Change—what the hell is this??

ROAD'S END
—Rolf Jacobsen

The roads have come to their end now,
they don't go any farther, they turn here,
over on the earth there.
You can't go any farther if you don't want
to go to the moon or the planets. Stop now
in time, and turn to a wasp's nest or a cow track,
a volcano opening or a clatter of stones in the woods—
it's all the same. Something else.

They won't go any farther as I've said
without changing, the engine to horseshoes,
the gear shift to a fir branch
which you hold loose in your hand
—what the hell is this?

______________________

Steve Williams, former Sacramentan now living in Portland, who will be releasing a rattlechap in March, sends us this poetry site: http://poetryandpoetsinrags.blogspot.com. Check it out.

In case you missed the premiere of the B.L. Kennedy/Linda Thorell film about Sacramento poetry, I Began To Speak, the DVD is available from Bari for $19.95 (plus $2.50 s/h); send a check to him at 2619 Q St. #9, Sacramento, CA 95816.

There will be no Sacramento Poetry Center readings for the rest of December.

______________________

COUNTRY ROADS
—Rolf Jacobsen

A pale morning in June 4 AM
the country roads still greyish and moist
tunnelling endlessly through pines
a car had passed by on the dusty road
where an ant was out with his pine needle working
he was wandering around in the huge F of Firestone
that had been pressed into the sandy earth
for a hundred and twenty kilometers.
Fir needles are heavy.
Time after time he slipped back with his badly balanced
load
and worked it up again
and skidded back again
travelling over the great and luminous Sahara lit by clouds.

________________________

SUNFLOWER
—Rolf Jacobsen

What sower walked over earth,
which hands sowed
our inward seeds of fire?
They went out from his fists like rainbow curves
to frozen earth, young loam, hot sand,
they will sleep there
greedily, and drink up our lives
and explode it into pieces
for the sake of a sunflower that you haven't seen
or a thistle head or a chrysanthemum.

Let the young rain of tears come.
Let the calm hands of grief come.
It's not all as evil as you think.

(Today's poetry was translated by Robert Bly)

_______________________

—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.)