Carlena Wike
DECIDUA
—Carlena Wike, Elk Grove
The slant of my pen invites shadow.
Like a sundial, it obeys the thin October light.
Something that reveres schedule stirs, tarnishes flowers.
Daytime ghosts come early, dressed in dander.
They ripple the dusty gauze of late afternoon,
waft through windows, white sleeves waving.
I wander through Autumn this year
as through a museum of summers gone to art—
pasted on the wind in temporary display.
I scratch passages—my words seem dry, bittersweet.
I lift my nib and break away—follow the wind toward winter.
____________________
Thanks, Carlena! Carlena Wike (rhymes with "mike") has lived in the Sacramento area for five years. She has been writing poetry since childhood, sharing it sporadically as the rigors of raising a family have allowed. She won First Prize for her poem, "The Executive", at Valley College in Los Angeles, and has been a featured reader at venues in Los Angeles, Laguna Beach and more recently, The Other Voice in Davis. Her complete "Autobiography" follows:
It's all there, every detail
Like a book I am finishing
One I would read again
And quote, except the pages stick,
The ink runs, and I can repeat
Only what catches
In the sieve of memory.
Watch for a littlesnake broadside from Carlena, coming in February.
_____________________
This weekend in NorCal poetry:
•••Saturday (11/10), 4 PM: The Central California Art Association and the Mistlin Art Gallery poetry reading, reception, and book signing by Lee Herrick, author of This Many Miles From Desire (WorldTech Editions). The reading will take place in the gallery, 1015 J St., downtown Modesto. Lee grew up in Modesto (he's the son of CCAA artist, Georgia Herrick), and is currently living, writing, and teaching in Fresno. Co-host Gordon Preston writes: Please RSVP; we will need a head-count for all the logistics of a poetry reading at an art gallery. 530-523-8916 or gordonbp@sbcglobal.net/.
•••Saturday (11/10): Creative writing students of Wendy Patrice Williams at The College of Alameda will be featured at the Frank Bette Center for the Arts Second Saturdays Poetry and Prose Reading in Alameda. Open mic to follow. 1601 Paru, corner of Lincoln. Jeanne Lupton hosts. Info (including time?): jeany98@aol.com/. [This Bay Area announcement caught my eye because Wendy Williams lives up our way and belongs to the notorious Red Fox Underground, plus she has done a littlesnake broadside for Rattlesnake Press. Come to the Rattle-read this coming Wednesday to hear Fellow Undergrounder Taylor Graham; I suspect there will be more than one Red Fox attending...]
•••Sunday (11/11), 2:30-4:30 PM: Poets on the Ridge poetry reading (open mic) at Juice and Java, 7067 Skyway, Paradise. Info: 530-872-9633.
•••Monday (11/12), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Lisa Dominguez Abraham and Quinton Duval, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. See yesterday's post for bios of these wonderful poets. Open mic will follow.
_____________________
ANNA, IN HER APRON
—Carlena Wike
Threat of rain, though no rain yet.
Waving one bent finger in the wind
she reads the mood and speed of clouds
then swings the laundry-laden basket—
heavier now than it used to be—
to her waiting hip, ignores its warning—
More than rain is in the forecast.
Threat of pain, though no pain yet.
She weaves her way outside
between two black, insistent cats
and pins her winter wear on summer’s line.
Some new delight is found in risking tasks
she’s always done—much faster young—
in spite of recent forecasts.
____________________
INDIAN SUMMER
—Carlena Wike
Wind etches the air
tugs at my attention.
At wind’s suggestion
I note the season
try to ignore
the brown fingers of Fall
tabulating time.
The sky
releases summer.
Autumn poses briefly
pretending to be
that younger sister
then, flailing her arms,
throws pretense aside—
Leaves.
I am of the autumn this year—
I know when summer ended,
am aware of winter’s certainty.
I watch my ripeness soften,
finger my changing hair,
let go the harvest of my longing,
children broken from my limbs.
Barren, winter waits
crouched in closets
knitting my brow.
I see her in the corners of my eyes,
catch glimpses of her
mimicking me in mirrors
staring out of yellowed portraits.
I watch myself become my mother.
Grandmother smiles from the mantel
a reminder—
I will become white, cold,
forget to feed the animals.
____________________
LAUDS
—Carlena Wike
I lift the slim book
hoping within it to find grace
as though the poet
could transmit prayer by pen
as though her common life
delicately inscribed
might elevate mine.
In the rising shadows of
a morning not yet lifted by sun
I strain, seeking not light,
but illumination.
My eyes tip the page up
like an early cup
lids eager as lips
for the first long pull.
I taste the pungent urgency
pressed between pages.
It startles the heart.
____________________
And Anne Sexton would've been 79 years old today.
MUSIC SWIMS BACK TO ME
—Anne Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
(from All My Pretty Ones, 1962)
—Carlena Wike, Elk Grove
The slant of my pen invites shadow.
Like a sundial, it obeys the thin October light.
Something that reveres schedule stirs, tarnishes flowers.
Daytime ghosts come early, dressed in dander.
They ripple the dusty gauze of late afternoon,
waft through windows, white sleeves waving.
