
Honourable men who laugh as he chokes.

I don't know this black man.
I don't know these white men.

But I know that one of my hands
Is black, and one white. I know that
One part of me is being strangled,
While another part horribly laughs.

Until it changes,
I shall be forever killing; and be killed.

____________________

—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.)

An Old Lady's Flowerpot

THE HAUNTED HOUSE
—Russell Edson

Now the house of earth was not always a house. There was a time when nothing rotted. A time only of sanitary atoms. There were no smells, no blood clots, no flowers, no mice. And the earth was with egg or sperm.

Death arrived with life. They were lovers from the beginning. They fed each other. Life fed death, but death also fed life. It was their habit, they could not live without the other.

The God said, let there be life, but let it be guarded by death...

________________________

THE JOY ATTENDANT ON THE LITTLE JOURNEY
—Russell Edson

A man was gradually turning into a swine. And at the same time trying to put his affairs in order.

As he lay in his own turds he was trying to think. But it was getting harder and harder...

Now let me see, he would think, should I hire a swineherd, or a chauffeur? Of course I shall eventually end up at the slaughterhouse. Looking forward to it. Perhaps I should hire a hearse? I must make arrangements while I can still think. For instance, will such a little journey demand a funeral?—A journey completed when I have come apart in hams and various cuts of loin, picnic shoulders, spareribs, bacon; perhaps even sausage.

—Lard? Oh yes, I should hope lots of that. And fatback, too...

____________________

THE MESSAGE
—Russell Edson

The Captain becomes moody at sea. He's afraid of water; such bully amounts that prove the seas...

A glass of water is one thing. A man easily downs it, capturing its menace in his bladder and pissing it away.

A few drops of rain do little harm, save to remind how grief looks upon the cheek.



One day the water is willing to bear you and your ship upon its back like a liquid elephant. The next day the elephant has no more willingness to have you on its back.

At sea this is a sad message.



The Captain sits in his cabin wearing a parachute, listening to what the sea might say...

____________________

THE FLOWERPOT
—Russell Edson

An old woman was examining one of her shoes, turning it over and over again in her hands like a spider wrapping a fly in its web.

What is that thing in your hands? cried her husband.

My womb, she sighed as she held it out to him.

Oh, no, he cried.

But wouldn't the nice gentleman like to drop a seed or two into an old lady's flowerpot?

_____________________

Today's prose poems are from The Tormented Mirror by Russell Edson (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2001).

—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.)

Salted and Crazy

RADIO POEM
—Judy Halebsky, Sacramento

Your poetry is
atonal he says.
(I'll kick his
Philip Glass
ass) (but
that’s not what
I say). I say
I’m putting
John Cage into
text. (Cage is
text)(is
music))(text is
music)(music
is silent)(is
this safe
sex?)(are we
safe?) Are you
talking about
sound music?
No I’m talking
about text
sound. (found
sound)lost
text).Do you
want to go to
Napa? Take
your clothes
off. We don’t
have enough
time. What’s
time?

__________________

Tonight (Thursday, 2/23): Judy Halebsky, Sydell Oliver, and Terryl & Eric will be reading at Poetry Unplugged, 8 pm at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Judy will have copies of her new littlesnake broadside, Almost Turning Over, to pass out. Info: 916-441-3931. You can also catch Judy reading at a music and art event in Davis on Friday the 24th. It starts at 4pm and is at Cafe Roma, 233 3rd Street in Davis. By the way, The Sacramento Bee today says that Judy is Grass Valley-based, which is not accurate; she's actually a doctoral candidate at UCD. Still, Medusa notices that the Bee has placed more poetry readings in its "Best Bets" column in the Scene section recently—a welcome improvement.

So where are we, Snake-wise? Judy's broadside is starting to appear around town; official "premier" is March 8 at the reading/release party for Frank Taber's new rattlechap, Northwind on I-5, at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., 7:30 pm.
Rattlesnake Review acceptances are out; lemme know if you sent poems but haven't heard from me (kathykieth@hotmail.com). Snakelets 6 is emerging from the what-we-used-to-call typewriter, one page at a time; it, too, will premier on the 8th. VYPER, the teen journal, has a deadline of March 1!!! And gird up your loins for the Second Annual Rattlesnake Birthday Party on April 12, featuring Straight Out Scribes, a sumptuous buffet, and too many other surprises to list!

But first we have to get through March, which is Poems-For-All's Fifth Anniversary! March 1-31, in cooperation with HQ partner Asylum Gallery, the Gallery will hold an exhibition of the over 500 miniature booklets published in the series in the last five years. Is that cool, or what? You can view the wee chappies during regular gallery hours, or while attending readings at HQ.

