What Do You Think You'll See?

Bullshit, said poetry...
Elk Grove photo by K. Kieth

I SAID TO POETRY
—Alice Walker

I said to Poetry: "I'm finished
with you."
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
"No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I'm out for good times—
at the very least,
some painless convention."

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn't sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: "You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?"
I said: "I didn't hear that.
Besides, it's five o'clock in the a.m.
I'm not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you."

Poetry said: "But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked much better
than the grand one—and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with.

Think of that!"

"I'll join the church!" I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
"I'll learn how to pray again!"

"Let me ask you," said Poetry.
"When you pray, what do you think
you'll see?"

Poetry had me.

"There's no paper
in this room," I said.
"And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise."

"Bullshit," said Poetry.
"Bullshit," said I.

__________________

—Medusa

The Spirit Behind

OAXACA
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

It was a simple mask of beaten silver,
from Taxco, perhaps, but its rotundity,
saturnine oval, betokened—dim profundity?
For all its perfect curvature showed pewter

plainness, the unevenness of ellipse
bonded to an invisible underpinning.
While muscles hug the mask of the face in winning
smiles or crumpling sorrows, sad collapse

or joy was not for this wall-hanging shape.
One sensed a spirit immanent, behind,
beneath the smoothly solid casque—a mind
dilating windy-sinister as a drape.

Inert, it beat my child-mind unstolid
with questions for Señor Mask of wrath and picque,
as if in art museums we were to speak:
Why is this monumental bronze not solid

all the way through; what carelessness in the sculptor!?
Now, hindsight faintly summons its mystique:
the way the ovoid slackened and grew weak,
flattened like carrion trodden by the raptor,

yet brooded over a strange new ellipse-ache,
egg born of the large forehead, a weakening jaw
that formed a maw now birthing a smaller jaw
unhinging into giddily pliant shape,

face drawn down into the archetypal dream,
the cranium, nude and bulbous, of an alien
spaceman, silent on Martian Dariens,
with something too of Munch’s sharp silent scream.

It breathed “Oaxaca” in my boyhood ear.
It loomed like Mom’s print of Oaxaca dancers
caught midstep by the chant of the entrancer,
heads noosed in giant contrivances of feather.

The dimmed, scuffed silver head my young soon-mother
brought as one brings all omens home from travel
seemed visibly to shrivel and unravel,
eyebrow-and mustache-peels a ribbony pother.

The austere and dingy glint, that of a flask
bespeaking polish, maybe alcohol,
held nothing artisan or folderol:
it swallowed the moon, was Man in the Iron Mask.

The dimmed and silver head, its sheen corrupt,
now murmurs loudly what it whispered then,
Rise, rise to a place among the ranks of men,
and learn to do—a breaking off abrupt—

so I followed the Mexican route my mother blazed,
paths beckoning bright or dim, and sometimes crazed…

__________________

Thanks, Tom Goff and Janet Pantoja, for today's poems about masks (máscaras). Our Seed of the Week to kick off our new (and hopefully improved) Kitchen is Masks, and it’s a give-away. Send a poem about masks to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726, and I'll send you any rattlechap of your choosing! (Go to the "rattlechaps" page on rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing.) Give-away SOWs have deadlines; this one is midnight tomorrow, Sunday, January 31.


Two upcoming poetry festivals, close and not-so-close:

•••Split This Rock Poetry Festival: Poems of Provocation & Witness, March 10-13:

Split This Rock invites poets, writers, artists, activists, dreamers, and all concerned world citizens to Washington, DC, for poetry, community building, and creative transformation as our country continues to grapple with two wars, a crippling economic crisis, and other social and environmental ills. The festival will feature readings, workshops, panel discussions, youth programming, film, parties, and activists—opportunities to speak out, make common cause, imagine a way forward, and celebrate the many ways that poetry can act as an agent for social change. Featuring these visionary voices and many others: Chris Abani, Lillian Allen, Sinan Antoon, Francisco Aragón, Jan Beatty, Martha Collins, Cornelius Eady, Martín Espada, Andrea Gibson, Allison Hedge Coke, Natalie Illum, Fady Joudah, Toni Asante Lightfoot, Richard McCann, Jeffrey McDaniel, Lenelle Moïse, Nancy Morejón, Mark Nowak, Wang Ping, Patricia Smith, Arthur Sze, Quincy Troupe, and Bruce Weigl. Register today! Rates rise February 10. Details at: www.SplitThisRock.org

•••Pleasanton Poetry, Prose & the Arts Festival, April 17-18:

Got poetry or prose on the mind? Then attend the 9th Annual Pleasanton Poetry, Prose & the Arts Festival on Saturday and Sunday, April 17-18 at the Pleasanton Senior Center, 5353 Sunol Blvd., Pleasanton. The brochure and additional information, including info about registration for the poetry contest (deadline for contest and for early registration is March 15), is available at http://pleasantonarts.org/poetry_prose.html. The Festival will feature guest speakers, poetry and prose workshops for adults, youth and teen workshops, writing contests and an award ceremony. There are also be a Linked Visual and Poetry contest and display Downtown and at the Festival, a fine art exhibit and Literary Row where you can meet local and nationally known authors. Contact Deborah Grossman for more information: pleasantonpoetry@gmail.com

__________________

A COLLECTION OF MASKS
—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

Life is like a mask—
comedic and at once tragic.
One day you are deliriously happy—
yet on another day, you're terribly sad.
What has changed your mask?
Duality.

