Resting With The Wood Drake (& Po-Events 7/3-9)

SNOWBOUND AGAIN
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

The car stuck at the berm,
we had a steep hike home.
Our dogs led the way, wild
with joy at breathless
shortcuts through clearings
and thickets
pillowed with snow.

My lungs ache, still,
from the climb. Snow melts
under my collar, cold. This
is one winter too many,
I tell you, as you load
split oak in the stove
and warm your hands
to the flame.

And again I’ll listen
as you tell me we couldn’t
live someplace gentler,
a home we’d love less, a place
that’s easier to leave.
Your voice deep lulling
as snow.

_______________________

Thanks, TG! This concludes the winter poems—for now (we may need some more later to combat the heat)—and an excellent showing, it was, thanks to those of you who contributed. Time to think about July:

JULY
—Alexander L. Posey

The air without has taken fever;
Fast I feel the beating of its pulse.
The leaves are twisted on the maple,
In the corn the autumn’s premature;
The weary butterfly hangs waiting
For a breath to waft him thither at
The touch, but falls, like truth unheeded,
Into dust-blown grass and hollyhocks.

The air without is blinding dusty;
Cool I feel the breezes blow; I see
The sunlight, crowded on the porch, grow
Smaller till absorbed in shadow; and
The far blue hills are changed to gray, and
Twilight lingers in the woods between;
And now I hear the shower dancing
In the cornfield and the thirsty grass.

_______________

For Adults Only:

Tonight (7/1), 8PM: After Hours Poetry (for mature audiences only)! A once-in-a lifetime evening featuring the foremost purveyors of "After-Hours Poetry", together for one night only! The rumors are thick with blackouts, blowouts, piracy, depravity, kick-ass poetry, break-ups and get-togethers—an all-around filthy poetry love fest amongst friends and highly desirables. Features Rattlechappers Todd Cirillo, Song Kowbell, and Bill Gainer, along with Julie Valin, Will Staple, Robyn Martin and Matt Amott. Wine provided by the Wentz Foundation Artistic Grant for thirsty poets. Located at the North Columbia Schoolhouse in Nevada City (on the San Juan Ridge). $7. Info/directions: Song, 530-432-8676.

Area Poetry Events, July 3-9:

•••There will be no reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center this coming Monday, July 3, and there will be no SPC workshop at the Hart Center on Tuesday, July 4.

•••Wed. (7/5), 9 PM: The Mahogany Urban Poetry Series is hosted by Khiry Malik and Rock Bottom at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.

•••Thursday (7/6), 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged, reader TBA. Open mic before/after. Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Info: 441-3931 or www.lunascafe.com. Free.

•••Saturday (7/8), 3-5PM: Patricity's Poetry "In Spirit & Truth" Series presents Larry Ukali-Johnson-Redd (www.journeytothemotherland.com & www.lovingblackwomen.com) and Lateka Stanley at Queen Sheba's Fine Dining, 1537 Howe Ave., Sac. (Ste 116). Free.

•••Sunday (7/9), 7 PM: Poet’s Corner Presents Open Mic at Barnes & Noble, Stockton’s Weberstown Mall. Info: www.poetscornerpress.com.

•••Also Sunday (7/9), 1-3 PM: Friends of the Lincoln Library present Poetry Open Mic at the B-bar-B Ranch, 4053 Wilson Town Rd., Lincoln. A potluck picnic will follow (bring a picnic dish or dessert to share). Info/directions: Sue Clark, 916-434-9226. Those wishing to carpool or caravan should meet at 931 First St. in Lincoln at noon that day.

_______________________

More about July:

ONE HARD LOOK
—Robert Graves

Small gnats that fly
In hot July
And lodge in sleeping ears,
Can rouse therein
A trumpet’s din
With Day of Judgement fears.

Small mice at night
Can wake more fright
Than lions at midday;
A straw will crack
The camel’s back—
There is no easier way.

One smile relieves
A heart that grieves
Though deadly sad it be,
And one hard look
Can close the book
That lovers love to see.

______________________

Okay, now you’re just being silly...

Ellen Bass writes:

The July Boot Camp is on the horizon, a perfect time to write poems about summer, independence, oceans, rivers, creeks, bays, inlets, brooks, sloughs, lakes, and ponds, as well as drought (CA and southwest), thunderstorms (the rest of the U.S.), and anything else your heart desires. This camp begins on Sunday, July 16th (my 51st birthday), and ends Friday, July 21st. We'd love to have you. Info: http://www.poetrybootcamp.com

Malingering Medusa:

Medusa the Meat-head (tastes just like chicken!) will be snoozing, snakes and all, from Sunday the 2nd until Sunday the 9th. Take the time to read a lot, write a lot, and rest a lot—or wander through our Kitchen Archives and snack off of almost 400 plates of poetry.

And have a cool 4th! On July 4, 1886, Emma Lazarus recited her sonnet, “The New Colossus” at the dedication of the Statue of Liberty, the largest statue ever made. She died a year later, at the age of 38. A Sephardic Jew, Lazarus was prominent in a relief organization for Jewish immigrants.

THE NEW COLOSSUS
—Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

__________________

I shall leave you with a little Wendell Berry:

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS

Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

______________________

Peace to you.
—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.)

Not

WINTER SKY
—Katy Brown, Davis

The Milky Way swirls across glittering voids
washed darker by winter storms.
Polaris flashes above the dipper’s bowl
and the Seven Sisters gather with icy clarity.

A comfort in the constant stars
whose light began a million years ago:
even if we boil the seas and fracture mountains,
the hunter, bull, and dragon
will chase in slow precision down the void.

________________________

Thanks, Katy! The winter poems continue.

Yeats Premiers Tonight:

Opening Friday (6/30) at Sacramento Poetry Center's neighbor, California Stage: Fastened to a Dying Animal: Eros, revelation & the life of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats, a world premiere written and performed by local dramaturgist Rick Foster. California Stage is a non-profit professional theatre company dedicated to supporting and encouraging arts created by local artists for local audiences; it’s located right across the parking lot from SPC, at 1723 25th St. (25th & R), Sac. Opens Friday, June 30, runs through Sunday, July 23. Fridays and Sat. at 8 PM, Sunday at 2 PM. Reservations: 916-451-5822. For more info on Cal. Stage and on Rick Foster, check out www.calstage.org.

THE GIFT OF WORDS: Poetry for the Iraqi People

Cynthia Bryant, Pleasanton Poet Laureate, challenges poets everywhere to write a poem for the Iraqi people, something that you want to express to their citizens. Send it to Pleasanton Poet Laureate, P. O. Box 520, Pleasanton, CA 94566 or e-mail it to PoetsLane@comcast.net. Please include your full name, area code and phone number, along with your e-mail address, if you have one. Anyone of any age can write a poem and submit it to be included in The Gift of Words: Poetry for the Iraqi People. Deadline: November 1, 2006. Poems will be translated into Arabic, put into a booklet and sent to Iraq. In addition, a celebration will be held December 3, 2006 at the Century House, Pleasanton, CA from 1pm-5pm, at which time the poems will be read, followed by a festive pot luck.