More from Judy Halebsky:

DADDY SAYS HE TEACHES
—Judy Halebsky

Daddy says he teaches people about people
but that’s not really the word
I want to know the word
so when people ask me what he does
I can tell them

He won’t tell me because I don’t know
he thinks I won’t understand
but I just want to know the word
so I can tell other people
like passing along a note I won’t read
or a cup of water I won’t spill

____________________

SING THE BODY
—Judy Halebsky

Wrinkle me, wrinkle me, weather me
like a high school midnight
like a train out of town
bend me stretch me thin as ice
snap me spread me drop me mid flight

a thousand and a thousand pieces
string me like clothes on a line
scratch and melt my failures
get me salted and crazy
throw me sling me lay me
weather me like stone

_____________________

Thanks, Judy!

—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.)

Edna St-V Millay: Hell's Mistress

XXIV
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Whereas at morning in a jeweled crown
I bit my fingers and was hard to please,
Having shook disaster till the fruit fell down
I feel tonight more happy and at ease:
Feet running in the corridors, men quick-
Buckling their sword-belts bumping down the stair,
Challenge, and rattling bridge-chain, and the click
Of hooves on pavement—this will clear the air.
Private this chamber as it has not been
In many a month of muffled hours; almost,
Lulled by the uproar, I could lie serene
And sleep, until all's won, until all's lost,
And the door's opened and the issue shown,
And I walk forth Hell's mistress...or my own.

________________________

Today, Edna would've been 116 years old. She died in 1950. (As you can see, I'm obsessed with birthdays this year...!)

THE BUCK IN THE SNOW
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

White sky, over the hemlocks bowed with snow,
Saw you not at the beginning of evening the antlered buck and his doe
Standing in the apple-orchard? I saw them. I saw them suddenly go,
Tails up, with long leaps lovely and slow,
Over the stone-wall into the wood of hemlocks bowed with snow.

Now lies he here, his wild blood scalding the snow.

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers
The buck in the snow.
How strange a thing,—a mile away by now, it may be,
Under the heavy hemlocks that as the moments pass
Shift their loads a little, letting fall a feather of snow—
Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.

__________________________

INTENTION TO ESCAPE FROM HIM
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

I think I will learn some beautiful language, useless for commercial
Purposes, work hard at that.
I think I will learn the Latin name of every songbird, not only
in America but wherever they sing.
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial:
Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I might
deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing,
Turgid and yellow, strong to overflow its banks in spring,
carrying away bridges;
A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one clear
narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast—

Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.

_______________________

PITY ME NOT BECAUSE THE LIGHT OF DAY
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the year goes by;
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Nor that a man's desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.
This have I known always: Love is no more
Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

_____________________

—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.)

Happy Birthday, Wystan!

MUSEE DES BEAUX ARTS
—W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

______________________

Today would've been Wystan Hugh Auden's 99th birthday. He died in 1973.

CALYPSO
—W.H. Auden

Driver drive faster and make a good run
Down the Springfield Line under the shining sun.

Fly like an aeroplane, don't pull up short
Till you brake for Grand Central Station, New York.

For there in the middle of that waiting-hall
Should be standing the one that I love best of all.

If he's not there to meet me when I get to town,
I'll stand on the side-walk with tears rolling down.

For he is the one that I love to look on,
The acme of kindness and perfection.

He presses my hand and he says he love me,
Which I find an admirable peculiarity.

The woods are bright green on both sides of the line;
The trees have their loves though they're different from mine.

But the poor fat old banker in the sun-parlour car
Has no one to love him except his cigar.

If I were the Head of the Church or the State,
I'd powder my nose and just tell them to wait.

For love's more important and powerful than
Even a priest or a politician.

_______________________

IF I COULD TELL YOU
—W.H. Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

_________________

—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.)

Think Bush Writes Poetry?

Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
God knows when

—Abraham Lincoln

___________________

Presidents' Day (and Black History Month): A time to celebrate Lincoln's poetry. Well, okay, he was known for other things as well, but the man apparently did put pen to paper now and then for the occasional spot of verse:

To Linnie—

A sweet plaintive song did I hear,
And I fancied that she was the singer—
May emotions as pure, as that song set a-stir
Be the worst that the future shall bring her.

—Abraham Lincoln

____________________

To Rosa—

You are young, and I am older;
You are hopeful, I am not—
Enjoy life, ere it grow colder—
Pluck the roses ere they rot.

Teach your beau to heed the lay—
That sunshine soon is lost in shade—
That now's as good as any day—
To take thee, Rose, ere she fade.

—Abraham Lincoln

______________________

There are lots of web sites with his poetry on them; the one I'm quoting here today is http://www.loc.gov/rr/program/bib/prespoetry/al.html. According to them, There has been recent news that a poem entitled "The Suicide's Soliloquy," published in the August 25, 1838 issue of the Sangamo Journal, may have been written by Lincoln. While many scholars believe Lincoln is indeed the author of the poem, consensus has not yet been reached. The announcement of the poem's possible author first appeared in the 2004 Spring newsletter of the Abraham Lincoln Association. The text of the poem, along with the introduction that precedes it in the Sangamo Journal, follows below.


