Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento
OLD TREES
—May Sarton
Old trees—
How exquisite the white blossom
On the gnarled branch!
Thickened trunk, erratic shape
Battered by winter winds,
Bent in the long cold.
Young ones may please
The aesthete,
But old trees—
The miracle of their flowering
Against such odds—
Being healing.
Let us praise them,
And sing hosannahs
As the small buds grow red
Just before they open.
__________________
ASPECTS OF THE WORLD LIKE CORAL REEFS
—William Bronk
In the spring woods, how good it is to see
again the trees, old company,
how they have withstood the winter, their girth.
By gradual actions, how the gross earth
gathers around us and grows real, is there,
as though it were really there, and is good.
Certain stars, of stupendous size, are said
to be such and such distances away,—
oh, farther than the eyes alone would ever see.
Thus magnified, the whole evidence
of our senses is belied. For it is not
possible for miles to add miles to miles
forever, not even if expressed as the speed of light.
The fault lies partly in the idea of miles.
It is absurd to describe the world in sensible terms.
How good that even so, aspects of the world
that are real, or seem to be real, should rise like reefs
whose rough agglomerate smashes the sea.
__________________
_________________OLD TREES
—May Sarton
Old trees—
How exquisite the white blossom
On the gnarled branch!
Thickened trunk, erratic shape
Battered by winter winds,
Bent in the long cold.
Young ones may please
The aesthete,
But old trees—
The miracle of their flowering
Against such odds—
Being healing.
Let us praise them,
And sing hosannahs
As the small buds grow red
Just before they open.
__________________
ASPECTS OF THE WORLD LIKE CORAL REEFS
—William Bronk
In the spring woods, how good it is to see
again the trees, old company,
how they have withstood the winter, their girth.
By gradual actions, how the gross earth
gathers around us and grows real, is there,
as though it were really there, and is good.
Certain stars, of stupendous size, are said
to be such and such distances away,—
oh, farther than the eyes alone would ever see.
Thus magnified, the whole evidence
of our senses is belied. For it is not
possible for miles to add miles to miles
forever, not even if expressed as the speed of light.
The fault lies partly in the idea of miles.
It is absurd to describe the world in sensible terms.
How good that even so, aspects of the world
that are real, or seem to be real, should rise like reefs
whose rough agglomerate smashes the sea.
__________________
THE COMING OF SPRING
—William Bronk
Remembering the firm fabric of winter
and how it began to feel
the strong solvent of the advancing year,
I remembered February,
the smell of vinegar and ensilage
and in the late afternoons, the ice
in the choked swamp, burning inwardly
with light.
____________________
SPRING STORM
—Jim Wayne Miller
He comes gusting out of the house,
the screen door a thunderclap behind him.
He moves like a black cloud
over the lawn and—stops.
A hand in his mind grabs
a purple crayon of anger
and messes the clean sky.
He sits on the steps, his eye drawing
a mustache on the face in the tree.
As his weather clears,
his rage dripping away,
wisecracks and wonderment
spring up like dandelions.
__________________
ONE-NIGHT FAIR
—Nancy Price
A traveling fair pitched by our pasture gate
once. I still remember the Ferris wheel's
yellow lights going around the dark
like a slow mill, only it spilled a freight
of music-run, not water, and girls' squeals
from bucket seats. We rode that contraption late
and long as our nickels lasted. Like a lark
you rode that thing up to the music, hung
over our barn lot, pig pens; then you froze,
cleaving your way back down, a dead weight,
to fields you'd spent the years of your life among
and never seen before. It was one of those
one-night fairs, gone as quick as it came,
like love, maybe, or joy. Nobody knows
where it hailed from. It pitched here when I was young
and, like I say, I found out the way it feels
high up there, saw how the home place goes
turning under the night. There's no right name
for how it was. The farm's never looked the same.
—William Bronk
Remembering the firm fabric of winter
and how it began to feel
the strong solvent of the advancing year,
I remembered February,
the smell of vinegar and ensilage
and in the late afternoons, the ice
in the choked swamp, burning inwardly
with light.
____________________
SPRING STORM
—Jim Wayne Miller
He comes gusting out of the house,
the screen door a thunderclap behind him.
He moves like a black cloud
over the lawn and—stops.
A hand in his mind grabs
a purple crayon of anger
and messes the clean sky.
He sits on the steps, his eye drawing
a mustache on the face in the tree.
As his weather clears,
his rage dripping away,
wisecracks and wonderment
spring up like dandelions.
__________________
ONE-NIGHT FAIR
—Nancy Price
A traveling fair pitched by our pasture gate
once. I still remember the Ferris wheel's
yellow lights going around the dark
like a slow mill, only it spilled a freight
of music-run, not water, and girls' squeals
from bucket seats. We rode that contraption late
and long as our nickels lasted. Like a lark
you rode that thing up to the music, hung
over our barn lot, pig pens; then you froze,
cleaving your way back down, a dead weight,
to fields you'd spent the years of your life among
and never seen before. It was one of those
one-night fairs, gone as quick as it came,
like love, maybe, or joy. Nobody knows
where it hailed from. It pitched here when I was young
and, like I say, I found out the way it feels
high up there, saw how the home place goes
turning under the night. There's no right name
for how it was. The farm's never looked the same.
Today's LittleNip:
THE INDECISION
—William Bronk
The things that matter have nothing to do with our lives.
We have no biographies, or none of much
concern. I am looking at trees: their gracefulness.
Do we matter like that? Well, maybe. To whom?
_________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:
Rattlesnake Review: The new Snake (RR21) is out! The issue is now available at The Book Collector, and contributor and subscription copies will go into the mail this week and next—or send me four bux and I'll mail you one. Next deadline is May 15 for RR22: send 3-5 poems, smallish art pieces and/or photos (no bio, no cover letter, no simultaneous submissions or previously-published poems) to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. E-mail attachments are preferred, but be sure to include all contact info, including snail address. Meanwhile, the snakes of Medusa are always hungry; let us know if your submission is for the Review or for Medusa, or for either one.
Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46: Snake Secrets: Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press (and lots of other places, besides!): A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process so as to make editors everywhere more happy, thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published. Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or write to me and I'll send you one. Free!
NEW FOR MARCH: Rattlesnake Press is proud to present a new chapbook from Norma Kohout (All Aboard!!!); a littlesnake broadside from Patricia Hickerson (At Grail Castle Hotel); and a new issue of Rattlesnake Review (the Snake turns 21)!
COMING IN APRIL: Wednesday, April 8 will be our FIFTH ANNUAL BIRTHDAY PARTY/BUFFET at The Book Collector, featuring a SpiralChap of poetry and photos from Laverne Frith (Celebrations: Images and Text), a littlesnake broadside from Taylor Graham (Edge of Wildwood), and Musings3: An English Affair, a new blank journal of photos and writing prompts from Katy Brown. That’s at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30 PM.
And April 15 is the deadline for the second issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick. Submission guidelines are the same as for the Snake, but send your poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces (500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred) or, if you’re snailing, to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be over 18 years of age to submit. Copies of the first issue are at The Book Collector, or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
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 SOWs; 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 (sometimes, or any other day!): 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 and in-between! The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry.......!
_________________
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.
