Monday, April 11, 2011

This Week Is Plenty Wild!

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

A spider's web resonates like highrise steel
inside its concrete. The web snaps as one man
steps under interlacing twigs of forest, not lost
but simply walking. A plate shifts under ocean
not intending much of anything, maybe
only stretching, and a wall falls down. Listen.
An old brown Navajo sings heaven and clay
as she weaves these colors into dust.
Creation's song is a trapped insect, imploding
stars or earthquake. We weave ourselves
into its pattern, wrong or right.


Thanks to Judy Taylor Graham for today's poetry, to Katy Brown for the pix, and to Pat Pashby for finding us our LittleNip. TG will be reading twice this week—at the Literature of the Wild reading in Placerville sponsored by Folsom Lake College on Tuesday, and in Lodi at A Starry Night Poetry Series—plus you can meet her at the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around in Placerville on Weds. night. A busy week for her, and for all of us, poetry-wise! Be sure to check the b-board for details of all the readings, including the The Practice of the Wild documentary at the Crocker on Sat. featuring Gary Snyder and Jim Harrison which I just posted this a.m. (Lots of nature art and poetry happening this week, due to Earth Week celebrations.)

I'm hoping that the wee Rattlesnake Press Lucky Seven Birthday Bash doesn't get lost in all the shuffle—that's Weds. at 7:30pm at The Book Collector, featuring the release of D.R. Wagner's new SpiralChap, A Limited Means of Expression. Our open mic (open only to Medusa readers!) will feature Trina Drotar, Sandy Thomas and Kevin Jones; we still have a couple of slots left, if you're interested. Lemme know:


—Taylor Graham

Remember moor and thicket, thorny gorse,
what everyone called waste-land. Profit? None
to travelers along the water's course.
It couldn't last. A nation runs on Time,
Utility, and Transit. Now it's done:
the moor is gone, a city's steeples chime.

And what's become, and what somehow got lost
are soon forgotten by the busy mind.
Those dark expanses now so quickly crossed
by street and rail beneath a gaslight glare—
who mourns the wildness left behind
when Commerce owns the common air?

Remember moor and thicket, thorny gorse,
and what's become, and what somehow got lost.


—Taylor Graham

[Trees] tall and green, lining the streets…;
filtering with their wholesome leafage the air.
                                  —Elihu Burritt

What better way to declare
than by planting trees?

To mark the signing, young and old
in a small Massachusetts town
took up shovel and spade,
and set out seedlings in double rows.
Trees to line the walk
from The Green to the church-door,
and along the public highway
for a mile in each direction.

By the time you passed through, Elihu,
most of those folks were dead.
But the trees they planted flourished.
Shade for the traveler. Solid trunks
of faith; green standing armies
with purifying leaves. The blessing
of independence, the blessing of trees.


Today's LittleNip: 

Neither mother, nor children, nor kinsmen, nor
dear familiar friends follow a man in death; he
departs alone. The deeds alone which he has
done are his fellow-travellers.

—The Mahabharat



Photo by Katy Brown