***

Cinquain Pattern #1

Masks
Comedic, tragic
Today deliriously happy
Another day terribly sad
Duality

***

Cinquain Pattern #2

Masks
Comedic, tragic
Singing, crying, laughing
Hiding what we really are
Disguise

***

Cinquain Pattern #3

Disguise
of many kinds
hiding our true selfhood
behind mortal man's dusty face
the mask

***

SHADORMA

The mask is
something we ought to
think about.
Consider
duality of mortal
man—sad happy—real?

Mortal man
made of dust and dirt
tradition
has it thus.
What if this mask were not true?
Man is spiritual.

__________________

MÁSCARAS

Masks can be terrifying—
A Frankenstein monster, a ghost close upon its heels,
shuffles along, earth trembling at each step.
Dracula flashes his white fangs as a zombie drags up the rear.
Death warmed over?
Halloween fun at best.
Are we truly frightened?
Not really.
No identities have been stolen.
Who is behind those masks?
You!




Today's LittleNip:

His fear imposes the faces within him on the faces without.

—Stephen Dobyns

__________________

—Medusa

Yoo-Hoo, Popeye!

OLIVE OYL’S CHANTEY
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

I taste your lips of salt and sea
your tongue of sea and salt
caress your tattooed arms
silky as salmon skin

Chorus: YO HO HO!

Now Sailor,
swab your senses
sweat your sextants
stall your stanchions
soothe your seagulls
swing your swivels

Chorus: YO HO HO!

Sailor, it’s the saline solution

Chorus: YO HO HO!

sing your song
7 times 7
and I’ll sail your seas

Chorus: YOO-HOO, POPEYE!

__________________

Patricia Hickerson opined that her Olive Oyl poem may be too silly for Medusa; I said, No such thing! We can all use a little whimsy, so we're beginning with whimsy and ending with whimsy (à la Theodore Roethke). In between, thanks to our other poets for mask poems. Our Seed of the Week: Masks is a give-away. Send a poem about masks to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726, and I'll send you any rattlechap of your choosing! (Go to the "rattlechaps" page on rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing.) Give-away SOWs have deadlines; this one is midnight this Sunday, January 31. Yoo-hoo—Popeye....!


This weekend in NorCal poetry:

(for a more complete listing of events, go to eskimopie.net)

•••Tonight (Friday, 1/29): Debut of Sacramento's newest monthly reading series, Stories on Stage, focusing upon short fiction by writers from Sacramento and surrounding areas. Each event will feature two short stories, introduced by their authors and read by actors, beginning with the work of Jodi Angel, author of The History of Vegas, and UC Davis alumni Naomi Williams, featuring readers/actors Bill Kay and Cynthia Speakman. The series will run on the last Friday of every month, beginning January 29 at HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento. Info: valeriefioravanti.com/SoS.aspx

•••Fri. (1/29), 8-10:30 PM: TheBlackOutPoetrySeries inside The Upper Level VIP Lounge, 26 Massic Ct., Sacramento (located inside of Fitness Systems Healthclub, by Cal State Skating Rink; exit Mack Road East to Stockton Blvd and then make a left on Massie, right past Motel 6) features poets Malik Saunders, Chara Charis and Leah Albright-Byrd plus singers Michelle Williams, Willie Whitlock and KoRae'jus and open mic. $5.00. Info: 916-208-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com

•••Sat. (1/30), 4-6 PM: Women's Writing Salon at Valentina’s Bistro and Bakery, 1041 Sutton Way, Grass Valley, featuring poetry and prose penned by the foothills community of women writers, including Elizabeth Appell, Shirley Dickard, Betsy Graziani Fasbinder, Dianna Henning and Julie Valin. The event is free, and while we feature women readers, men are enthusiastically welcomed. Gather at 3:30 for food and drink (available at the café); reading begins at 4:00. Info: Patricia Miller, 530-265-5165 (dovepat@oro.net) or Betsy Fasbinder, 530-613-9947 (bgf2u@sbcglobal.net). Our special thanks to Valentina Masterz for hosting this event.

•••Sat. (1/30), 7-9 PM: TheShowPoetrySeries features poets Emmanuel Sigauke, Lori Jean R. Hatten, Khiry Malik Moore, Jane Guiremand, Rob Anthony, Claudia Epperson, Angie Eleazer, Yoke Breaker and dance group G.L.O.W featuring P.U.R.E.. Wo'se Community Center, 2863 35th St. (Off 35th & Broadway), Sacramento. $5.00. Info: 916-208-POET or E-mail: fromtheheart1@hotmail.com/.

•••Jan. 28-31: 11th Annual Snow Goose Festival in Chico, including field trips, workshops, nature activities for children, and “The Loon’s Necklace”, a film that tells the story of how the loon got the distinctive band around its neck. Various locations; fees from $2-$42. For a complete schedule, go to snowgoosefestival.org

•••Monday (2/1), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Lori Ostlund and Robin Ekiss, two Bay Area writers with new books from the University of Georgia Press who are joining forces for a fiction and poetry reading. Red velvet cake for all! Lori Ostlund's first collection of stories, The Bigness of the World, won the 2008 Flannery O'Connor Award for Short Fiction and was published by the University of Georgia Press in fall 2009. Her stories have appeared in the New England Review, Bellingham Review, Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, Hobart, and Prairie Schooner, among other journals. She is a 2009 Rona Jaffe Award winner (www.loriostlund.com). Former Stegner Fellow and Rona Jaffe Award winner Robin Ekiss’s poems and prose have appeared in Atlantic Monthly, American Poetry Review, POETRY, TriQuarterly, Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, New England Review, Black Warrior Review, VQR, and elsewhere. Her first book of poems, The Mansion of Happiness, was recently published by the University of Georgia Press VQR Poetry Series (www.robinekiss.com).