_______________________

FLOOD REFUGEE IN THE BYPASS
—Katy Brown, Davis

The hawk moves lower in the bare poplar,
surveying the inland sea where yesterday
spread her hunting ground.

Winter flooding swept away
voles, mice, gophers,
dry ground for hunting.

She is not a fisher:
cannot snatch prey
from the moving water.

Not a scavenger:
uninterested in carrion
snagged in the low branches.

Saving her energy,
she watches from the tree
for the signs of the receding flood;

and for quick movement
in tall grass
to tempt her from her branch.

_______________________

NOT
—Katy Brown, Davis

I’m not writing a poem
about life or the human condition.

My poem is not about far-off lands—
not about internal truth.

This poem does not reflect grand emotion:
no searing pain, no dazzling joy.

This poem, line by line, pulls me
into awareness of this foggy morning:

opening my senses to soft light,
muffled bird song, newly-fallen damp leaves.

Chill air leaks through the mail slot.
The dog and cats, rarely allies,

have fallen asleep in a twist
of velvet fur on my bed. Repudiating the fog—

oblivious to the birdsong
unaware they are part of this poem

which is not about far-off lands,
the human condition, or grand emotion.

_______________________

Thanks again, Katy Brown. Catch Katy's "Marketeer-in-Residence" column in Rattlesnake Review.

—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.)

Igloo of the Heart

SNOWING OUTSIDE
—David Humphreys, Stockton

Beginning in mid-summer,
walnuts thick and green,
cannonballs exploding in the pool,
splashing pavement, evaporating
shimmering sizzle.
What it was wasn't entirely clear
though there were indications,
as when, after a shower in the
afternoon, lying on clean cool sheets,
fan blowing its delta breeze
from the ocean at this lower
elevation, nothing found wrong
with anything coming in from
the bubbling tar parking lot
through automatic escalator doors
hitting the solid ice wall polar
blast. Looking up from our deep absorbing
lessons opened on the coffee table,
looking out the window to see that time
has passed much more quickly
than anticipated, snow avalanching
from the entry roof, floating down
in big leafy feathers down quilting
the mountain valley where we have just arrived
at the end of orange October.

_______________________

KAYAK
—David Humphreys, Stockton

The ice floe of the moment
carries with it hunter as well as hunted.
In the igloo of the heart
survival is all that matters.
You have heard the story
of the bone blade in the bait of fat
spilling bear blood on the white tabletop.
You carry the story in your own warm stomach,
its moral wrapping you in seal skin,
laced tight and final.
Outside is frozen and congealed,
sizzling wind chill.
Inside, the world is kept in a hard kiss
and mad embrace
rolling up from a capsize to seize
the vanishing moment.

(both of these poems appeared in Sandhill Review)

_______________________

Thanks, David!

Tonight at Luna's:

Thursday (6/29), 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged presents Joshua Fernandez & Darrell Glenn. Open mic before/after. Hosted by frank andrick. Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Info: 441-3931 or www.lunascafe.com. Free.

JoAnn Anglin writes:

A friend recently referred me to the site called Language Lab, at http://itre.cis.upenn.edu/~myl/languagelog/ And it was a WHOLE lot of fun. If/when you are distracted by it, the time will race by and you’ll have nothing to show for it, except maybe a bunch of laughing, especially if you read the past column called Dave Barry, Linguist. You’ve been warned. And advised.

Taking Time off for the Fourth:

There will be no reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center this coming Monday, July 3, and there will be no SPC workshop at the Hart Center on Tuesday, July 4.

________________________

Those of you who are fortunate enough to know Margaret Ellis (Peggy) Hill will be saddened to learn that her husband has passed away. Poet Peggy is active in the SPC workshop and in the New Helvetia chapter of the California Federation of Chapparal Poets, Inc. Before Jim passed away, she sent me some winter poems:

WINTER MORNING FROM MY WINDOW
—Margaret Ellis Hill, Wilton

Water hardens with light
cast by an orange eye that opens
to peer from east to west
along a broad horizon
shines on lawns—
a white canvas spread overnight
glistens as if with magic,
waits for you to bring—
you always bring in
snow angels.

_______________________

SNOW
—Margaret Ellis Hill, Wilton

I do not live where it snows. Every year
I hear complaints and frustration, moans
from those tapping out annoyance in bars,

listening to snowplows scrape blankets
from blackboards into high roadside walls—
a maze, but entry into a wizard's playground.

Birch limbs curve giant croquet hoops,
leprechauns perch in spruce, waiting
to surprise a face with ice crystals.

A sorceress creates snowflakes,
weaves white carpets to muffle boots
but I can hear Jenny’s whispers echo.

At night, she puts on a cobalt cloak
fastened with a pearl broach.
Makes ice crystals light up like fireflies.

_______________________

Thanks, Peggy, and we'll be thinking about you.

—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 Power of Poetry

HEADING HOME ACROSS HIGH DESERT
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

The sharp smell of pine laced with snow
pierces diesel fumes clogging earth’s pores.
Among mountains, clouds play tag
like coy maidens, sky
blue gowns streaked with long white threads.
Coots’ green-webbed feet hopscotch
patterns on the frozen pond
while the sun etches shadows woven
with snow goose wings.
Between the gaunt and naked poplars
fencing the home place, deer tread
lightly on the land and I am pulled
past their winter-thin ribs
to a kitchen light streaming.

_______________________

Thanks, PWJ! The push for winter poems ended last night at midnight, but we have enough to last us through the week. And, as you can see, our winter poems have caused a shift in the weather. Ah, the power of poetry...........!

Today, or Rather, Tonight:

•••Tonight (6/28), 6-7 PM is the Hidden Passage Poetry Reading at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., 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.

•••Also tonight (6/28), 9 PM: The Mahogany Urban Poetry Series is hosted by Khiry Malik and Rock Bottom at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.

______________________

PROMISE
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Soft like cotton wool,
winter's golden sunset clouds
over brittle trees.

_______________________

HOME
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Struggle up
rickety back stairs,
coated with ice,
push open the
splintered wooden door,
enter the kitchen’s warmth.

The low table under sun-splashed eves
where we write,
where I make bread,
kneading the dough
just the length of that song
we both love.

Tiny gas stove,
unexpected luxury
of a deep, old bathtub on porcelain feet.

Steam hisses softly
from the ancient radiator,
beams rise out of each corner,
meet in the ceiling’s heart,
underneath, firm and wide,
rests the double bed.

Late afternoon flows into evening,
still-warm rays of winter sunset
reach through dormer windows,
tint the bedspread
peach,
rose,
dusky brown.

_______________________

WINTER
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

Sunrise, the cat's frosty breath
hangs in the air like fog.
She stares through slitted eyes
at light patterns on the window.

Even the crepe myrtle huddles for warmth.

Still wind, and fallen leaves
lay like the dead on a battlefield.

If there are birds, they aren't saying anything.

In the houses, people stir. Slowly,
the sounds of morning come to life.

A crisp, biting day begins.