I wander through Autumn this year
as through a museum of summers gone to art—
pasted on the wind in temporary display.
I scratch passages—my words seem dry, bittersweet.
I lift my nib and break away—follow the wind toward winter.
____________________
Thanks, Carlena! Carlena Wike (rhymes with "mike") has lived in the Sacramento area for five years. She has been writing poetry since childhood, sharing it sporadically as the rigors of raising a family have allowed. She won First Prize for her poem, "The Executive", at Valley College in Los Angeles, and has been a featured reader at venues in Los Angeles, Laguna Beach and more recently, The Other Voice in Davis. Her complete "Autobiography" follows:
It's all there, every detail
Like a book I am finishing
One I would read again
And quote, except the pages stick,
The ink runs, and I can repeat
Only what catches
In the sieve of memory.
Watch for a littlesnake broadside from Carlena, coming in February.
_____________________
This weekend in NorCal poetry:
•••Saturday (11/10), 4 PM: The Central California Art Association and the Mistlin Art Gallery poetry reading, reception, and book signing by Lee Herrick, author of This Many Miles From Desire (WorldTech Editions). The reading will take place in the gallery, 1015 J St., downtown Modesto. Lee grew up in Modesto (he's the son of CCAA artist, Georgia Herrick), and is currently living, writing, and teaching in Fresno. Co-host Gordon Preston writes: Please RSVP; we will need a head-count for all the logistics of a poetry reading at an art gallery. 530-523-8916 or gordonbp@sbcglobal.net/.
•••Saturday (11/10): Creative writing students of Wendy Patrice Williams at The College of Alameda will be featured at the Frank Bette Center for the Arts Second Saturdays Poetry and Prose Reading in Alameda. Open mic to follow. 1601 Paru, corner of Lincoln. Jeanne Lupton hosts. Info (including time?): jeany98@aol.com/. [This Bay Area announcement caught my eye because Wendy Williams lives up our way and belongs to the notorious Red Fox Underground, plus she has done a littlesnake broadside for Rattlesnake Press. Come to the Rattle-read this coming Wednesday to hear Fellow Undergrounder Taylor Graham; I suspect there will be more than one Red Fox attending...]
•••Sunday (11/11), 2:30-4:30 PM: Poets on the Ridge poetry reading (open mic) at Juice and Java, 7067 Skyway, Paradise. Info: 530-872-9633.
•••Monday (11/12), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Lisa Dominguez Abraham and Quinton Duval, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. See yesterday's post for bios of these wonderful poets. Open mic will follow.
_____________________
ANNA, IN HER APRON
—Carlena Wike
Threat of rain, though no rain yet.
Waving one bent finger in the wind
she reads the mood and speed of clouds
then swings the laundry-laden basket—
heavier now than it used to be—
to her waiting hip, ignores its warning—
More than rain is in the forecast.
Threat of pain, though no pain yet.
She weaves her way outside
between two black, insistent cats
and pins her winter wear on summer’s line.
Some new delight is found in risking tasks
she’s always done—much faster young—
in spite of recent forecasts.
____________________
INDIAN SUMMER
—Carlena Wike
Wind etches the air
tugs at my attention.
At wind’s suggestion
I note the season
try to ignore
the brown fingers of Fall
tabulating time.
The sky
releases summer.
Autumn poses briefly
pretending to be
that younger sister
then, flailing her arms,
throws pretense aside—
Leaves.
I am of the autumn this year—
I know when summer ended,
am aware of winter’s certainty.
I watch my ripeness soften,
finger my changing hair,
let go the harvest of my longing,
children broken from my limbs.
Barren, winter waits
crouched in closets
knitting my brow.
I see her in the corners of my eyes,
catch glimpses of her
mimicking me in mirrors
staring out of yellowed portraits.
I watch myself become my mother.
Grandmother smiles from the mantel
a reminder—
I will become white, cold,
forget to feed the animals.
____________________
LAUDS
—Carlena Wike
I lift the slim book
hoping within it to find grace
as though the poet
could transmit prayer by pen
as though her common life
delicately inscribed
might elevate mine.
In the rising shadows of
a morning not yet lifted by sun
I strain, seeking not light,
but illumination.
My eyes tip the page up
like an early cup
lids eager as lips
for the first long pull.
I taste the pungent urgency
pressed between pages.
It startles the heart.
____________________
And Anne Sexton would've been 79 years old today.
MUSIC SWIMS BACK TO ME
—Anne Sexton
Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.
Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.
They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?
(from All My Pretty Ones, 1962)
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) 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.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com).
SnakeWatch: Up-to-the-minute Snake news:
Journals: The latest issue of Rattlesnake Review (#15) is available for free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, or send $2 to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. Deadline for Snake 16 (Sweet 16!) is next Thursday, November 15—yikes! That's less than a week away!
Coming November 14: The Snake is proud to announce the release of Among Neighbors, a rattlechap from Taylor Graham; Home is Where You Hang Your Wings, a littlesnake broadside from frank andrick; and A Poet's Book of Days, a perpetual calendar featuring the poetry and photography of Katy Brown. Come celebrate all of these on Wednesday, November 14, 7:30 PM at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento.