__________________

A BEAUTIFUL UGLY
—Dawn DiBartolo, Citrus Heights

i was born,
but am not me,
without the masks.

they are
my story…
all of it in
adaptation.

the smiling one,
real or fake,
hides well the scars
or triumphs the pain;
and sometimes, even
happiness prevails.

the broken one
is whole because
it was once,
and is today
the face in the mirror,
cracked but fully reflective.

the brown—
skinned one is
strong yet malleable
to any given weakness,
when such moments arise.

one, worn in secret
for its frailty,
her tongue, pink
as the delicate rose.

to remove
any one
is a revelation
of dry bone,
unfinished ugliness
in its potential for beauty.

__________________

FACES OF THE MASK
—Dawn DiBartolo

some find it hard
to see the face
beneath the eyes
of motherhood ~
a first focus
of the babe,

or say “this
must be done
right away!”
and the face fades
behind a flurry
of hands, doing,
always doing;

good and bad skins
are relative
to the day ~
neither moon nor sun
overwhelms the sky.

but find me
in the spring time
glowing with newness
and dew;

find me
in summer, glistening
sheen of sweat.

find me
in the mire
of discontent, singing
while busy being.

or find me
in a child’s
sweet breath,
content enough
to sigh in peaceful rest.

__________________

METAPHOR
METAMORPHOSIS
MASK
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

Wake up in the morning
Only plain face all day
Assume the game face
Place on the warpaint
Head into the foray

Who are you really
Beneath this mask

After work
Off with friends
Glitter paint
A good time mask
Wears me

Who are you really
Beneath this mask

Home at last
Off with the masks
Is this really your
True face

___________________

FOR AN AMOROUS LADY
—Theodore Roethke

Most mammals like caresses, in the sense
in which we usually take the word,
whereas other creatures, even tame snakes,
prefer giving to receiving them.

(from a natural history book)

The pensive gnu, the staid aardvark,
Accept caresses in the dark;
The bear, equipped with paw and snout;
Would rather take than dish it out.
But snakes, both poisonous and garter,
In love are never known to barter;
The worm, though dank, is sensitive:
His noble nature bids him give.

But you, my dearest, have a soul
Encompassing fish, flesh, and fowl.
When amorous arts we would pursue,
You can, with pleasure, bill or coo.
You are, in truth, one in a million
At once mammalian and reptilian.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

SOMETHING TO PONDER
—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

Someone once said:
poetry is the opposite of hypocrisy.

Do poets toss their dark masks
and flood their ideas with daylight
or do they continue to walk through
the many myths of each other?

__________________

—Medusa

The Coughing of Lions

Word Bird
—D.R. Wagner

A SLIGHT BREATHING
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Hovering over the words,
Herding them, moving them
Into small groups. Full of meaning.

Here, the description of the heavens
Staggers forward, dragging
Its collection of constellations
Behind it; fully aware
That these pictures are but part
Of light seen from a single
Place, struggling to maintain
Themselves as the heavens
Reel around them.

These, are the words of lovers.
There is no end to them.
They slide and describe,
Word after word, the varieties of touch;
Definite descriptions, of flesh
Meeting flesh, in all temperatures and climates.

Gratefully, we follow these things,
Charmed that language
Allows us such rooms,
Such variety of discourse.

From the dark hills comes
The coughing of lions,
Calls of birds. William
Blake, moving room to room
Searching for the right phrase.

__________________

Thanks, as always, to today's contributors! Be sure to stop by Luna's Cafe & Juice Bar tonight for readers Joe Donohoe, John Longhi, Bill Gainer and David Gay. That's 1414 16th St., Sacramento, 8 PM. Be there!

Our Seed of the Week is Masks, and it’s a give-away. Send a poem about masks to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726, and I'll send you any rattlechap of your choosing! (Go to the "rattlechaps" page on rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing.) Give-away SOWs have deadlines; this one is midnight on Sunday, January 31.

__________________

presumed dead
—charles mariano, sacramento

i’m surprised
really,
when something comes out
good

most of the time,
plugging along
rarely check
the rearview mirror,

“crappy writing”
i say,
“clear as day”

words,
tumbling
haphazardly
not making a lick’a sense
after the wreck
the usual,
i yell down the canyon…

“helloooo? anybody alive?”

when at the scene of
fatal bad writing
always check
for survivors

at first
a long, eerie silence
then,

“nobody down here,
‘cept us
sorry-ass pages”

_________________

SACRED HARP MUSIC
—D.R. Wagner

The language off on its own
Dance. sometimes, when the night
Spreads itself like a lover across
The bed of dreaming I can smell
The musk of words on my skin.
A way of saying that cannot
Be made with the mouth.
I run my tongue along the lips
of this lover. It is exquisite
as in bone pain or heartbreak.
When words touch this deep
There are flaming swords, there
Over east of Eden. One cannot determine
Depth of feeling. There is no device
To measure this deep.
Light cannot penetrate here,
Only the the movements of breath
In and out, in and out, words
Themselves are not admitted here.
Still, it is language, still it is
Touching that drives so deep
Into the core of loving that
Everything is understood.
It is such of mystery that no one
Has blood enough or time to
Offer explanation. Amazing grace.
How the mountains rise from the plain.
How the seas rush to know all
That is called land.

