UNFOLDING BUD
—Naoshi Koriyama
One is amazed
By a water-lily bud
Unfolding
With each passing day,
Taking on a richer color
And new dimensions.
One is not amazed,
At a first glance,
By a poem,
Which is as tight-closed
As a tiny bud.
Yet one is surprised
To see the poem
Gradually unfolding,
Revealing its rich inner self,
As one reads it
Again
And over again.
__________________
GONE FOREVER
—Barriss Mills
Halfway through shaving, it came—
the word for a poem.
I should have scribbled it
on the mirror with a soapy finger,
or shouted it to my wife in the kitchen,
or muttered it to myself till it ran
in my head like a tune.
But now it's gone with the whiskers
down the drain. Gone forever,
like the girls I never kissed,
and the places I never visited—
the lost lives I never lived.
___________________
AFTER THE FOURTH
—Marie J. Ross, Stockton
The sting through sky sizzled like vibrant bristle
brooms that swept dusk into sparkle. Straight-up
rocket blunder blasted; “Stars and Strips Forever”,
Sousa’s patriotic march, clung to the air. We saw
the swizzle, heard patriotism’s pride play on our ear
drums, and from near or far we settled in its aura.
Humidity in twilight’s roaming hand compelled us
party goers to sip beer, to dip tortilla chips into salsa;
there was soda-pop sweetness for the kids, and ice cream
bars to quench the craving for the cool-on-tongue flavor.
Our nostrils coerced our appetites, led us to the green
carpet salons, those tables of the hungry, to devour luscious
barbeque meats and potato salad under the summer trees.
Miniature Old Glorys propped on thin yellow sticks unfurled
like ruffles on an old-fashioned blouse and swung the beats of
fife and drum vibrations through the air.
We heard the zing that cracked like dry twigs, watched the sparkle
darting like miniature fireflies—whirling sparks of restless fissures
waiting for outlets, held tightly by fingers of a child’s excitement.
Night bombarded with loud explosions, pumping sound frightfully
close to neighborhood houses: some distant arrangements for
holiday
celebrants unwilling to commune with the oncoming silence forsleep.
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Thanks, Marie, for a "day-after" poem. That's another good poetry trigger, in fact: the day after Christmas. The day after your 40th birthday. The day after your child was/is born...
We’re in the middle of a give-away here. [See Tuesday’s post.] Send me a poem about the sense of smell—good smells, bad smells, familiar, nostalgic, anything that emphasizes the sense of smell. Get them to me any time between now and midnight next Monday, July 7, and I'll send you ANY Rattlesnake Press product of your choosing, free! That's right—rattlechaps, spiralchaps, HandyStuff, Conversations—your choice, just for the elbow grease of putting together a scent poem and sending it to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.
Here's a poem from another Stocktonite, David Humphreys, who also still has fireworks on his mind. Thanks, David!
__________________
HOMAGE TO A CURATOR
—David Humphreys, Stockton
It’s been awhile, Frank. Just read
about you in the Sunday Times
Book Review. Seems you’re quite
the fashion now in the light of a
bonfire island beach party, same
bleak year that Jack was put on ice
for good. Being run down by a flaming
jeep on a sand dune puts all the
pretty painters and poets in proper
perspective, doesn’t it? Makes a real
mess of a promising career, Auden
and Ashbery illuminating your surreal
darkness like fireworks blowing up
in celebration. Everyone always loved
you, Frank—get up!
__________________
TO LOOK AT ANY THING
—John Moffitt
To look at any thing,
If you would know that thing,
You must look at it long:
To look at this green and say
'I have seen spring in these
Woods,' will not do—you must
Be the thing you see:
You must be the dark snakes of
Stems and ferny plumes of leaves,
You must enter in
To the small silences between
The leaves,
You must take your time
And touch the very peace
They issue from.
__________________
HOW TO EAT A POEM
—Eve Merriam
Don't be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice
that may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.
You do not need a knife or fork or spoon
or plate or napkin or tablecloth.
For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.
_________________
Today's LittleNips:
Between him and the blank page—all his doubts lived there.
—Stephen Dobyns
For me, this 4th of July has been full of firewords.
—typo by Kathy Kieth, writing to Annie Menebroker
__________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's Up With Rattlesnake Press
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; #2 in Katy Brown's series of blank journals (Musings Two: Vices, Virtues and Obsessions); 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.
