Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Joyce Odam, Annie Menebroker
and Katy Brown at Rattlesnake Press's
Fifth Annual Birthday Bash and Buffet
April 8, 2009
Photo by Frank Dixon Graham
THE JOURNEY
—dawn di bartolo, citrus heights
On these hillside fields
Bright sunflowers mimic dawn
With a thousand gold suns
Flashing yellow-petaled rays
Beaded with dew of moon tears
—from "Sunflowers"
by Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci
driving on steadily, with nowhere in particular to go
i dream out the window, imagine my ambitions
fluttering away into the night on wings
of tomorrow’s sun. i do not dream in black & white
but velvet petals of color, and cross
myself for blessings. I do remembering believing
that dreams come true, but fairy dust
has no place upon the breasts of years in disarray;
still frivolities youthfully abound, settle in drifts
on these hillside fields.
i desire to stop the car, climb from this
carriage of struggled destinations and
rest my weary head in the blades of grass
springing up gaily between the sturdy stalks
as if the dark sky means little, yellow suns unperturbed
by indigo; but i know that i must go on, must
continue to drive in order to be where i should be,
where i’m needed; the adult child
momentarily beguiled from midnight as
bright sunflowers mimic dawn.
so, i allow myself to rise into the sky,
attempting a shine never before attained;
i do this for the stars, the tiny sparkles
of hope and destiny depend on me to light the way.
realizing that they possess a shimmer of their own,
eventually, i will let them go, and they will fall away
into the web of night, seizing heaven for themselves.
satisfied then that i have done what i can, i’ll
reconcile with myself that i have been all of fate
with a thousand gold suns.
this is the nature of things: the old
make way for the new, and the new
take hold to endeavor unlike anything
the aged could ever offer, burdened by ancient ways.
digressing, i remember being young:
pony-tails and fairy dresses, sun-scented
kisses glistening on my lips like morning dew, never
encapsulated by day, but caught upon the lines of dusk and dawn,
offering novelty and mystery to the world, a true child
flashing yellow-petaled rays
upon the deserving and the lost, because I had a heart for such things;
because it’s all I wanted of waning time. these beliefs do not travel well,
tend to change one’s perspective of day and night.
and as any weary traveler, i’ve given in to the road before me;
the drive becomes cumbersome, boulders and fallen trees
block the path i’ve chosen; obstacles do not deter, but inspire
creative determination; i’ve chosen the journey over getting there.
sure, i look forward to the inevitable end of the trail, and i imagine
that it will be flawless. and when i arrive, i shall arrive
beaded with dew of moon tears.
_________________
Thanks to Frank Graham for today's priceless photo, and thanks to everyone who attended the Snake's fifth birthday party! We had poets attending from far and near, and a good time was had by all.
Thanks also to the poets who are coming up with poems in response to our Seeds of the Week, both from this week (glosa and/or elegies—see Tuesday's post) and weeks past (cinquains). It's interesting that dawn di bartolo came up with a glosa based on Tuesday's LittleNip poem from Sal Buttaci, rather than turning farther afield. Cool!
Commission Welcomes Nominations
The Stockton Arts Commission is seeking nominations from the community for individuals, organizations and patrons who have made major contributions to arts and culture in the Stockton community. Deadline for submissions is April 17. Categories include the STAR Award (Stockton’s Top Arts Award Recognition), the Patron Award, the Volunteer Award and the Career Achievement Award. Other categories may be designated if appropriate. Recipients will be honored at the Annual Arts Awards Celebration on September 11 at the Lexington Plaza Hotel. Criteria and nomination forms can be downloaded at the City website, www.stocktongov.com/arts or by email to deena.heath@ci.stockton.ca.us/. Info: 209-937-7488.
B.L.'s Drive-Bys: A Micro-Review from B.L. Kennedy:
BIRD EFFORT
By Ronald Baatz
Kamini Press
Ringvagen 8, 4th Floor
SE-117 26 Stockholm, Sweden
Limited to 225, 125 signed and numbered.
The poetry of Ronald Baatz sings with unparalleled beauty, and Bird Effort is one of the best examples of that song. I like Baatz’s work. He tends to draw the reader into his voice, and, once inside, you cannot help but become part of the song that he sings. Kamini Press’s edition of Bird Effort is smooth and stylistic, too. I highly recommend that the reader of this review go out of his or her way and secure a copy of it. Trust me, you won’t regret the purchase.