_______________________

WHAT KIND OF SOLDIER I WAS
—James Lee Jobe, Davis


The Fort Dix Post Exchange store

carried The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry,

and I wandered off to shout poems

in the frozen pines and make snowmen.

______________________

Thanks, Ann and JJ!

—Medussssssssa

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.)

Oh, For Denuded Trees!

NOVEMBER ROSE
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

A tall cane scratching at the window in a gale
bows down as if calling help me.
The rose with its green arms stretched up

wears a pink turban. During the 13th century crusades,
St. Francis trudged in his dirty brown robe
to Egypt, to have a talk with the sultan al-Kamir.

He meant to convert the heathen, but came away
marveling and chastened. At another time, St. Francis
trudged to Rome in his one dirty brown robe

to have a talk with the Pope. Squatting
in a brocade-draped niche, he waited to be noticed.
The elfin brown saint like a winter-damaged rose

owned nothing. “If you own anything,” he said,
“you will be compelled to defend it.” Slack rays
of autumn tilt through the denuded trees.

The wind increases. The rose
bows and scrapes, low, low, in a salaam,
then springs up, pleading,

bobbing and bowing, pleading for its life.
A drift of leaves in the gutter
rises up, eddying in the street, playing

ring around the rosie all fall down. The wind
abrades your face, pink as the still-supple rose
and you must bend to it.

(First published in The Way of St. Francis, November-December 2005)

_______________________

UNTITLED (childhood memory)
—Robert Grossklaus, Rancho Cordova

It was a quick fall into the street
from my sled onto the rocks
buried by snow unseen;
it was a long time laying
on iced concrete, the winds
kissing me winter; bleeding.

_______________________

Thanks, Jane and RG! The rest of you have until midnight tonight to send me your poems about winter so I can send you a surprise: kathykieth@hotmail.com, or (postmarked by midnight) P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662. Remember: previously-published poems are A-OK for Medusa. We're trying to stay cool by thinking about winter.

Tickling Medusa:

The usually-cranky Medusa is tickled that people have been writing to say HEY!—where the hell is my Snake 10??? Time was when nobody noticed if they hadn't gotten an issue, so this is progress, indeed! The truth is, though, that every issue seems to take longer to get out of the house, as The List grows. And as you know, every Snake is produced right here in the snakepit—typed, printed, punched and coiled—with all the vicissitudes thereof, such as wrangling the printing machine with all its many, many moods (some of which out-mood Medusa, for sure!).

But readers are very patient, and we are grateful for such blessings. The last of Snake 10 should be going out today. Now all they have to do is maneuver the many moods of the US Postal Service.......!

By the way, if you're wondering whether or not to subscribe, here's the deal on that: Free copies of all pubs. are available at The Book Collector or at readings around town, so don't pay for them unless you're housebound or live far enough away that you don't get downtown much. Subscription money barely pays the price of postage; we do not rely on subscriptions for financial support the way some journals do. And hey—If you contribute work to the Review or any of the other publications, you get a free copy sent to your house! Ay, there's the ticket! Next deadline is August 15.

_______________________

SYMPATHY
—Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still strobes in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!

_______________________

Paul Dunbar would have been 134 years old today.

WE WEAR THE MASK
—Paul Laurence Dunbar

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

Why should the world be overwise,
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!

_______________________

—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.)

Shiver Me Timbers—Please!

A CROW
—Joy Harold Helsing, Magalia

already black
seems blacker still
in silhouette
on a winter-bare branch
against a winter-pale sky

even its call
sounds cold


(Published 2001 in The Aurorean. Reprinted 2004 in her chapbook,
Waiting for Winter, Poet's Corner Press)

________________________

STUDY IN MONOTONE
—Joy Harold Helsing, Magalia

white snow canvas
bare gray trees
brushed with fog


(Published 2006 in Brevities)

_______________________

GLEANING
—Joy Harold Helsing, Magalia

dark pines
bend to gather
armloads of snow


(Published 2005 in Brevities)

_______________________

Send me your poems about winter before midnight Tuesday, 6/27—that's tomorrow!—and I'll send you a surprise. kathykieth@hotmail.com, or (postmarked by midnight) P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662. Remember: previously-published poems are A-OK for Medusa.

This Week's Poetry Events:

•••Monday (6/26), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents A Night of Translation: James Den Boer will read works translated from Latin, Arturo Mantecon from Spanish, and Nguyen Do from Vietnamese. Host: Tim Kahl. SPC/HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Info: 451-5569. Free.

•••Weds. (6/28), 6-7 PM is the Hidden Passage Poetry Reading at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., 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.

•••Also Wed. (6/28), 9 PM: The Mahogany Urban Poetry Series is hosted by Khiry Malik and Rock Bottom at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.

•••Thursday (6/29), 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged presents Joshua Fernandez & Darrell Glenn. Open mic before/after. Hosted by frank andrick. Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Info: 441-3931 or www.lunascafe.com. Free.

•••Opening Friday (6/30) at Sacramento Poetry Center's neighbor, California Stage: Fastened to a Dying Animal: Eros, revelation & the life of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats, a world premiere written and performed by local dramaturgist Rick Foster. California Stage is a non-profit professional theatre company dedicated to supporting and encouraging arts created by local artists for local audiences; it’s located right across the parking lot from SPC, at 1723 25th St. (25th & R), Sac. Opens Friday, June 30, runs through Sunday, July 23. Fridays and Sat. at 8 PM, Sunday at 2 PM. Reservations: 916-451-5822. For more info on Cal. Stage and on Rick Foster, check out www.calstage.org.

•••Saturday (7/1), 8PM: After Hours Poetry (for mature audiences only)! A once-in-a lifetime evening featuring the foremost purveyors of "After-Hours Poetry", together for one night only! The rumors are thick with blackouts, blowouts, piracy, depravity, kick-ass poetry, break-ups and get-togethers—an all-around filthy poetry love fest amongst friends and highly desirables. Features Rattlechappers Todd Cirillo, Song Kowbell, and Bill Gainer, along with Julie Valin, Will Staple, Robyn Martin and Matt Amott. Wine provided by the Wentz Foundation Artistic Grant for thirsty poets. Located at the North Columbia Schoolhouse in Nevada City (on the San Juan Ridge). $7. Info/directions: Song, 530-432-8676.

A Fair Assessment:

In the mood for a day trip? The Alameda County Fair runs from June 23-July 9 at the Alameda County Fairgrounds, Pleasanton, CA. Drive over and see the FINE ARTS & POETRY Exhibits in a beautiful outdoor area surrounded by sycamores and flowers. Poetry winners include Cynthia Bryant, Alice Kight, Connie Post, Cheryl Carzoli, Leo Dos Remdio, Tamara Grippi, Martha Meltzer, Sherry Smith and Richard Weingart. Hours are 11 AM-10 PM Monday-Thursday; 10 AM-10 PM Friday-Sunday and July 3; and 10 AM-9 PM July 4.

