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.)