___________________

MAKING YOUR NAME
—D.R. Wagner

The wind, in from the desert,
Ruined from running through
The litany of winter, barely able
To speak. Still now, it attempts
To say your name. Blows through
The vowel sounds, leaving them
In the trees. Chases birds across
Alfalfa. Their bodies make letter forms,
Change into wheels. Unable to land
They find shelter in the ditches,
Clutching weed stalks, rocking.

Walking past the cottonwoods,
I hear it clearly for an instant,
Your name. Impossible in such
Late weather, but there, nevertheless
Or perhaps it is other, a scraping
Sound of branches against themselves,
Well above the ground. Perhaps
This is not language, this time.
Perhaps, I am wrong.

Wind inside my coat, through
The neck, forcing words from my mouth.
They make your name, as if I had
No choice, as if I were the desert,
Or, at best, a part of winter too,
Full of hands, waving, waving.

__________________

SOME INFORMATION TO START WITH
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

(for my grandniece, Addison)

It can be overwhelming, the unfairness of it all.
The randomness. But there is beauty

As well. Here, a death—there, a birth.
A tidal wave. A rainbow after a spring rain.

An ancient forest burns. A child
Is saved from a well. Beauty, yes,

And chaos, too. Harshness and sweet quiet.
Welcome to the world.

__________________

SMOKEY ROBINSON: CRUISIN'
—James Lee Jobe

We're slow dancing to music
from when we were young,
and we move so easy together,
that perhaps—for a few minutes—
we are young. Cares and years
peal away, and you smile
like a flippant girl again. My!
Your school uniform is askew!
My hands are on your waist, moving
you, my eyes dance with your eyes,
and you shyly put your arms
around my neck. Our bodies
slide in close. Smokey Robinson
has moves.
So do we.

Tree Spirit
—Photo enhancement by D.R. Wagner

Today's LittleNip:

In even a light snow, we can see
the three thousand worlds.
Again a light snow falls.

—Ryokan

__________________

—Medusa

Onna Roll!

Masked Bandits

GAMBLER’S SMILE
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

his mask costs him shaky hands
face settling into pink jello
digestion channeling black lava

at the track the mask drops
he studies the racing form
rushes to the Parimutuel window
places a bet, hustles back to the stands

bells clang
roars mount
gate opens
horse and jockey spill out
hooves pound
hands sweat
photo finish

time and time again
those horses betray him!

resumes his world mask
smiles to recoup loss—
but from which of his naïve ladies?—
for next day’s race card

_________________

Thanks to today's contributors! Our Seed of the Week is Masks, and we're going to kick off the official opening of Medusa's remodeled Kitchen with a give-away. Send a poem about masks to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726, and I'll send you any rattlechap of your choosing! (Go to the "rattlechaps" page on rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing.) Give-away SOWs have deadlines; this one is midnight on Sunday, January 31.

Our Kitchen remodeling continues; we're onna roll. More links (since yesterday!), other tidbits, formatting changes. Don't forget—this is an interactive bulletin board, which means send stuff. Bon appetit!

Some contests to pursue; watch the "Deadlines" spot on the bulletin board. Here's one that hasn't been posted here before:

•••Cosumnes River Journal, Cosumnes River College’s fast-growing literary publication wants your short stories, essays (including autobiographical narrative, criticism, interviews, poems + mini-essays (250 words) on LUCK – good or bad. Also art: photos, drawings, etc. Please forward your contributions to Heather at hutcheh@crc.losrios.edu/. Include no more than 5 poems or photos per entry; limit your short stories + essays to 2 contributions per year. Please send MS Word attachments for writing + jpeg files for the art. Deadline for the Spring 10 issue: e-mail by March 22, 2010.

_________________

PROSCENIUM
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Symmetry of curtain, stage, and wings,
of Time directing one’s steps
through another performance—a few slips
and slights, maybe a meltdown
now and then, stars being so very flighty.
A theater thrives on hints of scandal.

Now, shall he leave this dwelling—
this comfortable shell, this mask—
for something new? Two acts done.
Can the third make sense of a world
beyond the door? A sea-snail casts off
its outgrown spiral cell.

_________________

HER BEDROOM
—Taylor Graham

A Victorian chandelier hangs
from the ceiling, weeping crystal
dewdrops all night. Imagine
its wrought-brass boughs, its tendrils
and metal blossoms are tears
about to fall into dreams

while, beyond the walls,
something screams from the mask
of midnight. Who can tell—
mouse in the owl’s talons, fox
in mourning. Diminishing
calls in the dark.

___________________

BOXING NIGHT
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Midtown Arena:
Freddie Lightning Carter vs.
Billy The Brockton Brawler Jenkins

Ringside seats fill with people,
grim-faced reptilians.
Cold stares await the gladiators.