Net-zines of Note:

Eskimo Pie Girl Rebecca Morrison will be reading with Will Staple at Our House Defines Art in El Dorado Hills on July 21; more about that later. You'll find a link to her Eskimo Pie webzine to the right of this column; but if you go to www.eskimopie.net/zine.htm, you'll also find a listing of more 'zines and other cool stuff, including the Medusa listing where she calls the Mighty Medusa the "electrified fang" of Rattlesnake Press. Love it! (Not so sure about being called "Queen Kathy Kieth", though...?)

Also crossing my computer this weekend was the e-journal, Ginosko, edited by Robert Paul Cesaretti of Fairfax. His website is under construction, but if you e-mail him at GinoskoEditor@aol.com, he'll send you a copy of the latest issue of Ginosko, he says. This third issue includes Rattlechapper/Davisite Allegra Jostad Silberstein, along with Michael Hettich, who is one of my favorite poets, and many others. Robert is also accepting submissions for the next issue, I believe.

_______________________

SNOW COUNTRY
—Joy Harold Helsing, Magalia

My mother used to bundle me
in long underwear
woolen socks wool sweater
warm snowsuit high rubber boots
thick scarf around my neck
mittens held on by
string through my sleeves
knit cap over my ears
jacket hood tied tight with a drawstring

All you could see of me
was my little round face
pink from the cold

When I finished playing outside
she brushed me off
and peeled me like an onion


(First published in 2004 in her chapbook,
Waiting for Winter, Poet's Corner Press)

______________________________

WINTER BEACH
—Joy Harold Helsing, Magalia

The beach is mine,
deserted
except for one lone jogger
and a big black Lab.

Choppy gray water
mirrors a leaden sky.

I shiver.
Today I will build
no castles in the sand
or air.


(Published 2004 in her chapbook,
Waiting for Winter, Poet's Corner Press)

_______________________

Thanks for the poems, Joy! Response to this give-away has been excellent; keep 'em coming! Joy is from the upper part of our state, where temperatures are running 115° and more. Good time to hide in poetry about the shivers...!

—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.)

Mad With Poetry—or is it the HEAT???

Mad with poetry,
I stride like Chikusai
into the wind.

***

Waterjar cracks—
I lie awake
this icy night.

***

Lips too chilled
for prattle—
autumn wind.

***

Still breathing
in an icy lump—
sea slugs.

***

Wintry day,
on my horse
a frozen shadow.

***

Snowy morning—
one crow
after another.

***

Lightning—
heron-cry
stabs darkness.

***

Has it returned,
the snow
we viewed together?

***

Sudden sun upon
the mountain path,
plum scent.

***

Moonlit plum tree—
wait,
spring will come.

(Today's winter poetry is from On Love and Barley by Basho, translated by Lucien Stryk)

_______________________

Send me your poems about winter before midnight Tuesday (6/27) and I'll send you a surprise. kathykieth@hotmail.com, or (postmarked) P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

Oh—and take a look at the Travel section of today's Sacramento Bee, where Marketer Extraordinaire Patricia Wellingham-Jones has gotten a poem published in a piece on honeymoons gone wrong. Pat has a very sharp eye, indeed, for unusual venues for her work; we could all take a lesson. Here's an address to view it on the Web: www.sacbee.com/content/lifestyle/story/14271564p-15082141c.html

_______________________

—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 Snow!

POLAR BEAR
—William Carlos Williams

his coat resembles the snow
deep snow
the male snow
which attacks and kills

silently as it falls muffling
the world
to sleep that
the interrupted quiet return

to lie down with us
its arms
about our necks
murderously a little while

_______________________

100° and counting! This is when our friends in more comely climes get to make fun of us, as we swelter away, air conditioners pumping. "One must have the mind of winter", as Wallace Stevens says. Think winter! Send me your poems about winter before midnight Tuesday (6/27) and I'll send you a surprise. kathykieth@hotmail.com, or (postmarked) P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

Getting Your Mind Off the Heat:

•••Today (6/24), Friends of the Martin Luther King Jr. Library will hold a book sale from 9 AM-4 PM, 7340 24th St. Bypass, Sac. Info: 916-264-2920.

•••Also today (Saturday, 6/24), The Freedom Equity Group presents "The Show" Poetry Series, featuring Brett "B-Free" Freeman, Twa'Lea Randolph, Heather Christian, Mia Sousa—plus a very special drop-in guest, JUDAH 1, from the 2005 LA Slam Team, and a visit from Fort Worth Texas Slam Team member Michael Guinn. Plus, Single Fathers’ Appreciation Night: 20 single fathers will be given free gifts, and the first five will be admitted free! Wo'se Community Center (Off 35th and Broadway), 2863 35th St., Sac., 7-9 PM. $5. Info: 916-455-POET. "The Show" Poetry Series is co-sponsored by the Freedom Equity Group and Gatdula’s King Eagles Karate.

•••Monday (6/26), Sacramento Poetry Center presents: A Night of Translation: James Den Boer reading works translated from Latin, Arturo Mantecon reading from Spanish, and Nguyen Do from Vietnamese. Host: Tim Kahl. 7:30 PM, SPC/HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts. Info: 451-5569. Free.

_______________________

BLIZZARD IIN CAMBRIDGE
—Robert Lowell

Risen from the blindness of teaching to bright snow,
everything mechanical stopped dead,
taxis no-fares...the wheels grow hot from driving—
ice-eyelashes, in my spring coat; the subway
too jammed and late to stop for passengers;
snow-trekking the mile from subway end to airport...
to all-flights-cancelled, fighting queues congealed
to telephones out of order, stamping buses,
rich, stranded New Yorkers staring with the wild, mild eyes
of steers at the foreign subway—then the train home,
jolting with stately grumbling: an hour in Providence,
in New Haven...the Bible. In darkness seeing
white arsenic numbers on the tail of a downed plane,
the smokestacks of abandoned fieldguns burning skyward.

________________________

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 glitter

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.

_______________________

—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.)

Why, Then, Do We Not Despair?

YOU WILL HEAR THUNDER AND REMEMBER ME
—Anna Akhmatova

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson.
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
When, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

________________________

Today would've been Anna Akhmatova's (Anna Andreevna Gonenko's) 117th birthday.

Other Events for Today:

•••Tonight (6/23), Writers of the New Sun/Escritores del Nuevo Sol presents Dynamic Women in a Double Feature: Come to hear Las Manas, a group of Bay Area women of varied ages and ethnicities who will treat us to their dynamic performance poetry. At the same evening, featured Escritores poet Be Herrera will lead a Circle of Friends poetry reading. Hosted by Felicia Martinez, open mic follows. Location: La Raza Galeria Posada, 1421 ‘R’ St., Sac., 7:30 PM. Cost: $5 or as you can afford. Info: Graciela, 916-456-5323, or www.escritoresdelnuevosol.com.

Website FYI:

Wednesday's post featured a poem by Layne Russell of Redding. Check out whiteowlweb.com, not only to learn more about Layne and her poetry, but also to access the listing of poetry publications she has on there, some of which you'll find familiar. Click on "library" in the menu to the left.

________________________

LET ANY, WHO WILL, STILL BASK IN THE SOUTH
—Anna Akhmatova

You are with me once more, Autumn my friend!
—Annensky

Let any, who will, still bask in the south
On the paradisal sand,
It's northerly here—and this year of the north
Autumn will be my friend.