THE SUICIDE'S SOLILOQUY.

The following lines were said to have been found
near the bones of a man supposed to have committed
suicide, in a deep forest, on the Flat Branch of the
Sangamon, some time ago.

Here, where the lonely hooting owl
Sends forth his midnight moans,
Fierce wolves shall o'er my carcase growl,
Or buzzards pick my bones.

No fellow-man shall learn my fate,
Or where my ashes lie;
Unless by beasts drawn round their bait,
Or by the ravens' cry.

Yes! I've resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I'll rush a dagger through,
Though I in hell should rue it!

Hell! What is hell to one like me
Who pleasures never know;
By friends consigned to misery,
By hope deserted too?

To ease me of this power to think,
That through my bosom raves,
I'll headlong leap from hell's high brink,
And wallow in its waves.

Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.

Yes! I'm prepared, through endless night,
To take that fiery berth!
Think not with tales of hell to fright
Me, who am damn'd on earth!

Sweet steel! come forth from our your sheath,
And glist'ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!

I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the bloody dart
My last—my only friend!

________________________

•••Tonight, hear the Straight Out Scribes read at the Sacramento Poetry Center, HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac., 7:30 p.m. The Scribes need no introduction; this mother-daughter duo packs a powerful punch of the spoken word variety, and will be appearing several places in town during the next few months—including at Rattlesnake Press’s Second Birthday Party on April 12 at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac!—at which time The Snake will be releasing broadsides for both of these dynamic lady-poets.

•••Weds. (2/22), celebrate Washington’s birthday with a trip up to Placerville for the Hidden Passage Poetry read-around from 6 to 7 p.m. at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St. in Placerville. It's an open-mic read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.

•••Or stay in town Weds. for the Mahogany Urban Poetry Series, 9 pm. Sweet Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac. Info: 916-492-9336. Cover, $5.

•••Thursday (2/23): Poetry Unplugged, 8 pm at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Judy Halebsky will be reading, among others. Judy will have copies of her new littlesnake broadside, Almost Turning Over, to pass out—more about that later! Info: 916-441-3931. You can also catch Judy reading at a music and art event in Davis on Friday the 24th. It starts at 4pm and is at Cafe Roma, 233 3rd Street in Davis.

•••Speaking of Luna’s, it’s not too late to catch the Art Luna and Ann Tracy display of photography and digital mixed media at Asylum Gallery in HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac. The show continues on Saturdays and Sundays until February 26. Info: asylumgalleryathq@yahoo.com. The gallery, by the way, is looking for new artist members. Basic requirements are that artists pay monthly dues and agree to gallery-sit. Info: 530-295-1067.

•••Friday (2/24), Former Sacramento Poet Laureate Dennis Schmitz reads at the Art Foundry Gallery, 1021 R St., Sac., 8 pm. Partially funded by Poets & Writers; $5 contrib. requested.

•••Saturday (2/25), “The Show” presents One Tough Poet, Tshaka Muhammad, Pastor Alonzo Morris and open mic, 7-9 pm, Wo’se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sac. (off 35th & Broadway), $5.

•••Also Saturday, the Central Valley Haiku Club will meet from 2-3 pm. at the Citrus Heights Barnes & Noble, 6111 Sunrise Blvd. Citrus Heights. Info: 916-853-1511.

•••Sunday (2/26), Straight Out Scribes will perform poetry and stories for children ages 4-10 as a part of the Int’l House Storytelling Program, 2-3 pm in the Int’l House Community Room, 10 College Park, Davis. Info: 530-758-4196. Int’l House is an independent, nonprofit community organization; its purpose is to promote respect and appreciation for all peoples and cultures.

Anything else this week? Lemme know…

_________________________

Abraham Lincoln is my nam[e]
And with my pen I wrote the same
I wrote in both haste and speed
and left it here for fools to read

—Abraham Lincoln

Lincoln's last documented verse was written July 19, 1863, in response to the North's victory in the Battle of Gettysburg:

Verse on Lee's Invasion of the North

Gen. Lee's invasion of the North written by himself—

In eighteen sixty three, with pomp,
and mighty swell,
Me and Jeff's Confederacy, went
forth to sack Phil-del,
The Yankees the got arter us, and
giv us particular hell,
And we skedaddled back again,
And didn't sack Phil-del.

___________________

—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.)