The balcony crowd wanders to their seats,
animal-like, hoping for a bloody war,
seen from their eagles-nest perch.

The warriors enter, doing their primal dance.
The bell rings—the battle is on.
Howling is heard from the balcony bunch.

Down below, ringsiders sit,
dressed in fancy suits,
hunched on expensive chairs.

Upstairs, the cheap seats scream,
watching their man pound out a win.
Hands held high, the victor grins.

He fought the fight with one intent,
to be the victor in this violent event.
His face was bloodied, his body bruised,
but that doesn't matter, the crowd’s amused.

__________________

THE MASKS OF TRUTH
—Richard Zimmer

A wealthy old man lay dying one night.
Feverish weak eyes create an illusion.
Family, gathered at his bedside, appear
as masks that float around his head.
Faces of Pride—Envy—Malice.

A pretty niece has a rodent’s-head mask
His daughter, a bird-like mask with a beak
that seems ready to peck at anyone nearby.
At her angry look, the old man turns away.
Specters in an endless night.

He sees his son wearing a wolf’s–head mask
with the hungry look of one seeking his prey.
Upset by this, the sick man closes his eyes,
and hopes to awake from this insane dream.
Masks of indifference and scorn.

His stepdaughter enters, walking over to him.
When the old man looks up, he sees no mask,
but a smiling angelic face. “Thank God,” he
sighs, “My illusions have been dispelled.”
Humanity’s healing magic.

Sometimes, near death, the veil that
clouds our minds is lifted by a force
Divine, and the truth, at last, we find.

After the Rain
Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Today's LittleNip:

The stirring of leaves in the wind makes the wind visible. Their stirring is the wind's stirring, their whisper is the wind's whisper. And so with love. Our actions of love make the invisible visible. Our actions of love make love present to ourselves and to others. And as we go out of ourselves in love, and become, as it were, lost in those we love, we discover a self greater than our isolated ego. We discover the birth of that self born of the death to self-centeredness.

—James Finley

__________________

—Medusa

Kick-Off for Calliope!

THE MASK THE WEARER OF THE MASK WEARS
—William Bronk

Yes, look at me; I am the mask it wears,
as much am that which is within the mask.
Nothing not mask but that. That every mask.

The mask will fall away and nothing lost.
There is only the mask-wearer, the self-aware,
the only aware, aware of only the self.

Awake, it dreams: is every character;
is always more; is never only that.
It contemplates; tries any mask of shape.

Any is nothing. Any is not what is.
But that it should be. That it should seem to be.
That it be no more than that, and yet should be.

And that it turn to look, look favorably,
look lovingly, look long, on what there is.

___________________

Mardi Gras is coming! Our Seed of the Week is Masks, and we're going to kick off the official opening of Medusa's remodeled Kitchen with a give-away. Send a poem about masks to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726, and I'll send you any rattlechap of your choosing! (Go to the "rattlechaps" page under "Chapbooks and Broadsides" on rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing.) Give-away SOWs have deadlines; this one is midnight on Sunday, January 31.

Henceforth, the right side of the Kitchen will be known as the bulletin board. You'll notice we've got quite a bit of "stuff" pinned up now, and the items will keep rotating, so don't forget to browse around on that side. Hopefully you'll find some of it useful—lots of "chow for the noodle"; I suspect Calliope will love the attention. My only regret is that, other than in the "Links" section, blogspot won't allow us to click on links on that side and go directly to them. We can do it over here on the left in the cream, but not over there, other than, as I said, in the Links section. On the bulletin board, you have to cut and paste e-addresses the old-fashioned way.

My thanks to today's poets and artists. And a huge thanks to Bob Stanley for his warm tribute to me on his County Lines (sacmetroarts.org/PLcountylines.html)!

__________________

A BLACK CLAY FISH FROM OAXACA
—William Bronk

First, though, look at this mask. It came from the same
city, or near there. Dug from a grave.
The original was gold as this would seem
to be, but isn't. This is silver gilt.
But feel the weight of it and see how rich
the decorations are: the ear plugs,
the nose-pendant, the fringe around the head.
It is a mask of Spring. The heaviness of
the huge, thick-lidded eyes is brought about
by what hangs over them: this represents
a sheet of human skin. The power of the thing
is in that inward smoldering, all overlaid.
Here is the fine fish. Isn't he fat!
Such sleek blackness; and happy, they say, as a trout.

___________________

SHAOLIN MONK
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Wisdom of short-statured monk
comes in tall measure.
Bald head: a fish bowl
of sayings and prescription.
Golden robe of simple garb—

humble yellow sun.

Red beads at neckline;
he fingers them with his thumb.

__________________

Photo by Bob Dreizler

CALL OF THE WATERFALL
—Carol Louise Moon

Mossy edge of turquoise stream,
palm-sized rocks of granite gleam
and shimmer with the water
from a sparkling waterfall.
Corresponding sounds which seem
very far, yet closer still
draw me near. I hear their call.

__________________

THE SUNNY SWING DAY
—Carol Louise Moon

I remember the sunny swing day when I
wore my white sailor blouse and my white
sailor shoes, and I swung so high as the sun
pulled my feet. I went higher and higher 'til
the swing flipped over its bar. I grasped with
white knuckles the rattling chain. When the
swing finally stopped my sailor shoes scuf-
fled the packed dirt of my little backyard as I
ran to the house to declare to my mom, 'We
did it... me and the big white sun!"