—B.L. Kennedy, Reviewer-in-Residence
_________________
Five Cinquains by dawn di bartolo:
awakening
I dream
of darknesses,
wake from horrors, screaming
into the black night air, alone
…silence.
****
the ladder
climbing
rung after rung
being impeded by ache
and little knowledge of the sky…
all fall.
****
wasp
wasp wing
buzz by my ear
sun’s heat emanates from bush
both inclined toward green spring and warmth;
I freeze.
****
brothers
one son
linear sky;
the other abstract fire.
the boys are bound, yet opposite ~
both art.
****
the hobo
look…there!
grimy blanket
over lost dreams and life,
he stands invisible…just there…
a ghost.
__________________
HOOVES OVER FALLFIELDS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
—Theodore Roethke, “I Knew a Woman”
I’ve dreamed those pastures all my life, it seems.
Deep-green alfalfa verging lavender
to hills, then farther mountains lost in cloud.
A schoolgirl’s fantasy of hooves with wings
to carry past the everyday, the chores,
the gray-expected—who could really say?
I called it horses, lacking better words.
I rode them every night through hours of dark:
a black, a buckskin, and a dappled gray.
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay
to feed the famished wishes of a child.
When do we let the childish wishes go?
When we’re not looking. That old Simon-says:
a job, a marriage, house and mortgage. Plates
and silverware. The septic tank is clogged.
Just read the weasel fine-print on that loan.
And all I ever wanted—to be lithe
and spring up bareback, a horizon flight.
But see how heavy, cumbersome I’ve grown.
I’m martyr to a motion not my own.
It’s profit and a billion cars’ exhaust,
and bottom lines and budget sheets and words
that mean what they interpret as you pay.
Just watch these sheep digest their simple life—
they know their purpose. Have they any choice?
Those gulls that scan the surface of the sea.
And yet we call them free, and wish we were,
and drown ourselves in shallow pools, or hang
ourselves in someone’s shadow of a tree.
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I woke up light before the dawn. I groped
through dark, and not to find the light-switch, not
for coffee. Caffeine of a dream, a horse
that isn’t show or carriage, dray or plough,
but beauty almost past my human words—
a germ of flower in the seed that’s sown
at large, in faith of wind and soil. What else?
I watch her without looking. Feel her pulse.
Prick-ears alert and nostrils wide. Blue roan.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
_________________
FALLEN NIGHT
—Donald R. Anderson, Stockton
Now in the falling of the gloom
The red fire paints the empty room:
And warmly on the roof it looks,
And flickers on the back of books.
—“Armies in the Fire”, Robert Louis Stevenson
Here the lamp glows warm and true,
it tells of visitors in stark yellow night,
the walls they show of faces misconstrued.
And upon the parchment, a ghastly tale:
a messenger must be sent, must be sent and wail,
and likely be slain for all of us fools,
for the country expires like unsalted meat
upon the ghetto ranks and smokey streets.
The lamp will tell from sheltered room,
now in the falling of the gloom.
Firecracker gun shots and squeals of tires
across mud-tracked ashes and quarried mires;
the tally is said to be of faith and blood
though nothing rises above the solitary mood.
In feather and ink, the dirt comes out,
but, should public prepare, all too soon.
It cannot be an untold tale
of peasants lost by billion fell.
A letter, a note, to some far shore,
the red fire paints the empty room.
The ship has left, and in its wake
a strong feeling: has there been mistake?
Could aid be sought upon silent ears
or has humane plight found empty plate?
He prayed to God it was not too late.
In city streets bonfires cook,
pages rising into yellow night.
The clouds, stark pale, by searching lights
as rockets fell; safety left at home
and warmly on the roof it looks.
Or would it force the Gambit's Hand?
The states so far on distant land—
can they see the same stars that call
or rivers roar with freedom's might?
Can billboards speak of mice and men?
The building hit again and shook.
Where is safety but among them then?
That is the story, looking from past
the walls that shield us in hidden nooks
and flickers in the back of books.
_________________
Today's LittleNip:
caution
hard knocks
endured by growth…
you can’t give youth truth ~
show-and-tell futile to the goal
of “grown”.
—dawn di bartolo
_________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:
Rattlesnake Review: The latest Snake (RR21) is now available (free) at The Book Collector, 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, and please—only one submission per issue.
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 APRIL: A SpiralChap of poetry and photos from Laverne Frith (Celebrations: Images and Texts); a (free!) 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. Now available from the authors, or The Book Collector, or (soon) rattlesnakepress.com/.
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.