Black History Month, Two: Knight

HAIKU
—Etheridge Knight

1
Eastern guard tower
glints in sunset; convicts rest
like lizards on rocks.

2
The piano man
is stingy at 3 A.M.
his songs drop like plum.

3
Morning sun slants cell.
Drunks stagger like cripple flies
On jailhouse floor.

4
To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.

5
A bare pecan tree
slips a pencil shadow down
a moonlit snow slope.

6
The falling snow flakes
Cannot blunt the hard aches nor
March the steel stillness.

7
Under moon shadows
A tall boy flashes knife and
Slices star bright ice.

8
In the August grass
Struck by the last rays of sun
The cracked teacup screams.

9
Making jazz swing in
Seventeen syllables AIN'T
No square poet's job.

_____________________

—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.)

Incorrigibly Plural

THE SOUND
—Ann Privateer, Davis

You hear the sound of one
hand clapping silent
a pond sending out waves.
Currents of water rush
sculpting motion in sand
fingers claw land, soft
chisel—chink, chink.

Abyssinian ringlets curl
moisture lays over
everything
slime pollinating life.
Cold chills deep down
tiny ear bones strain
listen, communicate.

Bleak February
tightens scarves, mud sucks
rubber boots.  Tree buds
burst, groan, discard
afterbirth.  Leaves swirl
through time and space
a Zen Koan soft landing
the song of one hand clapping.

________________

Thanks, Ann! Wow—sudden weather surprises of all sorts, including snow in unexpected places. Everything looks so fresh this morning, after the wee spot of rain. Weather poems:

A THUNDERSTORM IN TOWN
—Thomas Hardy

She wore a new 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.

Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.

_______________________

THE SNOW MAN
—Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant gllitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

____________________

SNOW
—Louis MacNeice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and fell
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands—
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

___________________

—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.)

Picking My Teeth

REMINDERS AT THE READINGS
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

Never use words you don't understand
or can't pronounce. Don't steal
lines because there's always someone
who remembers, intimately, who
wrote it. Don't mumble your poem
into the microphone, or look down
at your feet, that were never capable
of writing a sonnet or even free verse.
Look out at your audience
as if it was your lover, and feel
the passion flying from you
to them. Why is everything
finally reduced to sex? Because
it causes life and response. Would
you come to hear me read
if I said I was going to yodel
Beethoven's Fifth while I picked
my teeth and ate cold cereal? Well,
probably. It's too crazy to
miss. I'd come, too.

__________________

Last night's reading in Grass Valley was heartily received, with a welcoming crowd (including some Sacramento folks), genial hosts, and a tidy little theater. Readings are the town halls of poets, the community potlatch, the gathering of the clan. Without them, our voices stay alone in our rooms. Come to one here and there when you can, and let Medusa know where and when readings are being held: kathykieth@hotmail.com.

Tonight (Fri., 2/17), Our House Defines Art sponsors a poetry reading at the Our House Art and Framing Gallery in the El Dorado Town Center of El Dorado Hills, featuring Brigit Truex, Jim Nolt & Moira Magneson. Raffle, refreshments, open mic. 7 pm.

This Saturday (2/18), catch Candlelight Open Mic Love Poem Night at Underground Books, 2814 35th St. (35th and Broadway), Sac., 7-9 pm, $3. Readers will be Laketa Stanley, Brian Randle, He Spit Fire. Info: 916-737-3333.

Also Saturday: Valentine erotique reading and art show with Molly Fisk, Steve Sanfield, others, North Columbia Schoolhouse Cultural Center, 17894 Tyler Foote Rd., Nevada City. $8, $10. Info: 530-265-2826.

Mother Poetry Contest: "Woman-Stirred" at http://woman-stirred.blogspot.com is having a poetry contest! Email your poems on the subject "mother" to womanstirred@earthlink.net. Include your name and full postal address. (Do not send attachments. Emails with attachments will be deleted unread.) No entry fee! Open to everyone! Deadline is March 1, 2006. Winner will be announced on Mother's Day, 2006. Winner's poem will be published on Woman-Stirred (including your profile—bio, photo, links—if you wish). Your poem and profile will remain online indefinitely. Other prizes include: Sinister Wisdom #65 on Lesbian Mothers and Grandmothers; Jan Steckel's poetry chapbook, The Underwater Hospital (Zeitgeist Press, 2006); a custom-written Woman-Stirred Sonnet by Mary Meriam; and Julie R. Enszer's popular broadsheet "When We Were Feminists".

And don't forget that Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry has a contest deadline of February 28. Guidelines: tigerseyejournal.com; you can click on the link to the right of this column. Mail entries (3 poems, $10, SASE) to Tiger’s Eye, POBox 2935, Eugene, OR 97402.



THE SIERRAS
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

69 degrees in Jackson
rain coming to the valley
the buried no longer
care about weather

dampness in history
and from the sky
a smell of too much age
and piss on the walls

dogs bark and drunks
sing down the wooden
sidewalks, and old dreams

lay down like weary pioneers
no one is asking for much
just to be remembered.