___________________

BEOWULF TONIGHT
—Carol Louise Moon

Brave Beowulf is sailing by.
I see him in my mind tonight,
imagination stirred by moon
glow, golden as a golden scene
of ocean waves through porthole seen.
Imagination stirred by moon,
I see him in my mind tonight.
Brave Beowulf is sailing by.

_________________

THERE'S A POND WHERE I HAVE BEEN
—Carol Louise Moon

Beneath light-blue skies
there's a pond where I have been.
There's a fountain there
that billows. Little tree frogs
tiptoe in, then out again.
Gold bugs in sunshine
sparkle as they fly. They shine
a lot like fireflies.

Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Today's LittleNip:

We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin.

—Andre Berthiaume

___________________

—Medusa

Snow Geese & Myosotis

Charles Halsted

FRENCH LESSONS ‘58
—Charles H. Halsted, Davis

Warm perfumed Paris summer twilight
Women of all ages stand in doorways
He avoids the younger ones his age
Bulging breasts recall past fumbling failures
His head filled with father’s advice
Find an older woman for instruction
In the mysteries of sex

A thin Piaf-like woman
“Vous couchez avec moi?”
(His best college French)
“Oui, cent francs.”
Clicking high heels, ancient wooden stairs
Dim bulb, cracked plaster ceiling
Iron bed, water basin by the window
Overlooks the lights, the noisy crowd below

He sits bare buttocks on cold mattress
Washed, swollen, helpless
Enveloped by wet lips
A single flick
He’s spent and undone
Still fully dressed, she announces
“C’est tout fini.”

Under warm hostel blanket he watches
French student, girlfriend in tow
Undressing, caressing
Hears their musical language
The rhythmic song of bedsprings

__________________

Thanks, Charles, for your debut in Medusa's Kitchen! Charles H. Halsted is a physician-scientist who started writing poetry two years ago. He lives in Davis and is happily married with three grown children and three grandchildren.


Lots of remodeling in the Kitchen!

The right (blue/green) side of our posts used to be a bit of a wasteland, but suddenly—it’s alive! To wit:

•••more pix! Oh yeah;
•••beefed-up links! Oh YEAH;
•••R-Press’s current business (SnakeWatch) confined to the bottom of the post in a big blue box so I don’t have to cut and paste it every morning;
•••a couple of whimsicals: Life in Pollock Pines, and Fellow Travelers on Planet Earth;
•••some new features, like (so far): Not Just a Pretty Face; Where are YOU publishing?; shameless promotion from the Snake (of course); and Calliope’s Closet.

What’s in Calliope’s Closet? A grab-bag of stuff to try on, throw away—maybe even write about. Not exactly triggers—not formal ones, anyway—just, well, thisnthat. More like accessories than tuxedos or tiaras. Calliope will premiere tomorrow.

What’s the difference between the right side of Medusa (the blues and greens) and the usual traffic on the left (cream-colored) side? The cream side (that’s you—the cream of the crop!) will pretty much go on the way it has, with poetry, visuals and announcements changing every day. The left side will hang around a bit longer than one day, though; some of it, like the links, will stay a lot longer, in fact. This format gives us the flexibility to change some things quickly and other things less often, while the main business of the Kitchen goes on triumphantly—in cream. And I know some people don’t/can’t check in every day, so this gives me a spot like a bulletin board to leave things pinned up, make sure you see them.

But—I’m only leaving one post up on the screen on the cream side at a time, instead of the usual week; you’ll have to go to the archives to find the rest of the week or month. It’s tidier that way. Write to me if you don’t know how to use the archives or the searchbar in the upper left.

About dated events: as I said last week, Medusa will go back to publishing only those calendar items I’ve been specifically sent; be sure you get them to me (and sooner than the day of) if you want them posted. Calendars are hell, frankly—especially the on-going weekly/monthly events, which at any point may cancel, quit, move, change times, get arrested, all without telling us. Over the years, Rebecca Morrison (Eskimo Pie Girl) has made an effort to maintain a very thorough calendar for our community, so I’m going to refer you to her (eskimopie.net) for a more complete listing of NorCal events. (Thanks, Rebecca!)

More tomorrow, including a give-away to celebrate our new look (“Kick-off for Calliope”). Meanwhile, get a load-a them HOTLINKS! And take heed: all this new space means even MORE need for you to send poetry, visuals, LittleNips, and you’ll get the hang of sending in accessories for the Closet, eventually, too. I think of Medusa as a community bulletin board. As I always say, I’m just the typissssssst…


This week in NorCal poetry:

(for a more complete calendar listing, go to eskimopie.net)

•••Monday (1/25), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Katie Cappello and Pam Richmond at HQ for the Arts, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. [See last Friday's post for bios.]

•••Weds. (1/27), 6-7 PM: Upstairs Poetry Reading at The Upstairs Art Gallery, 420 Main St. (2nd floor), Placerville. It's a poetry open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen. No charge.

