Featured Reader Carlena Wike at
The Other Voice in Davis on Friday, April 18,
hosted by Allegra Silberstein
—Photo by Katy Brown
A POEM I WILL NEVER WRITE
—Katy Brown, Davis
I don’t want to write about this because
even acknowledging it seems
like drawing a pirate map to it.
I have never looked inside the sealed box
—you know—the one I keep
in the back of my closet—on the floor,
under a pile of hiking boots and dirty clothes:
the black box that emits a growl from time to time.
Sometimes, if I lay very still at night,
I imagine I hear a faint whimper
from behind the closet door.
I’ve carried this box with me for as long as I remember,
from place to place,
noticing that it seems to get heavier;
though perhaps I am simply losing strength.
It seems remarkably dense for a plain box.
I have never opened it. I want to believe it is empty,
but don’t know for sure that it is.
I lack the courage to force it open.
When my daughter was little, I put it
high on the shelf, behind my extra blankets—
where she couldn’t find it
and accidentally release . . .
I’m not sure what is.
All I know
is that it thrives on darkness and it growls.
—Katy Brown, Davis
I don’t want to write about this because
even acknowledging it seems
like drawing a pirate map to it.
I have never looked inside the sealed box
—you know—the one I keep
in the back of my closet—on the floor,
under a pile of hiking boots and dirty clothes:
the black box that emits a growl from time to time.
Sometimes, if I lay very still at night,
I imagine I hear a faint whimper
from behind the closet door.
I’ve carried this box with me for as long as I remember,
from place to place,
noticing that it seems to get heavier;
though perhaps I am simply losing strength.
It seems remarkably dense for a plain box.
I have never opened it. I want to believe it is empty,
but don’t know for sure that it is.
I lack the courage to force it open.
When my daughter was little, I put it
high on the shelf, behind my extra blankets—
where she couldn’t find it
and accidentally release . . .
I’m not sure what is.
All I know
is that it thrives on darkness and it growls.
Featured Reader Ray Coppock
at The Other Voice last Friday
—Photo by Katy Brown
I KNOW THESE POEMS ARE OFTEN ODD
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
Dear Reader,
I know these poems
are sometimes odd,
as often when I am writing them
a spirit invades me,
and writes with my hand
and uses my memories.
This spirit is my dark friend.
Many of these poems were written
by this dark friend, not by me.
At those times I retreat
to a nice corner of my soul
where I keep a comfortable chair
and a good reading lamp.
There I read poems from Ovid and Li Po,
Akhmatova and Mirabai,
from Rilke and Baudelaire,
for long hours,
sometimes all night!
Later,
when the spirit has gone,
I will come out of myself
to edit the poems
that are not exactly mine,
that were written by something
that is far more creative
than I could ever be.
I often have no idea
what those poems are saying,
but when I read the words out loud
I feel a warm glowing ball in my chest.
My heart feels beautiful and in this life
I stay very warm and blessed.
Warm and blessed.
Love,
James
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
Dear Reader,
I know these poems
are sometimes odd,
as often when I am writing them
a spirit invades me,
and writes with my hand
and uses my memories.
This spirit is my dark friend.
Many of these poems were written
by this dark friend, not by me.
At those times I retreat
to a nice corner of my soul
where I keep a comfortable chair
and a good reading lamp.
There I read poems from Ovid and Li Po,
Akhmatova and Mirabai,
from Rilke and Baudelaire,
for long hours,
sometimes all night!
Later,
when the spirit has gone,
I will come out of myself
to edit the poems
that are not exactly mine,
that were written by something
that is far more creative
than I could ever be.
I often have no idea
what those poems are saying,
but when I read the words out loud
I feel a warm glowing ball in my chest.
My heart feels beautiful and in this life
I stay very warm and blessed.
Warm and blessed.
Love,
James
Carlena and Ray
—Photo by Katy Brown
Today's LittleNip:
HOW I WRITE THESE DAMN POEMS
—James Lee Jobe
I put some faith in the sounds of vowels,
In the strength and heart of consonants,
And in language that holds a small measure of music.
Truth? Sometimes. Not always.
There is a higher truth, with more weight than history.
I prefer verbs to adjectives, they're more fun.
And I need a little magic, from starlight,
Or sunrise, or from the sad look
That dogs give best.
And then I just write it down.
HOW I WRITE THESE DAMN POEMS
—James Lee Jobe
I put some faith in the sounds of vowels,
In the strength and heart of consonants,
And in language that holds a small measure of music.
Truth? Sometimes. Not always.
There is a higher truth, with more weight than history.
I prefer verbs to adjectives, they're more fun.
And I need a little magic, from starlight,
Or sunrise, or from the sad look
That dogs give best.
And then I just write it down.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to our Davisite artists today, and a reminder that Katy Brown will be reading at The Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento day-after-tomorrow (Sunday) at 2pm, along with Katie McCleary of 916 Ink.
Listener Mikey West (Evan Myquest)
—Photo by Katy Brown