________________

Thanks, AnnieMene!

—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.)

Deep Like the Rivers

i used to wrap my white doll up in
—Mae Jackson

i used to wrap my white doll up in
an old towel
and place her upon my chest
i used to sing those funny old school songs
god bless america
my country ‘tis of thee
when i was young
and very colored

____________________

February is Black History Month. Storyteller Ratye Ridgeway will share stories, songs and poems of the Old South during a free Black History Month celebration for children ages 5-12 at the North Highlands-Antelope Library today, 4235 Antelope Rd., Antelope, 4 pm. Info: 916-264-2920.


WE WEAR THE MASK
—Paul Laurence Dunbar

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and hides our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask.

_______________________

FOR BLACK POETS WHO THINK OF SUICIDE
—Etheridge Knight

Black Poets should live—not leap
From steel bridges (Like the white boys do.
Black Poets should live—not lay
Their necks on railroad tracks (like the white boys do.
Black Poets should seek—but not search too much
In sweet dark caves, nor hunt for snipe
Down psychic trails (like the white boys do.

For Black Poets belong to Black People. Are
The Flutes of Black Lovers. Are
The Organs of Black Sorrows. Are
The Trumpets of Black Warriors.
Let All Black poets die as trumpets,
And be buried in the dust of marching feet.

______________________

Also today: Dance, sound, animation, artwork and poetry will be included in “Fears of Your Life: Study I,” presented by the UC Davis Dept. of Theatre and Dance, Mondavi Center, UC Davis, 8 pm. Directed by Kim Epifano in collaboration with the Axis Dance Company. $12 general, $8 students and children. Info: 530-754-2787.


THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS
—Langston Hughes
(to. W. E. B. Du Bois)

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than
the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe
Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen
its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

______________________

(Special thanks to Elsie Feliz for today’s selection of poems.)

—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.)

Enough about Love, Already...

APPRECIATING GRAPES
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

One by one—
she ate the grapes
from the center of the bunch,
until finally it looked like
a cartoon sketch
of a discarded
fish
carcass.
I ate the head,
then the tail
and hid the bones
from the cat.

_________________

THE ARSONIST
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

There’s that feeling
when sipping bourbon—
the heat
when breathing
slow
out the nose—
the burn
from just a push
of air.
Then, pulling in
deep,
the warm
filling you
like the sun
eating at
a shadow—
just a hint
of flame...

_________________

Thanks, Bill! Bill Gainer and Kel Munger will be reading at the South Natomas Library tonight for the Urban Voices series. 6:30 pm, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac.

frank andrick writes: A HUGE shoutout to all who attended, enjoyed, made possible, took part in, and supported the night of "GOLDVARG ... What Makes Bones Talk" in celebration of the life of Sacramento poet activist Phil Goldvarg. Very happy to report the evening/event was a smash success!!—the venue was crowded, and the performances of poetry and stories concerning Phil were stunning. Books sold like wildfire, with enough copies sold to cover all expenses in just one night, so now ALL the funds go straight to the Zapatistas!! AND PHIL FIGHTS ON!!

Also today: deadline for poetry submissions to Rattlesnake Review #9. Send 3-5 poems (no bio, no cover, no simul-subs, no previous-pubs) to Kathy Kieth, 4708 Tree Shadow Place, Fair Oaks, CA 95628 or e-mail to kathykieth@hotmail.com. It's not too late!

Thursday at Poetry Unplugged, Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm: Featured Poet/performers LOB Instigon and Poet/Publisher G. Murray Thomas. Hosted by frank andrick, who writes: LOB recently celebrated his first year as part of the Sacramento Poetic community, and fronts the ever-changing musical and noise ensemble, Instigon, a band that has played over 400 shows, with a different line-up for each engagement. His poetry has Magick, street creds., & humor. Murray, who is traveling up from the LA area for this show, edited and published NEXT Magazine, a publication promoting the written arts by review, interview, and calendar information. He is an accomplished poetic presence also known for his spoken and word and musical combos. This will be one rockin’ night of poetry, sound, and improv. There will be a poetry program that includes examples of their work given away gratis to the first 50 people who come to the show.

Also tomorrow (Thursday, 2/16): Nevada County Poetry Series presents Indigo Moor, Kathy Kieth and Kate Stewart. Tickets can be purchased at the door for $5 general, seniors and students, and $1 for those under 18. Refreshments and open-mic included. The show will be in Off Center Stage (the Black Box theater, enter from Richardson Street) at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. For more information call (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384. Here’s a sample of Indigo:

HARVEST
—Indigo Moor, Sacramento

I worship these women of salt.
Backs curved, Kente-tied locks thick.
Hard beauty slow jackknifing in fields.
Under a harvest moon fat-perigeed.
Full crazy enough to kill them all.