•••Friday (1/29): Debut of Sacramento's newest monthly reading series, Stories on Stage, focusing upon short fiction by writers from Sacramento and surrounding areas. Each event will feature two short stories, introduced by their authors and read by actors, beginning with the work of Jodi Angel, author of The History of Vegas, and UC Davis alumni Naomi Williams, featuring readers/actors Bill Kay and Cynthia Speakman. The series will run on the last Friday of every month, beginning January 29 at HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento. Info: valeriefioravanti.com/SoS.aspx

•••Fri. (1/29), 8-10:30 PM: TheBlackOutPoetrySeries inside The Upper Level VIP Lounge, 26 Massic Ct., Sacramento (located inside of Fitness Systems Healthclub, by Cal State Skating Rink; exit Mack Road East to Stockton Blvd and then make a left on Massie, right past Motel 6) features poets Malik Saunders, Chara Charis and Leah Albright-Byrd plus singers Michelle Williams, Willie Whitlock and KoRae'jus and open mic. $5.00. Info: 916-208-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com

•••Sat. (1/30), 4-6 PM: Women's Writing Salon at Valentina’s Bistro and Bakery, 1041 Sutton Way, Grass Valley, featuring poetry and prose penned by the foothills community of women writers, including Elizabeth Appell, Shirley Dickard, Betsy Graziani Fasbinder, Dianna Henning and Julie Valin. The event is free, and while we feature women readers, men are enthusiastically welcomed. Gather at 3:30 for food and drink (available at the café); reading begins at 4:00. Info: Patricia Miller, 530-265-5165 (dovepat@oro.net) or Betsy Fasbinder, 530-613-9947 (bgf2u@sbcglobal.net). Our special thanks to Valentina Masterz for hosting this event.

•••Sat. (2/6) 8:30 AM-? (deadline for reservations is 2/1): Between the Sheets: A Romantic Writing Workshop Event and Dinner at Ironstone Vineyards in Murphys (for those 18 and older). Hosted by Ironstone Vineyards and Manzanita Writers Press/Writers Unlimited, an affiliate of the Calaveras County Arts Council. Workshop leaders include Conrad Levasseur, Monika Rose, Antoinette May, Linda Trapp, Zoe Keithley, Paula Sheil. Evening reading by Julia Holzer and workshop leaders/participants. Full workshop day includes two workshops, lunch, wine and chocolate sampling, romantic dinner and poetry reception w/public reading, $100; or choose two workshops and lunch only for $65, or dinner/reception only for $65. Reservations required: 209-728-1251 or rsvp directly to events@ironstonevineyards.com; workshops and dinner need to be pre-paid by Feb. 1 to avoid an extra $20 charge. Info: 209-754-0577 or ironstonevineyards.com

•••Jan. 28-31: 11th Annual Snow Goose Festival in Chico, including field trips, workshops, nature activities for children, and “The Loon’s Necklace”, a film that tells the story of how the loon got the distinctive band around its neck. Various locations; fees from $2-$42. For a complete schedule, go to snowgoosefestival.org

__________________

TRUE LOVE
—Charles H. Halsted

Both nineteen, they
spent summer school
together in New England,
living in his mother’s house
at the family estate on the shore.

A class in logic
toughened their minds, as
she, a California girl,
exulted in her strange surroundings,
and he reveled in showing off
his favorite childhood places.

He was sure she was the one,
certain through stolen kisses,
deepening rhythms of
shared thoughts and feelings,
her fragrance always fresh,
her never-touched breasts
hidden behind
starched white blouses.

At the end of term, his heart ached as
her plane vanished in the western sky.

Later he wrote his mother
of a September visit
to her parents in LA;
he could learn to like
her gruff businessman dad
and high-intellect mom,
in his mind future parents in law.

Back in college with separate lives,
he in his fraternity and she a sorority girl,
his phone calls were never returned;
friends said she had become engaged
to her high-school math teacher.

__________________

MYOSOTIS
—Charles H. Halsted

Ne m’oubliez pas
Do not forget me
She spoke in soft voice
The mountain flowers of France
Myosotis—forget-me-nots
A garland from her hair
Passed between us

Young volunteers
In that tiny alpine village
A larger than life
Wooden crucifix hung
Under the church roof

We climbed the mountain
With villagers
On their saint’s day
To a chapel by a lake in the sky
Held hands all the way down
That summer of ‘58

For two weeks
We spoke her language without end
Writers and philosophers
Voltaire Sartre Camus
The meanings of our lives
Now and to come
Our minds then souls mingled
With the mountain flowers

On sputtering motorbike I was off
To my future
My other world
My first real love
Stayed behind
I never turned back

Do you still go
To that little village so far away?
Je ne t’ai jamais oublie—
I never forgot you
Ma Myosotis

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

NOT OF WOMAN BORN
—Charles H. Halsted

Taken by scalpel
From his mother’s womb
The pangs of birth passage
Unknown
And never a taste of her milk

