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.)