Simon Perchik
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My father was a weaver
-by the dozen, threading spools
the way all silk flows into the sea
-this horse must be thirsty
tugging straw loose :each strand
gushes along the ground
-he shaved with a soap
that floated and the foam taking hold
some iron-gray streak :his mustache
almost clanking
-the horse doesn’t hear
and this paper bag
bronzed the way all bells
count outloud and looking up
mean nothing now.
Even on the night shift
he worked each stream till the cloth
slowly rolls into pasture
into oak fence rails :the loom
somehow jams in the distance
needing parts, adjustments, rest
-he would lift the small bag
to his huge head -the light
was never close enough -he ate
this half-light
and the wrinkles around his mouth
as if he was calling for more water
-even now, even this page
wants to be folded again :the bag
filled with a sandwich
smelling from grass
trying again to root along his throat
-this old horse
half blind, half deaf, half dead
-a miracle to a child
leaning against the rotting fence
filled with apples, with rivers
that carry off forever and the skies.
—Simon Perchik, E. Hampton, NY
My father was a weaver
-by the dozen, threading spools
the way all silk flows into the sea
-this horse must be thirsty
tugging straw loose :each strand
gushes along the ground
-he shaved with a soap
that floated and the foam taking hold
some iron-gray streak :his mustache
almost clanking
-the horse doesn’t hear
and this paper bag
bronzed the way all bells
count outloud and looking up
mean nothing now.
Even on the night shift
he worked each stream till the cloth
slowly rolls into pasture
into oak fence rails :the loom
somehow jams in the distance
needing parts, adjustments, rest
-he would lift the small bag
to his huge head -the light
was never close enough -he ate
this half-light
and the wrinkles around his mouth
as if he was calling for more water
-even now, even this page
wants to be folded again :the bag
filled with a sandwich
smelling from grass
trying again to root along his throat
-this old horse
half blind, half deaf, half dead
-a miracle to a child
leaning against the rotting fence
filled with apples, with rivers
that carry off forever and the skies.
—Simon Perchik, E. Hampton, NY
Thanks, Simon! Simon Perchik, a regular contributor to Rattlesnake Review (including the current edition), is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. Rafts (Parsifal Editions) is his most recent collection. Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) is scheduled for Fall 2008. For more information, including his essay, “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities”, and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet/
__________________
Speaking of Dads…
Save Saturday, August 30, when the Daddy's Here Program will celebrate all 'Good Dads' in the Greater Sacramento Area. After the powerful rally at the State Capitol on the North steps, there will be a march down K Street Mall with local fathers and their children/families. We welcome you (women as well) to attend and support this event. Recognizing good fatherhood is a must! Meet on the steps at 1 PM; the rally will last until 1:15, followed by the march. Special guest speakers and artists: live band Hit-A-Day Presents and T.B.A.
_________________
HAIRCUTS WITH MY FATHER
—Don Feliz, Sacramento
He held my hand for safety
on our way to the mirrored shop with
its six ornate chairs and carousel
horses for small boys like me getting
their first haircuts. Six hundred separate
haircuts later we walked together slowly
past the striped pole into the small
one-chair shop. I watched him sitting
straight up as usual, but looking smaller
than that first time I saw his wavy
black hair trimmed. When the still-thick
white hair was snipped, trimmed, brushed,
and vacuumed, his barber removed the
cape like a matador. Looking sharp after
his final haircut, we walked out together—
my father held my hand for safety.
__________________
Thanks, Don! SpiralChapper Don Feliz (To Berlin With Love) is another regular Snake contributor whose littlesnake broadside, Switchback Path, is available for free at P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.
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DIGGING
—Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloippily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing nearly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thmb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
__________________
OUR PARENTS
—Stephen Dunn
(For my brother)
Our parents died at least twice,
the second time when we forgot their stories,
or couldn't imagine how often they craved love,
or felt useless, or yearned for some justice
in this world. In their graves, our parents' need
for us is pure, they're lost without us.
Their honeymoon in Havana does or does not
exist. That late August in the Catskills—
we can decide to make them happy.
What is the past if not unfinished work,
swampy, fecund, seductively revisable?
One of us has spent his life developing respect
for the weakness of words, the other for what
must be held on to; there may be a chance for us.
We try to say what happened in that first house
where we were, like most children, the only
needy people on earth. We remember
what we were forbidden, who got the biggest slice.
Our parents, meanwhile, must have wanted something
back from us. We know what it is, don't we?
We've been alive long enough.
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.
—Gloria Naylor
___________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's Up With Rattlesnake Press
New in June: Day Moon, a new chapbook by James DenBoer, and Mindfully Moon, a littlesnake broadside by Carol Louise Moon, as well as Volume Three of Conversations, our third book of interviews by B.L. Kennedy, featuring Art Beck, Olivia Costellano, Quinton Duval, William S. Gainer, Mario Ellis Hill, Kathryn Hohlwein, James Jee Jobe, Andy Jones, Rebecca Morrison, Viola Weinberg and Phillip T. Nails. All this PLUS a brand-new edition (#18) of Rattlesnake Review! Now available at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, or (soon) from rattlesnakepress.com/. (Snake contributors and subscribers will be receiving their copies in the mail next week. If you're not among either of these, and can't get down to The Book Collector to get your free copy, send me two bux and I'll mail you one: P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.)
The Snake will be snoozing through July and August, leaving Medusa to carry on alone. Then on September 10, we shall burst back onto the scene with Ten Poems, a new chapbook from Patrick Grizzell, plus Issue #19 of Rattlesnake Review. (Deadline is August 15.) Meanwhile, look in on Medusa every day, and, for heaven's sake, keep sending stuff! The snakes of Medusa are always hungry...
Medusa's Weekly Menu:
(Contributors are welcome to cook up something for any and all of these!)
Monday: Weekly NorCal poetry calendar
Tuesday: Seed of the Week: Tuesday is Medusa's day to post poetry triggers such as quotes, forms, photos, memories, jokes—whatever might tickle somebody's muse. Pick up the gauntlet and send in your poetic results; and don't be shy about sending in your own triggers, too! All poems will be posted and a few of them will go into Medusa's Corner of each Rattlesnake Review. Send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline for SOW; respond today, tomorrow, or whenever the muse arrives. (Print 'em out, maybe, save 'em for a dry spell?) When you send us work, though, just let us know which "seed" it was that inspired you.
Wednesday: HandyStuff Quickies: Resources for the poet, including whatever helps ease the pain of writing and/or publishing: favorite journals to read and/or submit to; books, etc., about writing; organizational tools—you know—HandyStuff! Tell us about your favorite tools.
Thursday: B.L.'s Drive-Bys: Micro-reviews by our irreverent Reviewer-in-Residence, B.L. Kennedy. Send books, CDs, DVDs, etc. to him for possible review (either as a Drive-By or in future issues of Rattlesnake Review) at P.O. Box 160664, Sacramento, CA 95816.
Friday: NorCal weekend poetry calendar
Daily (except Sunday): LittleNips: SnakeFood for the Poetic Soul: Daily munchables for poetic thought, including short paragraphs, quotes, wonky words, silliness, little-known poetry/poet facts, and other inspiration—yet another way to feed our ravenous poetic souls.
And poetry! Every day, poetry from writers near and far! The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry.......!
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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). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.