Backs curved, Kente-tied locks thick.
They speak harvest songs in tongues.
Stretch moan-hide across a drum voice.
Under a harvest moon fat-perigeed.
Full crazy enough to kill them all.

Hard beauty slow jackknifing in fields.
Scythe swing! Quails spring in trout-leap.
Dark muscles swim through golden waves.
Under a harvest moon fat-perigeed.
Full crazy enough to kill them all.

____________________

Thanks, Indigo! At Thursday night's Grass Valley reading, Indigo will be reading from his new chapbook, In the Room of Thirsts and Hungers, and come pick up one of his littlesnake broadsides, too (Nomads).

—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.)

Love, Four (Gals): So Much Pain, So Much Pleasure

SAINT VALENTINE,
—Marianne Moore

permitted to assist you, let me see...
If those remembered by you
are to think of you and not me,
it seems to me that the memento
or compliment you bestow
should have a name beginning with "V,"

such as Vera, El Greco's only
daughter (though it has never been
proved that he had one), her starchy
veil, inside chiffon; the stone in her
ring, like her eyes; one hand on
her snow-leopard wrap, the fur widely

dotted with black. It could be a vignette—
a replica, framed oval—
bordered by a vine or vinelet.
Or give a mere flower, said to mean the
love of truth or truth of
love—in other words, a violet.

Verse—unabashedly bold—is appropriate;
and always it should be as neat
as the most careful writer's "8."
Any valentine that is written
Is as the vendange to the vine.
Might verse not best confuse itself with fate?

_____________________

Valentine's Day! Goldmine to the poet—almost as much as Dick Cheney's little weekend shooting "mishap" has been to comedians! Where else can we get so much pain, so much pleasure...


LOVE LETTER
—Sylvia Plath

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no—
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked amoong black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter—
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

____________________

THE BALANCE WHEEL
—Anne Sexton

Where I waved at the sky
And waited your love through a February sleep,
I saw birds swinging in, watched them multiply
Into a tree, weaving on a branch, cradling a keep
In the arms of April, sprung from the south to occupy
This slow lap of land, like cogs of some balance wheel.
I saw them build the air, with that motion birds feel.

Where I wave at the sky
And understand love, knowing our August heat,
I see birds pulling past the dim frosted thigh
Of Autumn, unlatched from the nest, and wing-beat
For the south, making their high dots across the sky,
Like beauty spots marking a still perfect cheek.
I see them bend the air, slipping away, for what birds seek.

_______________________

Post yourself! Two Internet sites where you might advertise yourself and/or your poetry—always a good thing, I say:

•••Cynthia Lane, Poet Laureate of Pleasanton, runs a very busy site called the Literary List on her Poets Lane. She writes: Take this opportunity to have your face/bio and contact information available to folks who want to know about you and I will post you on Poets in the Know. Send us your themed poems, a new theme every month along with a picture, and I will post you on New Year Poems. If you have poetry-related e-zine, group or publishing for poetry, send your link and information to me and I will post you on the Links page. If you have a special thing going on that uses poetry to help the community, I will gladly post it on my site under Special Poetry Related page. All the things above are but a short list of the information available on www.poetslane.com. Write to me at PoetsLane@comcast.net and get your information out on the Literary List today.

•••Poets & Writers has a directory of poets in its print version; this same list is also available on-line at www.pw.org/directry/ Poets may be listed on it if they meet the criteria (you have to have some publication credits, e.g.). Check it out.

Bill Gainer's rattlechap, To Run With the Savages, is available at The Book Collector, or send me six bux and I'll mail you one. He will be reading tomorrow night (Weds., 2/15) along with Sac News/Rvw's Kel Munger at the Urban Voices series, South Natomas Library, 6:30 pm. I know, I know—today was supposed to be all-gal poetry, but here's a wee snippet of the wily Gainer, anyway...

LOVE THEM IF YOU MUST
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

There are things
I can do without
ever
seeing
again.
It's not that
they don't have
value,
it's just that
they don't have
value
for me.
Love them
if you want.
Let their shadows
haunt you
if you need to.
Remind me
what they are
if you must.
But remember
of all these things
I can do without,
you
are not one.

__________________________

—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.)

Love, Three (Not-so-Old Guys)

LEANING INTO THE AFTERNOONS...
—Pablo Neruda

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that wave like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.

(Translated by W.S. Merwin)

_______________________________

This week's po-events in this area (that I know about—send me more, if you have 'em):

•••Tonight (Monday, 2/13): Tim Kahl and Jeff Knorr read at the Sacramento Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac., 7:30 pm.

•••Wednesday (2/15): Kel Munger and Bill Gainer read at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac., 6:30 pm, as part of the Urban Voices poetry series.

