In This House of Yearning

—Photo by Taylor Graham

FIRE, WATER, WEATHER

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The landscape is burning—flames on the news,

smoke racing down canyon at night, by noon

up the slopes drawn by a hidden sun. This

is the place of lost men, lost stars dead so long

ago. Dry grass. The fire is now. Landscape

and fire have their ways with/make their own

weather. Under it all, the river keeps flowing.

The fire is now. Traffic slowed for smoke keeps

going, headed for the cities, libraries full of

memory not yet burning. Helicopters make water

drops; we can't see them for the smoke. And you

who live here—do you have a home? Are you

gone down smoky passages with your children,

your dogs, your horses dipping their muzzles

as if for water? And the frogs and foxes, where

will they go? What can we do for them but ask?

Fire has its own thirst, its language of magic

and shadows left over; the long story of this

place, landscape of water, rock, fire, spirits.

Breathe if you can.

_______________

STILL WAITING

—Taylor Graham

July, August—time-stream flowing away

like summer campers down-mountain to cities

that beg for stars, for water.

Up here, the stream is a bare trickle

between rock and columbine, a shady spot.

Waiting, all this time: a bonfire-

farewell for the ones who are leaving.

An iron pot's suspended above flame. Its surface

roils with visions: dogs—or are they wolves—

over-loping dark waters; a galleon sailing

between horse-islands. It's all illusion, magic.

Witches Brew. Cola at a boil. Drink it

and you're changed. Campers packed, leaving

crumbs of language for the wind

to sweep away. They won't be back.

Is it lonely? This infinite domain, granite

dreaming termination-dust, ghosts of campers

sleeping under snow under stars.

_______________

ENIGMA SHADORMA

—Taylor Graham

At the point

where fluted ribs give

up turning

in—holding

death-fast to the lungs, the heart—

and by trick of light

venetian-

blinds cast shades against

wall, their ribs

turned outward—

see how they become feather-

shafts in changing light—

shades shifting

as fast as chaos

can turn in-

to music,

ribs tuned as wind instruments

to the breath of light.

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

THE FINGER-BONES OF DAWN
—Katy Brown

alone in the woods—night, blinking in underbrush—
been lost for months—confused

storm-scattered branches everywhere—
a giant maze of deadwood and cataclysm

banking fires at night—
stirring the bones of dawn—

where have they all gone?
where?

they’ve moved-on ahead
without me

building signal fires
pitching suns into bonfires

rumors of squalls
toss the trees

we started out
sometime last year

moving from different directions
meeting in camps

we were connected
before I vanished in darkness. . . .

_______________

I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT SURVIVORS:

the fractured willow,
after a lightning strike;

the clown fish,
wounded by a depth-charge;

the smoldering trough,
torn by a bit of fallen star—

try to make sense in the aftermath
of any cataclysm—try.

The fractured willow may survive;
the clown fish may live;
the earth may heal a burning gouge.

They do not heal through compassion—
though this may ease suffering—
or casseroles delivered to the door.

Only time—infinite quantities of time,
will make the scars manageable.

Even then, the fish will cower
when thunder penetrates the deep;

the willow will never regain
its symmetry;

and a trace of scorched-earth
will mark the land.

Regarding survivors:  I need to believe  
the once-broken can somehow mend.


—Katy Brown, Davis

_______________

PSYCHOLOGICAL MORPHOLOGY
(after the painting by Roberto Matta)
—Katy Brown

In this house of yearning
all desire is stripped—exposed—
secret places throb for touch.

Open-mouthed and jelly-boned,
in this house of yearning,
we fear and long for company.

Intensity cannot survive
for more than just one night
in this house of yearning.

All desire: stripped—exposed—
without a mask to hide behind:
any touch can leave a bruise.

Love can look a lot like hating with
all desire stripped, exposed—
tangled in the clouded mind—

approach? avoid? attack instead?
There’s no peace in constant strife—
all desire—stripped, exposed.