I'll live, in a dream, in a stranger's house
Where perhaps I have died,
Where the mirrors keep something mysterious
To themselves in the evening light.

I shall walk between black fir-trees,
Where the wind is at one with the heath,
And a dull splinter of the moon will glint
Like an old knife with jagged teeth.

Our last, blissful unmeeting I shall bring
To sustain me here—
The cold, pure, light flame of conquering
What I was destined for.

(Translated by D.M. Thomas)

_______________________

DEATH
—Anna Akhmatova

I

I was on the edge of something
For which there is no precise name...
An insistent drowsiness,
A self-evasion...

2

And I am standing on the threshold of something
That befalls everyone, but at different cost...
On this ship there is a cabin for me
And wind in my sails—and the terrible moment
Of taking leave of my native land.

(Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer)

_______________________

"EVERYTHING IS PLUNDERED..."
—Anna Akhmatova

Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?

By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.

And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses—
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.

(Translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward)

_______________________

—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 World's a Minefield

SPRING
—Oshima Ryota

Ah, this world of ours:
just three days I don't look out—
and cherry blossoms!

_______________________

What's Hot Today:

•••Tonight (Thursday, 6/22), Gary Snyder will read from and sign copies of his Left Out in the Rain (Journeys from 1947-1985) at St. Joseph's Cultural Center, 410 S. Church St., Grass Valley. Free. Info: 530-272-2131.

•••Also tonight, Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., presents Julie Valin and Dan Hoagland, two poets who are active in the Grass Valley poetry community. 8 PM. Info: 916-441-3931.

________________________

Time(s) Slipping Away:

This year’s Poetry Marathon will start Friday, July 28 at noon and end on Monday, July 31 at 1 PM. Each poet will read for approximately 30 minutes, with 15-minute open-mike readings from community members who sign up in advance. Those who want to participate in the open-mic readings can sign up (and should do so NOW) by calling 916-452-5493 or by writing to Bari at bk418@pacbell.net before July 15, or until all spots are filled. Bari tells us that the time slots are almost filled!

_______________________

THE WORLD'S A MINEFIELD
—Iain Crichton Smith

The world's a minefield when I think of you.
I must walk carefully in case I touch
some irretrievable and secret switch
that blows the old world back into the new.

How careless I once was about this ground
with the negligence of ignorance. Now I take
the smallest delicate steps and now I look
about me and about me without end.

_________________________

LISTEN
—Iain Crichton Smith

Listen, I have flown through darkness towards joy,
I have put the mossy stones away from me,
and the thorns, the thistles, the brambles.
I have swum upward like a fish

through the black wet earth, the ancient roots
which insanely fight with each other
in a grave which creates a treasure house
of light upward-springing leaves.

Such joy, such joy! Such airy drama
the clouds compose in the heavens,
such interchange of comedies,
disguises, rhymes, denouements.

I had not believed that the stony heads
would change to actors and actresses,
and that the grooved armour of statues
would rise and walk away

into a resurrection of villages,
townspeople, citizens, dead exiles,
who sing with the salt in their mouths,
winged nightingales of brine.

_______________________

Oh—and thank you to the poets who commented on my "Waiting for Daylight" poem, which I shamelessly posted on Father's Day [see Sunday's post]. I hate it when people fail to credit previous publications, but that's just what I did!—that poem was published in Poetry Now a couple of years ago. Mea culpa.

—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.)

A Habitation and A Name

swallowtail
—Layne Russell, Redding

a swallowtail
hangs on a
tall golden cosmos
near the giant
lemon cucumber leaves
and green swelling tomatoes

the blue dragonfly
darts by
bathed in iridescence
and lands to rest on a
purple potato blossom

I call to you—look!
as you stand in puddles of
persimmon shade
surveying three kinds of
lavender
red and yellow daisies
sunshine yarrow
oregano
tarragon
thyme
and sages

we stand so still
lost to this bright moment
of falling light
glistening silence and
wings

________________________

Thanks, Layne, for a final contribution to the Thing-a-Thon, which ended at midnight last night.

Today's Events:

•••Tonight (Wednesday, 6/21), Urban Voices presents two of Sacramento's treasures, Ann Menebroker and D.R. Wagner, who will read in a double-header to usher in the Summer Solstice at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac., 6:30 PM. Free. Info: 916-264-2920. (Last Sunday's Bee says Viola Weinberg, but it's D.R. Wagner.)

•••And today is the turning of the year; from now on the days grow shorter. I was mightily pleased at the last Rattle-Read to hear Gene Avery recite my favorite passage from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream; to wit:

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:—
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,—
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

(Theseus, Act V, Scene I)

Hyppolyta goes on to say, of course, that apparently it takes all three to manifest the truth...

But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigured so together,
More witnesseth than fancy's images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

______________________

Our gratitude to Will. And may you all have a dream of a midsummer's night...

—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.)

On and On With the Ode-a-Thon...

What's a Grecian Urn? Oh, about $6.75 an hour...

_______________________

TO MY SONIC TOOTHBRUSH
—Laura LeHew, Eugene, OR

The caress of his soft bristles,
scalloped for deep, pleasurable cleaning,

sonic waves pulsating,
thirty-one thousand strokes per minute,

regulator rendering blissful equality
to awaiting molars, bicuspids, incisors.

Magnanimous rechargeable batteries,
enduring up to 2 weeks—alone.

His comely recharger light,
indicating imminent insertion into base.

The stimulation of his handsome non-slip ergonomic grip,
with authomatic shutoff timer, singular of purpose,

pleasantly removing plaque, whitening teeth,
improving oral soundness and salubrious checkups,
thwarting disease, saving money,

my sonic toothbruth has enraptured me—
happy hygienist.

_______________________

Thanks, Laura! Tonight's the deadline for the Thing-a-Thon: Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s)—by midnight tonight (Tuesday, 6/20), and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

News from Staajabu:

I wrote to Staajabu to get her new address so I could send her a new Snake (with JoAnn Anglin's wonderful interview of her daughter, V.S. Chochezi, in it), and she wrote back: Good to hear from Sacramento friends, kathy! NJ is just beautiful, luscious and green right now with occasional thunder storms (real thunder storms) and 80-85 degree sunny days. Days are full of family, friends, church activities, weddings, birthdays, cook-outs and helping out this one and that one with the old folks and young. I'm in my element! Took a ride with 3 of my best cousins Saturday through deep country woods down to the creek and ate deep fried chicken wings in hot sauce at an old beat up' wood, splinterful, picnic table, while shooing flys, ducks, ants and mosquitoes away. Ahhh country livin'. Nothin' like it. The move was smooth, thanks for the positive vibrations! Regards to all. Be well, staajabu. She says Sacramento people can write to her at her e-mail address: staajabu@yahoo.com.