Still he seeks the
Inner wisdom of women
And comfort of their breasts

Snow Geese

___________________

—Medusa

Through the Glass

The Last Supper
Painting by Leonardo da Vinci

TRANSPARENCY IN THE WORLD
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

I think that all my life
I have seen understood loved
angered at things conditions lives
of women and men only through
glass and that glass a thick broken-off
fragment as used to be the bottom
of a soft-drink bottle brown
wedged in hardpan unrevealing

yet there is transparency in the world
I have loved parts of the world
through that transparency
glass or eyeglasses that transmitting light gave life
around me a coherence
transparent in the flame green
of grass bathing in sunlight

transparent in the husky silksound
of a naked skin under a caress
to make love to and be made love to by

that silksound now silent
yet correlative to the mist that pervades
the hills out that window I’m now looking out of
that mist which permeates and yet is a skin
to the hills and a screen adorning, hiding
the naked and I think of this window

which is really only my work window
and yet sufficient to call up thoughts
of windows and skins and the magic of Leonardo’s
Last Supper which thanks to the artist’s
failure or over-refinement of care
is now both a work of art and the pocked
window through which we view the art

that magic relies as much on the beauty
of the nearly empty windows at the rear
as it does on the knot garden of love and anguish
and betrayal and serenity foregrounded
by bread and glass and plateware
and a brusquely awakened dovecote of hands

but it is the windows I mean to speak of
with just the faintest touches of farreaching
lilting meadow and darker-than-myrtle
Italian cypress and blue lateday light about
to go bronze so that Gethsemane may loom
hear its distant gongstroke and this
is what I can see in any window
any given day stop a minute can’t you see through yours
the day recede lips unuttering even its footfalls

withdrawing entirely silent covered
by the shadows that lengthen and yet
the whole open scene dies clinging to the overtone
of green flame in the bathing in sunlight summer grass
through my window da Vinci’s window yours

here comes again tomorrow
the Judas kiss the husky silksound
skintouch and nature and promise
and betrayal and lovemaking all melting

now in the window a shorebird
soaring up from a line of evergreens
black in the mist complicating with a new line
the carpentered crosshairs
birdflight addling slightly
the silence in the lampshade milk glass

___________________

—Medusa

What Would Blue Taste Like?

Through the Kieth window after all this snow...

THROUGH THE SEALED WINDOWS
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Mistletoe hangs from winter-bare ashes like baskets.
The sky is layered into a blue and white parfait.

What would blue taste like, what would sky?
The smell of violets creeps into the house

through the sealed windows.
In a split second the present becomes the past.

The man down the street remodels his house
all through the stormy winter.

Hammering, hammering under the skin.
Roots under the soil, leeks in the compost.

Tulip magnolias peek over rooftops, their blooms
like fruit at the instant of perfection.

Then the petals separate and fall,
mauve and cream, slippery as memory.

__________________

EARLY MORNING HOUSE
—Jane Blue

Doves call across the canyons of the city.

From my chair, meditating, I see my house reflected,
superimposed on the house across the street.

A chalet, the yellow peaked roof from the ell
behind me pulled from one window
through the window in front of me, so I am
surrounded by my house like a cocoon.

Their house disappears. The morning is quiet.
Just the doves. Sunlight flickering
through the lush green of dogwood leaves.

I am inside and outside, my house hanging
in the street, my shadow in the middle
of everything, red roses smudged in the air.

My red roses become our red roses.

Their house becomes our house.

There is no other house.

___________________

TREE TRIMMERS THROUGH THE WINDOW
—Dawn DiBartolo, Citrus Heights

when the tree hit the house,
I was asleep; assumed it was something else,
and returned to the all-is-well veil of dreams.

and later, when I braved a glance
thru the rain-streaked window, branches
dangling from the roof, bending the gutters

and blocking my swift exit, I endured such a
bone-deep panic; the sudden shiver having nothing
to do with the wind. relentlessly, I called everyone I knew,

for advice, validation; prayer.

the trimmers came the next day
with loud toys and no evident fear,
tossing the trunks of my discontent

to the water-logged ground as if
they weighed nothing. I was stunned!
to me, those branches weighed everything.

from the splintered sanctity of my home, I watched,
too intimidated to step outside the walls
of my own beliefs about the gray sky

heavy with more rain to come, too afraid
of what the weight of the storm meant
to offer any kind of assistance. after all,

what could I possibly do to contain the rain?
what could I possibly offer to impede the
torrent of broken branches raining from the sky?

the trimmers were without defeat.
they were fearless; quite literally, on top of things,
and I, in my false sense of walls and windows,

cowered in the shadows, unconvinced
of my own ineptitude; their sweat,
my redemption.


(Dawn DiBartolo says a tree fell on her house last week!)

___________________

MALTBY HOUSE
—Janet Pantoja

wood house
abandoned, rots . . .
wind blows in—out windows
I wonder . . . Who lived there before?
Someone.

___________________

A WORD ABOUT WINDOWS
—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

Windows are transparent openings that allow sunlight into your house.
Windows eliminate darkness . . .
You can open as many as you want to see outside.
Windows let you multi-task in the house—
like vacuum and check the weather at the same time.
You can see if it's raining outside without getting wet.
When you go outside, you take your umbrella.

Windows is an operating system that allows access to computer resources.
Windows eliminate darkness . . .
You can open as many as you want to see information.
Windows lets you multi-task on the computer—
like write a letter and check the weather at the same time.
You can see if it's raining outside without getting wet.
When you go outside, you take your umbrella.

Windows—
There are unlimited windows in the World . . .
allowing us to interface with unlimited rays of sunshine.
Windows—
There are unlimited windows in Windows . . .
allowing us to interface with unlimited knowledge.
What would we do if we there were no W/windows?

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

WINDOW VIEW
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

On a wintry morning
Big picture window
Opens to the gray sky
Wet traffic splashing
California winter green returning
Peeping from the dead summer gold
Creek bubbles in back
Rushing with the rains
Windows connect me
To an inclement nature

___________________

—Medusa