•••Also Wednesday: deadline for poetry submissions to Rattlesnake Review #9. Send 3-5 poems (no bio, no cover, no simul-subs, no previous-pubs) to Kathy Kieth, 4708 Tree Shadow Place, Fair Oaks, CA 95628 or e-mail to kathykieth@hotmail.com.

•••Thursday (2/16): Nevada County Poetry Series presents Indigo Moor, Kathy Kieth and Kate Stewart. Tickets can be purchased at the door for $5 general, seniors and students, and $1 for those under 18. Refreshments and open-mic included. The show will be in Off Center Stage (the Black Box theater, enter from Richardson Street) at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. For more information call (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384.

•••Also Thursday: An Evening Of Poetry With Ms. La-Rue is back on, at Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way at Bell St. (next to Leatherbee’s). Doors open at 7 pm, show starts at 8 pm. Featured poet will be He Spits Fire. Open Mic, Dinner and Drink Specials and DJ Barney B will be in the house! $5.00.

•••Also Thursday: Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe presents LOB Instigon and G. Murray Thomas, 8 pm. 1414 16th St., Sac. Free. Info: 916-441-3931.

•••Friday (2/17): Our House Defines Art poetry reading at the Our House Art and Framing Gallery in the El Dorado Town Center of El Dorado Hills features Brigit Truex, Jim Nolt & Moira Magneson. Raffle, refreshments, open mic. 7 pm.

•••Saturday (2/18): The Central California Art Association & Mistlin Art Gallery announces a reading by the members of the Johansen High School Poetry Club at the gallery, 1015 J St., downtown Modesto, 4 pm. There will be an open mic, so bring your creativity. Contact Alana at AlanaCayabyab@hotmail.com.

•••Also Saturday: Laketa Stanley and Others at Underground Books, 2814 35th St., Sac.. Info: 916-737-3333.

•••Also Saturday: Valentine erotique reading and art show with Molly Fisk, Steve Sanfield, others, North Columbia Schoolhouse Cultural Center, 17894 Tyler Foote Rd., Nevada City. $8, $10. Info: 530-265-2826

And Molly Fisk writes: The February Boot Camp begins in just over a week: Sunday the 19th through Friday the 24th. I'd love to have you join us if you're ready to write some new poems—or tired of not being able to write and looking for structure to help get you going. As many of you know, Poetry Boot Camp is a fun, intense six days of writing poems and exchanging them via e-mail. You can find out all about it, including the dates for the rest of 2006, at http://www.poetrybootcamp.com.

_____________________

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
—e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

____________________

WILL NOT COME BACK
(after Becquer)
—Robert Lowell

Dark swallows will doubtless come back killing
the injudicious nightflies with a clack of the beak;
but these that stopped full flight to see your beauty
and my good fortune...as if they knew our names—
they'll not come back. The thick lemony honeysuckle,
climbing from the earthroot to your window,
will open more beautiful blossoms to the evening;
but these...like dewdrops, trembling, shining, falling,
the tears of day—they'll not come back...
Some other love will sound his fireword for you
and wake your heart, perhaps, from its cool sleep;
but silent, absorbed, and on his knees,
as men adore God at the altar, as I love you—
don't blind yourself, you'll not be loved like that.

______________________

—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.)

Love, Part Two (Old[er] Gals)

REMEMBER
—Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

______________________

I bring an unaccumstomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine, And summon them to drink;

Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy glass—
The lips I would have cooled, alas—
Are so superfluous Cold—

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould—

Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak—

And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake—

If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake.

—Emily Dickinson

_____________________

TO MY DEAR AND LOVING HUSBAND
—Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize they love more than whole mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

_____________________

—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.)

Love, Part One (Old Guys)

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES
—Robert Herrick

Whereas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

________________________

MODERN LOVE
—John Keats

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warmed the world,
If queens and soldiers have played deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common that the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty-pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

______________________

MEETING AT NIGHT
—Robert Browning

The grey sea and the long black land:
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

_______________________

RONDEAU
—Leigh Hunt

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in:
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

______________________

BE NEAR ME
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is racked with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.

______________________

—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.)

Froggy Did a-Wooing Go, Ahum, Ahum....

THE POND
—Amy Lowell

Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water
And the croaking of frogs—
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.

___________________

Tiny though they are, the frogs in my pond have nothing but sex on their minds, floating on the water hyacinths and swelling up huge throats to let out enormous (and I do mean enormous, tooth-shattering) calls to the local ladies. If you haven't gotten outside to soak up some Vitamin D and to dig your hands into the dirt, well, get out there and do it now! This is as close as we get to spring: daffodils and balmy 70's and horny tree frogs. Do not be swayed by the "February" on the calendar; spring is all around you.