Still on the Slither:

You may receive your new Rattlesnake Review in the mail today, or you may not; as usual, they're going out in batches. Rhumbas, as it were. Or pick one up free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Or come to the Urban Voices reading tomorrow night at the South Natomas Library, or the Los Escritores reading on Friday (see yesterday's post for details on these); I'll be at both, if'fn the creek between here and downtown Sacramento don't rise...

More Thing Poems:

FIREFALL
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento

We stood in fantasy
watching the red waterfall
tumble, roar from the summit
sparks snapping down
into Yosemite Valley,
never thinking about fire danger,
rangers below, ready
with a few water buckets.

How could we not?
Not know the simplicity,
marching into that docile crowd,
an ancient land we thought
we knew, avoiding the bigger
blaze? —leaving singed boots
to stomp out brushfires
for years to come.

______________________

POME
—Robert Grossklaus, Rancho Cordova

I'd bite into it were it not for the bruise
and the thought of the premature rotting
beneath its surface.
It's just a thought.
The fruit is, most likely,
just as sweet
were its outsides firm,
waxed gleaming... and still
I pause before ploughing my
teeth into its soft flesh.

_______________________

BLACK BANANA
—Tim Kahl, Sacramento

At the bottom of the bowl
suffering a hungry child’s neglect,
the once proud fruit of the Dominican
goes soft inside like paste that holds shut
envelopes traveling from Brazil to Missoula.

The whole family shuns the black banana.
It is assumed to be bruised. It should be
buried in the trash with the other scraps
of orange peel and egg shell and blister-pak
that saved the apple’s soul from damage.

It cannot serve as middle class treat.
It blemishes the remodeled kitchen
with its ventilating hood that broadcasts
prep smells the length of the street.
There’s no time to eat you, imperfect expatriate.

Go back to your place in the aisles of produce.
No one ever thought you’d stay this long,
shriveling in full view of the guests who’ve
started to comment. They talk in bold tones
that you contaminate other fruit.

The flies hover and dive at the flesh when
its sides split from handling. Someone
tried to hold on too hard, or was it
laughing and crying that burst its seams?
This mess requires an intervention,

a paternal will that heeds and discerns
what dirties from what is scrupulously clean.

_______________________

Thanks, Jeanine, Robert, and Tim, for playing along with the Thing-a-Thon!

—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.)

Hot Days & Hot Stuff (Po-Events 6/19-25)

CLUTTER
—Margaret Ellis Hill, Wilton

Plants, fences, trees, asphalt
pasture grasses, dark earth
a orderly clutter of nature blends
together.
My desk presents a clutter
of paper, pens, calendars,
radio, vases, books
and scraps of my mind.

_______________________

Thanks, Peggy! Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s)—by midnight tomorrow (Tuesday, 6/20), and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

Workshops

Ellen Hopkins of Carson City writes: Hi Kathy, I'm hoping you might spread the word about our upcoming Juniper Creek Writers Conference, July 14-16, in Carson City, NV. We offer workshops for all levels of writers of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, screenplay and children's lit. Our poetry track is especially strong. This is a fun, affordable 2.5 day event. Info: www.junipercreekpubs.com/events. Because it is such late notice, we will extend the early registration discount to you and any writers who mention you sent them. Critiques, however, need to be sent ASAP!

City of Pleasanton Civic Arts and Pleasanton Poet Laureate Cynthia Bryant will host an all-day poetry workshop by Poetry Slam Champion Tshaka Campbell on Saturday, July 8. This workshop, appropriate for adults and older teens, will be held at the Pleasanton Sr. Center, 5353 Sunol Blvd., Pleasanton, from 9:30 AM to 4 PM. Tshaka Campbell, a writer/poet who was the 2005 San Francisco Grand Slam Champion, will represent Hollywood/LA at the national poetry championships in Austin, Texas this August. Pleasanton Poet Laureate Cynthia Bryant says: Tshaka Campbell’s poetry workshop is $50 per person and will include a continental breakfast and box lunch. To find out more about Tshaka Campbell, go to www.naturalkink.com. This workshop is filling up fast; please make your reservations soon! Reservations must be made in advance with Michelle Russo at 925-931-5350 or mrusso@ci.pleasanton.ca.

This Week's Po-Parties:

•••Tonight (6/19), David Humphreys, Sacramento Poet Laureate Julia Connor, and Nancy Wahl will be reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Headquarters for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac., at 7:30 PM.

•••Wednesday (6/21), Urban Voices presents Ann Menebroker and D.R. Wagner at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac., 6:30 PM. Free. Info: 916-264-2920. (Yesterday's Bee says Viola Weinberg, but it's D.R. Wagner.)

•••Thursday (6/22), Gary Snyder will read from and sign copies of his Left Out in the Rain (Journeys from 1947-1985) at St. Joseph's Cultural Center, 410 S. Church St., Grass Valley. Free. Info: 530-272-2131.

•••Also Thursday (6/22), Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., presents Julie Valin and Dan Hoagland, two poets who are active in the Grass Valley poetry community. 8 PM. Info: 916-441-3931.

•••Friday (6/23), Writers of the New Sun/Escritores del Nuevo Sol presents Dynamic Women in a Double Feature: Come to hear Las Manas, a group of Bay Area women of varied ages and ethnicities who will treat us to their dynamic performance poetry. At the same evening, featured Escritores poet Be Herrera will lead a Circle of Friends poetry reading. Hosted by Felicia Martinez, open mic follows. Location: La Raza Galeria Posada, 1421 ‘R’ St., Sac., 7:30 PM. Cost: $5 or as you can afford. Info: Graciela, 916-456-5323, or www.escritoresdelnuevosol.com.

•••Saturday (6/24), The Freedom Equity Group presents "The Show" Poetry Series, featuring Brett "B-Free" Freeman, Twa'Lea Randolph, Heather Christian, Mia Sousa—plus a very special drop-in guest, JUDAH 1, from the 2005 LA Slam Team, and a visit from Fort Worth Texas Slam Team member Michael Guinn. Plus, Single Fathers’ Appreciation Night: 20 single fathers will be given free gifts, and the first five will be admitted free! Wo'se Community Center (Off 35th and Broadway), 2863 35th St., Sac., 7-9 PM. $5. Info: 916-455-POET. "The Show" Poetry Series is co-sponsored by the Freedom Equity Group and Gatdula’s King Eagles Karate.

________________________

OF ALL WORKS
—Bertold Brecht

Of all works I prefer
Those used and worn.
Copper vessels with dents and with flattened rims
Knives and forks whose wooden handles
Many hands have grooved: such shapes
Seemed the noblest to me. So too the flagstones around
Old houses, trodden by many feet and ground down,
With clumps of grass in the cracks, these too
Are happy works.

Absorbed into the use of the many
Frequently changed, they improve their appearance, growing enjoyable
Because often enjoyed.
Even the remnants of broken sculptures
With lopped-off hands I love. They also
Lived with me. If they were dropped at least they must have been carried.
If men knocked them over they cannot have stood too high up.
Buildings half dilapidated
Revert to the look of buildings not yet completed
Generously designed: their fine proportions
Can already be guessed; yet they still make demands
On our understanding. At the same time
They have served already, indeed have been left behind. All this
Makes me glad.