Secret places throb for touch:
those places that the heart protects—
anguish given and received

know the longing for release:
secret places throb for touch,
but fear the trust that touch admits.

Nothing wounds like trust betrayed;
nothing heals like tenderness:
secret places throb for touch.

_______________

LADY LUCK

—Michael Cluff, Corona

On the day

of sealing

the job down

finally:

the crotch

of the suit pants

get stained with

cream.

You mismatch

your shoes:

put on a tennis

to the left

and wingtip

on the other.

Your belt breaks into

two from over-stress

and cheapness

after you have gone long

past the three-quarters point

to the interview.

Then the car breaks down

in the exact center

of a deep and odiferous puddle

of gutter water and puse-purple-rust oil from

a ill-serviced tumbledown semi

and you slip badly.

When you reach the receptionist's desk

you realize you dumped her

at the fourth-rate mall

on that debacled triple date

last September

and her memory

like her girth

is now like an elephant's

and this thought has

slipped out of your mouth

right into her wrinkled ear.

Luck comes and goes

for you like blackouts

which usually occur

sometimes

right at this point

of your diminishing day

even if you are lucky

or even eventually not.

_______________

LADY LUCK, CONT.

—Michael Cluff

Born at the thirteenth second

of the thirteenth minute

of the thirteenth hour

on that Friday, the thirteenth,

Jennifer was bidden to be

unlucky by all in Tarring town,

yet she was mute and deaf

to the warnings

and muffled faces,

upturned hands

and slammed cottage doors

in her beauty-marked cheeks

that occurred when she ambled by.

She lived an average span

of placid evenness

a life with nothing more

than what she worked

and wandered towards

while winking

all along her chosen path,

taking no heed

of what was

not inside

and those factions, fissures

beyond her own

self-control.

Life on an island

leads to contentment

in such cases.

 

_______________

Thanks to today's poets and to Taylor Graham for her photos (check out the Shadorma poetry form she did). A reminder: Katy Brown will be reading at Sac. Poetry Center tonight with Claire J. Baker from Pinole. Katy currently has a photo album on Medusa's Facebook page, and her other albums from the past can be seen there, too.

Medusa has added another feature: More Food for the Brain: Awesomely Optimal Opportunities for Cranial Nutrition, which will list one-time workshops (as opposed to the on-going ones up in the FUCHSIA LINKS) and other items (such as articles) that will hopefully further stimulate your poetry brain. Look for it on the green "board" at the right of this.

Trina Drotar sends us some news items: (1) check out Poetry Wall online at www.poetrywall.com; (2) Shine Cafe will be having flash fiction readings on the 1st and 3rd Wednesdays, alternating with their poetry readings on the 2nd and 4th Weds.; and (3) there's another open mic opportunity for poets, musicians, et al. at Chic for Change, 2633 El Camino Avenue (near Fulton), hosted by David Goodwin (916-993-8233). Thanks for the info, Trina, and don't forget that the Crossroads Reading Series which is hosted by Trina along with Sandy Thomas, meets this Saturday and features Shawn Pittard and Danyen Powell. Scroll down to the blue board (below the green board) for details about that and the other fine readings happening this week.

________________

Today's LongerNip:

VENICE BEACH

—Caschwa, Sacramento

From a suburb of L.A.

I rode my bicycle all over

Visiting other towns

And communities

Drawn quite more often

To the ocean front areas of

Malibu, Santa Monica,

Venice, Marina del Rey

One day at the beach

I came across an encampment

Of nudists, none new to the sun

Nary a disheveled in the dishabille

Nearby were imitators, posers,

Sunburned city folk

I declined to join them

And pedaled away

Past the bivouacs and pavilions

Past Muscle Beach, past newspaper

Displays with flat photos that could

Never portray what I saw that day

 _______________

—Medusa

—Photo by Taylor Graham