This weather is warm enough to wake up the snakes—and I don't just mean Snake 9 (deadline next Wednesday, 2/15):

FRAGMENT: WAKE THE SERPENT NOT
—Percy Bysshe Shelley

Wake the serpent not—lest he
Should not know the way to go,—
Let him crawl which yet lies sleeping
Through the deep grass of the meadow!
Not a bee shall hear him creeping,
Not a may-fly shall awaken
From its cradling blue-bell shaken.
Not the starlight as he's sliding
Through the grass with silent gliding.

_________________________

But never mind the reptiles; spring is, after all, all about sex:

VERNAL EQUINOX
—Amy Lowell

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.

Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense
and urgent love?

______________________

AUBADE
—Amy Lowell

As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So would I strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernal
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

____________________

A DECADE
—Amy Lowell

When you came you were like red wine and honey,
And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
Now you are like morning bread—
Smooth and pleasant.
I hardly taste you at all for I know your savour,
But I am completely nourished.

____________________

Head on down to The Book Collector tomorrow (Sat., 2/11) for a reading of local erotic poetry from the Bliss anthology, hosted by Rhony Bhopla at 8 pm, 1008 24th St., Sac. Be there; the imperative to reproduce is upon us!

—Medusa (is it hot in here?)

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.)

Extraordinary...

PRAYING FOR A BEST SELLER
—Charles Bukowski

waiting for my novelist friend to put the
word down
she sits in the kitchen
thinking about the madhouse
thinking about her x-husband
while I entertain her 3 year old child
who is now in the bathtub;
well, listen, I guess after a madhouse or
2 you need a few breaks...
my novelist friend may be crazy now
or she wouldn't be in the same house
with me,
or maybe I'm the one who's crazy:
she's told me a couple of times she's going to
cut off my balls if I do this thing or
that thing.
well, taking a chance with my balls on the line
that way
it had better be a good novel
or at least a bad one that is a best seller.

I sit here rolling cigarette after cigarette
while listening to her
type.
I suppose that for each genius launched
5 or 6 people must suffer for
it
them
him
her.

very well.

______________________

Tonight (Thurs., 2/9), Poetry Unplugged presents an evening of no feature—all open mic tributes to Phil Goldvarg and the publishing of the collection, Goldvarg: What Makes Bones Talk, published jointly by the 24th St. Irregular Press and AMP Press. This book contains poems that Phil sent out to the editors and the world via e-mails during the last days that he walked this earth. Phil was an ardent supporter of the Zapatistas, working with the Sacramento-based Zapatista Solidarity Coalition to amplify the voices and the cries for justice coming out of the jungle in Chiapas, Mexico. We honor Phil Goldvarg by honoring his commitment to the Zapatista Struggle. All money raised from the sale of Goldvarg: What Makes Bones Talk will be donated to further the work of the ZSC. (916-443-3424 and/or Zapa@zsc.org.) Copies of the book will be available for purchase ($7), and poets are encouraged to read from their copies when they take to the open mic and stage at Luna’s. A special note: As there is no feature this evening (Phil and the book are the true features), we ask that all those speaking/reading during the first open mic (and time allotted for a feature) read or speak a Phil Goldvarg poem and/or tribute statement in honor of Phil. Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm. Info: 441-3931.

Looking for a little adventure? Head down to Santa Rosa tomorrow (Friday 2/10) to hear reknowned poets JANE HIRSHFIELD and DAVID ST. JOHN read for the WordTemple Poetry Series at 7:00 pm at Copperfield’s Books, 2316 Montgomery Dr., Santa Rosa. Info: 707-578-8938.

Or stay closer to home, where Escritores del Nuevo Sol will hold its annual Valentine’s Day reading this Friday (2/10). Come cuddle, laugh, smile, hold hands—and listen or read! Rather than have just one feature, they invite all to bring one or two favorite love poems—new or old, yours or someone else’s—to share the spirit of the day. La Raza Galeria Posada Bookstore, 1421 ‘R’ St., Sac., 7:30 pm. This is one of our annual fundraisers: $7 each, or $10 for a couple; $5 each for students or members. [Or as you can afford; no one denied for lack of $$] Refreshments included. Info: Graciela Ramirez (916-456-5323).


THAT ONE
—Charles Bukowski

your child has no name
your hair has no color
your face has no flesh
your feet have no toes
your country has ten flags

your voice has no tongue
your ideas slide like snakes
your eyes do not match

you eat bouquets of flowers
throw poisoned meat to the dogs

I see you linger in alleys with a club
I see you with a knife for anybody
I see you peddling a fishhead for a heart

and when the sun comes churning down
you'll come walking in from the kitchen
with a drink in your hand
humming the latest tune
and smiling at me in your red tight dress
extraordinary...

___________________

—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.)