(Translated from the German by Michael Hamburger)

_______________________

—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.)

Father's Day, 2006

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS
—Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

________________________

I REMEMBER WHEN

my father climbed the western mountain.
Every day he chopped more
of its peak off so we could have more
daylight to grow our food in, and when he'd
chopped deep enough that in midsummer we had
sun for an extra minute, which
is, of course, an exaggeration, he
knew he had done something real, and called us
to watch the sun settle
in the chink and disappear.

Next day the sun had moved, but he dept digging
the same dent, wanting one day a year.
One day, he told us, the mountain would be
chopped in two and there would be
one complete day
hours longer than there'd ever been.

People in the town called him "Father" too.
Some volunteered to help, but no,
it was his, his dent and his light;
they were lucky
he was willing to share. At night there were new stars.

—When he hit a spring and the water gushed out
a waterfall, flooding the valley, the town,
to form a beautiful lake, deep,
cold, and full of fish found
nowhere else, the animals that lived
wild on his mountain rejoiced and grew
wilder, more passionate. They rejoiced!
We still do.

—Michael Hettich

________________________

CHERRY CORDIALS
—Kathy Kieth

A red-and-white box for each of us
every Christmas: thick, rich chocolate-

covered maraschino cherries soaked
in pure syrup. A box for each of us: my dad

and me: a rare indulgence from his dour
mother. Two kids we were at Christmas,

my dad and me: suckling on luscious cherry
bonbons, leaving out my mother across

the room as we drew up all that sweetness
once a year: lost in thick, dark sugar. . .

_______________________

WAITING FOR DAYLIGHT
—Kathy Kieth

Addled by drugs, my father is
a handful for the night
nurse, but settles when I sit
with him. Still, he fiddles

with tubes, tries to re-arrange
the imposements of a hospital
bed. Hoping to distract, I trigger
old memories: it works; nurses

withdraw into their own shadowy
midnight of charts and carts, slick
dark hallways. . . He points out
a big black dog on the foot

of his bed: visitor I'm not ready
to see: hound that waits with us
for tomorrow, for the decisive
scalpel of daylight, for bright sun

to flood this room with his new
family. . . Meanwhile we hold
hands, talk about our old life,
about the three of us before

my mother died. And the black dog
listens, waits with us: now and then
lifting its huge, dark head. . .

________________________

—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.)

Slop and Cobbles

DEATH OF A PAIR OF SHOES
—Jorge Guillén

They're dying on me! They've lived
Faithfully, Christian
Servants honored
And happy helping

And pleasing their master,
A tired traveler
Reading to quit
For peace of soul and foot.

These soles know. They know
Step by step long rambles
And wet days, floundering
Among slop and cobbles.

Even the color drains
From the sad skins
Which, plain as they were, livened
Some forgotten festival.

All this announces a ruin
I don't grasp. The affliction
Of living corrodes honor.
They're running. Specters! Shoes!

(Translated from the Spanish by Philip Levine)

_______________________

Today's Events:

•••This afternoon (6/17), Novelist and Poet-Pal Bill Pieper, author of Fool Me Once; Gomez; and Belonging is the featured speaker at the Arden-Dimick Library, 891 Watt Av., Sac., at 2 PM. Free. Info: 916-264-2920. Bill received the 2003-2004 Best Fiction/Drama Book Award from the Northern California Publishers and Authors Association.

•••Tonight (6/17), The Underground Poetry Series features Born 2B Poets, Franklin and Kika, Jason Banks, and open mic. Underground Books, 2814 35th St., Sac., 7-9 PM. $3. Info: 916-737-3333.

About Monday's SPC Reading:

Yesterday we mentioned David Humphreys' reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Headquarters for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac. this coming Monday (6/19) at 7:30 PM. It turns out that the information we received was incomplete—David will be joined by Sacramento Poet Laureate Julia Connor, as well as Poet Nancy Wahl. A great line-up, for sure—be there!

Things Roll On:

Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s) by midnight on June 20, and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

Speaking of Things, Poet and Rattlechapper Allegra Silberstein of Davis wants to know if anybody out there has the number "1090" on their house and would like to have her beautiful stained glass window that incorporates same. She rescued the window from her old house, and would like someone who can use it to have it. Write to me if you're interested, and I'll pass the word along.

________________________

ON A GIRDLE
—Edmund Waller

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound;
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

_______________________

things that keep
—dawn dibartolo, sacramento

a scooter left
smack-dab in front
of my dryer, but
crunchy socks
tucked neatly
into sofa cushions;
doesn't match, but
little boys don't care
and little girls
quickly come to

being sought
to fill the silence
~ sometimes,
because i so enjoy the quiet,
the sound of invention
as fully as the wonder of youth
~ sometimes

they crowd me
on the couch
and i don't mind so much
because i fear empty nests

these things...keep,
wait to remind me
of what's real
when I so often forget.

______________________

Thanks, Dawn! The book is in the mail.

—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.)

Nanny Nipples???

ESCALATE
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

Eyes close over pupils, shutters
that sense colors of mist

Hear the thumping heart, hollow
unrolling red carpet, to hiatus

Uncover sensuality, on a peak
moment, exchanged with thought

Meditate, uncrossed, wearing only
delicate lace thread, flapping in the wind

_______________________

Thanks, Rhony!

Poetry in the Hills Tonight:

James Lee Jobe and Mary Zeppa will be reading tonight (Friday, 6/16) at Our House Defines Art, 7 PM. An open mic follows. Our House Defines Art Gallery & Framing is located at 4510 Post St. (Ste. 330) in El Dorado Hills Town Center, El Dorado Hills. Free. Info: 916-933-4278. Medusa will be up there, tossing out Snakes-a-plenty.

Paper Zone Closing!

My very-most favoritist fancy-paper store, Paper Zone, is closing its Rancho Cordova store in just a few days. Their Roseville store will remain open, but this is very scary (and not a little inconvenient, since they supply most of my publishing papers). Anyway, if you love fancy cardstocks, transparents, and all that good stuff, every item in the store is 50% off right now (though stocks are getting pretty low). PZone Rancho is at 10831 Olson Dr., Rancho Cordova. Info: 916-859-0225.

David Humphreys on Monday:

Be sure to attend David Humphreys' reading at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Headquarters for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac. this coming Monday (6/19) at 7:30 PM. David is the head of Poet's Corner Press; click on its link to the right of this column, and also see his poem posted in yesterday's Kitchen.

Back to our Thing-a-Thon:

IN EXCESS
—Colette Jonopulos, Eugene, OR

It was as you’d imagine, that house
with floor-to-ceiling windows, like a bird poised
over the Pacific, over the edge of the world.
Requisite cases of dry, dry wine,

wine-glass jewels
for each fine-boned stem. Pillows too large for
sleeping, towels for visitors, painted dishes and wooden
napkin holders caressing cloth napkins. And

the wind before dawn exacting its price, cutting
through me like a knife, paring away all
that never mattered.

