As Leaves Turn to Rust

OLD BATTLEFIELD
—Amy Whitcomb, Davis

Old battlefield
I am running through it,
setting loose the shots
against him—

I am cursing this sacred ground
where men and men before me
fell, collapsed
to a more severe fate;

Mine was just a stumble
over this root in the path,
and so I don’t begrudge them any,

for our measured conversations
are just as unsuccessful at gaining ground;
We, too, have strategized to no avail,
and have found that the only way
to reconcile is like this

Blood, soaking through
the knee on my sweatpants—
the opening of old
battle wounds.

_______________________

Thanks, Amy! Davis Poet Amy Whitcomb is another of those local writers who have taken mercy on Medusa and sent her poems lately.

Members of The Great American Pinup web journal (greatamericanpinup.blogspot.com) will be reading at The Sacramento Poetry Center on TUESDAY, Nov. 28 at 7:30 PM, HQ for the Arts, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. [Note: this is a change-of-date for SPC, which usually meets on Mondays.] Live (!) members reading will include David Koehn, Shawn Pittard, Victor Schnickelfritz, and Geraldine Kim (winner of the 2005 Fence Books Award). Plus recordings of Matthew Schmeer [Kansas City] and Richard Jeffrey Newman [New York]. Here are poems from a couple of the upcoming readers:

AFTER A MIGRAINE
—David Koehn

Peeled potato,
Backyard damp with rain.

Sliced fennel,
Concentric rings align

On the cutting board.
A wince of anise and the light

Of bitter lemon on the air.
Everything seems sharpened.

The weave and ochre weft
Underlies the Kilim.

A grid of linen blossom
Wallpaper, the graph of mauve

Kitchen tile, X.
Breathing this air

Brightens a net, Y.
Celery stalk strings

Curl beside the arc
Of an avocado pit

Toward my seamlessness, Z.
What pinch of garlic, bulb

Flattened under knife blade,
Lights sliced red bell

Pepper in a steel bowl?
Clockwork wheels of tomato

Seep a single seed
Aside crushed black pepper

Suspended in olive oil.

_______________________

AFTER READING HAIKU, I STEP OUTSIDE
AND CONTEMPLATE
THREE PINK DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS
—Shawn Pittard, Sacramento

1.

A scrub jay hunts for insects below the half-stare of our garden Buddha. Its gray legs and black beak sift through a shroud of scattered blossoms. I sit under the dogwood tree, sketch gestures of its supple limbs with a yellow stub of pencil—sharpened to a crisp, fine point by my pocketknife’s small blade.

2.

Issa wrote—

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.

3.

When she was too weak to walk outside, my wife’s grandmother watched the dogwood tree bloom from her kitchen table. While her hatred of the color pink was fierce, she would tolerate its presence on her tree each spring. “Wait until fall,” she would say. “The leaves turn a wonderful rust red.”

_______________________

Thanks, David and Shawn! Check out The Great American Pin-up site, as well as Shawn's rattlechap, These Rivers. And don't forget: Next week's SPC reading will be held on Tuesday, not Monday!

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, 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.)