Photo by Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos
CRANES
—John Haines
That vast wheel turning
in the sky,
turning and turning
on the axle of the sun...
The wild cries,
the passionate wingbeat,
as the creaking helm of the summer
comes round,
and the laboring ship
plunges on...
__________________
IN NATURE
—John Haines
Here too are life's victims,
captives of an old umbrella,
lives wrecked
by the lifting of a stone.
Sailors marooned
on the island of a leaf
when their ship
of mud and straw went down.
Explorers lost
among roots and raindrops,
drunkards sleeping it off
in the fields of pollen.
Cities of sand that fall,
dust towers that blow away.,
Penal colonies
from which no one returns.
Here too, neighborhoods
in revolt, revengeful columns;
evenings at the broken wall,
black armies in flight...
__________________
DIVIDED, THE MAN IS DREAMING
—John Haines
One half
lives in sunlight; he is
the hunter and calls
the beasts of the field
about him.
Bathed in sweat and tumult
he slakes and kills,
eats meat
and knows blood.
His other half
lies in shadow
and longs for stillness,
a corner of the evening
where birds
rest from flight:
cool grass grows at his feet,
dark mice feed
from his hands.
__________________
TREES ARE PEOPLE AND
THE PEOPLE ARE TREES
—John Haines
And there in the crowded commons
three hundred striding people,
gesturing, eating the air,
halted around us, suddenly quiet.
They sprouted leaves and cones,
they wore strange bark for clothing,
and gently lifted their arms.
__________________
THE PITCHER OF MILK
—John Haines
Today is the peace of this mist
and its animals, as if all
the cows and goats in the land
gave milk to the dawn.
The same mist that rises
from battlefields, out of the mouths
and eye-sockets of horse
and man, it mingles with smoke
from moss fires
in the homesteader's clearing.
I and the others come to the doors
of cold houses, called
by the thin ringing of a spoon;
we stand with our brimming bowls,
called to where Peace awakens
in a cloud of white blood.
____________________
No B.L. Drive-by today; Bari Kennedy has the flu.
And celebrate Spring! She sneaked up on us in the middle of the night!
—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: News from Rattlesnake Press
The brand-new Rattlesnake Review (#17) is now available for free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento. Contributor copies and subscriptions will go into the mail this week and next. And if you aren't any of those but would like me to mail you one, send two bux to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.
Also New in March: Attracted to Light, a chapbook by Ann Privateer; Eclipse, a free littlesnake broadside by Jeanine Stevens; and Conversations Volume Two of B.L. Kennedy's Rattlesnake Interview Series, all available at The Book Collector or from rattlesnakepress.com/.
Coming in April: We will mark the Snake’s fourth birthday by throwing the Fourth Annual Birthday Bash at The Book Collector on Wednesday, April 9, including a buffet at 7 PM, followed by a reading at 7:30 PM. That night, there will be three history-making releases: Ann Menebroker’s new chapbook (Small Crimes); Ted Finn re-emerges with a new SnakeRings SpiralChap of his poetry and art (Damn the Eternal War); and Katy Brown inaugurates her blank (well, not really) journal series for our HandyStuff department with her MUSINGS: Photos and Prompts For Capturing Creative Thought. Please join us to celebrate four years of [your] poetry with fangs!
CRANES
—John Haines
That vast wheel turning
in the sky,
turning and turning
on the axle of the sun...
The wild cries,
the passionate wingbeat,
as the creaking helm of the summer
comes round,
and the laboring ship
plunges on...
__________________
IN NATURE
—John Haines
Here too are life's victims,
captives of an old umbrella,
lives wrecked
by the lifting of a stone.
Sailors marooned
on the island of a leaf
when their ship
of mud and straw went down.
Explorers lost
among roots and raindrops,
drunkards sleeping it off
in the fields of pollen.
Cities of sand that fall,
dust towers that blow away.,
Penal colonies
from which no one returns.
Here too, neighborhoods
in revolt, revengeful columns;
evenings at the broken wall,
black armies in flight...
__________________
DIVIDED, THE MAN IS DREAMING
—John Haines
One half
lives in sunlight; he is
the hunter and calls
the beasts of the field
about him.
Bathed in sweat and tumult
he slakes and kills,
eats meat
and knows blood.
His other half
lies in shadow
and longs for stillness,
a corner of the evening
where birds
rest from flight:
cool grass grows at his feet,
dark mice feed
from his hands.
__________________
TREES ARE PEOPLE AND
THE PEOPLE ARE TREES
—John Haines
And there in the crowded commons
three hundred striding people,
gesturing, eating the air,
halted around us, suddenly quiet.
They sprouted leaves and cones,
they wore strange bark for clothing,
and gently lifted their arms.
__________________
THE PITCHER OF MILK
—John Haines
Today is the peace of this mist
and its animals, as if all
the cows and goats in the land
gave milk to the dawn.
The same mist that rises
from battlefields, out of the mouths
and eye-sockets of horse
and man, it mingles with smoke
from moss fires
in the homesteader's clearing.
I and the others come to the doors
of cold houses, called
by the thin ringing of a spoon;
we stand with our brimming bowls,
called to where Peace awakens
in a cloud of white blood.
____________________
No B.L. Drive-by today; Bari Kennedy has the flu.
And celebrate Spring! She sneaked up on us in the middle of the night!
—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: News from Rattlesnake Press
The brand-new Rattlesnake Review (#17) is now available for free at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento. Contributor copies and subscriptions will go into the mail this week and next. And if you aren't any of those but would like me to mail you one, send two bux to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.
Also New in March: Attracted to Light, a chapbook by Ann Privateer; Eclipse, a free littlesnake broadside by Jeanine Stevens; and Conversations Volume Two of B.L. Kennedy's Rattlesnake Interview Series, all available at The Book Collector or from rattlesnakepress.com/.
Coming in April: We will mark the Snake’s fourth birthday by throwing the Fourth Annual Birthday Bash at The Book Collector on Wednesday, April 9, including a buffet at 7 PM, followed by a reading at 7:30 PM. That night, there will be three history-making releases: Ann Menebroker’s new chapbook (Small Crimes); Ted Finn re-emerges with a new SnakeRings SpiralChap of his poetry and art (Damn the Eternal War); and Katy Brown inaugurates her blank (well, not really) journal series for our HandyStuff department with her MUSINGS: Photos and Prompts For Capturing Creative Thought. Please join us to celebrate four years of [your] poetry with fangs!