________________________

FRIENDSHIP GARDEN
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

Campanula from Molly’s formal garden
nanny nipples and balsam from Francia’s ranch
her grandmother’s peony from Marilyn’s old back yard in town
black-red pelargonium from Jenny’s patio
Queen’s Tears and poor man’s orchid
from Charlotte in her late 80s
cactus from Sydney in her 90s
‘Tropicana’ canna from my young neighbor Trevor
who got it from his mother’s front yard
lambs’ ears from new neighbor Cathy
in the house where Doris lived and gave me a cast iron plant
Rose of Sharon from Marie on the creek
bergenia from Francia’s mom Marie down the road
the perfect pink-petaled geranium
from Claire’s writer-garden in Paradise
‘Baltic’ ivy from my parents’ New Jersey fireplace wall
‘Green Ripple’ ivy from a walk with Juanita
‘Debutante’ camellia from my former home
and planted by my late husband
white iris from my husband Roy from his mother-in-law Emma
purple sage from Joe’s Italian garden
two cedar trees from Joan’s cabin at Lake Almanor
and a tri-color geranium from Alma’s home by the sea
My garden is a patchwork quilt of comfort

_______________________

Thanks, Colette and PWJ! Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s) by midnight on June 20, and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

—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.)

Snakes Alive!

SUNSET TURNED ON ITS SIDE
—David Humphreys, Stockton

Here, on the other side of what is
seen from around the edge of
a nebulous assumption, improbability
is not about to throw anything very
critical into the movement of sun across
the yard. Breakfast comes with coffee
before a morning walk.

Switzerland ties France in the match
this morning. The Czech Republic later
trounces the U. S. team, roughs them
up a bit. Our leader visits the Green
Zone, surprising no one, in particular.
It is one of the central issues. Lunch
is cherry vanilla yoghurt.

Stephen Hawking is a lead story saying
that the only way the human race
will survive into the future will
be to move into outer space to populate
other planets, thereby removing some
from proximity to apparently inevitable
nuclear annihilation. Dinner never comes.

_______________________

Yikes, David—I haven't even had my coffee yet.... But thanks!

Snakes Alive!

Well, Ophidians, check out the spread on the front page of The Sacramento Bee Scene section today! What a day to feature rattlesnakes, when Snake 10 is waiting for you at The Book Collector (or headed for you via snailmail). Over and over, the experts try to tell us that only one or two people die a year from the 800 or so rattlesnake bites that happen, and those deaths are mostly, according to the article, in "young drunken men handling snakes". Kids and pets are at greater risk, though. And we ophidiophobes are right to be cautious, because poets do have a tendency to stick their hands in dark, secret places, yes?..... Anyway, it's a good article, with do's (such as, stay calm, get medical attention) and don'ts (don't try to suck the venom out or get all het up or make a tourniquet or kill the snake or bother with snakebite kits).

And, as I said, Snake 10 premiered at last night's fine Rattle-read by B.L. Kennedy, along with his rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems, and free littlesnake broadside, A Conversation With B.L. Kennedy by Gene "Gizmo" Avery. Contributors and subscribers will get theirs in the mail this week or next. I'll also be at various readings. And remember: no "save-zies" at The Book Collector; no fair asking Owners Rachel and Richard to save copies for you.

Today's Events

•••Thursday (6/15), Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8pm. Cowboy poetry comes to Luna’s! YEEE-Haaaw! Larry Maurice has spent the last 20 years as a Poet cowboy, horse wrangler, and packer who has won numerous national awards for his performances and his CD recordings. He is also a Poet and storyteller; his one-man show “Cowboy: The Spirit, The Lore, The Legacy” keeps him touring around the country.

•••Thursday (6/15) also features an Open Mic at Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way @ Bell, Sac. Doors open at 7 PM; show starts at 8. $5 cover. Info: (916) 922-3468. Music provided by DJ Barney B.

•••Also Thursday (6/15), the Nevada County Poetry Series will present poets Rhony Bhopla, Julia Connor (Sacramento Poet Laureate) and Dianna Henning at 7:30 PM. 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. Info: 530-432-8196 or 530-274-8384.

Spreading the Work

Patricia Wellingham-Jones has let us know about Centrifugal Eye (http://centrifugaleye.com/), edited by Eve Hanninen, who has done a fine Medusa cover for the current issue. Check it out!

The 20th Annual Focus on Writers Contest, sponsored by the Friends of the Sacramento Public Library, has a deadline of August 1. Awards in each category (short story; first chapter of a novel; poetry; non-fiction article or first chapter; book/article for children; first chapter of book for young adults) are $250 for 1st, $150 for 2nd, $75 for 3rd. Info/rules: 916-264-2880 or www.saclibrary.org (click on Friends, then on Focus on Writers), or watch for one of the yellow flyers around town.

All contestants will receive info about the October 14 Focus on Writers Conference and a $5 discount on the conference reg. fee. This year's conference, to be held at Cal. State University, Sacramento, will feature novelist Beth Lisick as the keynote speaker, with a special, longer session on the craft of writing. Watch for more details later.

Things

Yesterday we started a Thing-a-Thon: Send me a poem of yours about things—ANY Thing(s) by midnight on June 20, and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662.

Here are two Things poems from James Lee Jobe, who will be reading tomorrow (6/16) at Our House Defines Art with Mary Zeppa, 7 PM. An open mic follows. Our House Defines Art Gallery & Framing is located at 4510 Post St. (Ste. 330) in El Dorado Hills Town Center, El Dorado Hills. Free. Info: 916-933-4278.

LUNCH
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

Toward noon the bread gets anxious, puffing out
the plastic bag with its nervous breath.
The cheese, the milk, the cold chicken
all watch the clock, knowing each second
that passes brings them closer to their fate.
The man approaches. His hungry footsteps
grow louder, come closer, stomping almost.
The jello quivers in its bowl, a frightened child.
Soon, my friend, it will all be over.

________________________

WHAT ARE THE STARS?
—James Lee Jobe

The stars are little holes in the sky
that let the light of Heaven shine through,
so that the night will be softer.

The stars are flying soldiers
protecting the world
from things far above us.

The stars are maps to our souls;
once you open these maps
you can never close them again.

The stars are the spirits
of all our loved ones
who went before us.

________________________

Thanks, JJ! And one from Taylor Graham, who says: Many thanks for the "things" challenge. It came at just the right time. We were about to deliver SnowWhite (beloved Tercel) to the dismantlers, and I hadn't written her a poem as I did for The Dwarf ('87 Tercel) to tuck into his upholstery before the dreaded last drive. So this is brand-new, written on the road. If I don't send it right away, I'll decide it's too hopelessly sentimental.

THE ‘90 TERCEL, 206,630 MILES
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

Bought second hand, she fits me like a skin.
She shimmies into the tightest spaces,
slips into synch with my quirks of clutch
and steering, adjusts her gears to my hills.
Her engine hum’s harmonic to the tinnitus
in my ears. Did I mention how she fits me,
scabs and scuffs and wrinkles? This time
she didn’t smog. I turn into the dismantler’s
chain-link yard. So many miles, the years
of road song, sweet
Tercel. Can a new car really fit
as well?

______________________

Thanks, TG!

—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.)