—Anonymous Illustration
—Poems by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
—Visuals Provided by D.R. Wagner
AFTER THE HEAT
Dynamite in the blood.
The veins are fuses, hot
With mockingbirds in the
Long air of Delta summer night.
I listen to the sputter in
My chest, smell the gunpowder
Of tomatoes and snap beans
Racing through the tall
Grass toward my brain.
I become the fields
And burst into flame,
Running from my bedroom
Blinded by sheets of flame
Higher than the crust of smog
Above my head, choking on smoke
Of my ancestors, as the dream
Banks break over my mind, flooding
The synapses and thought canals
With wave after wave of soothing
Water. Towers of steam rise up
Throughout me. I am pale and shaken
With the Delta. Clouds of me hover
Over the levees, find the languid sloughs
And presently regain the river, winding, unwinding.
Telling Tales
—Anonymous Illustration
A KIND OF SINGING
The light beginning to crackle and glow
Around the buildings on the horizon.
In traveling through this place
We have no idea why such a phenomenon
Should occur. It’s rather like a
Small child being born and immediately
Becoming recognized as a great king.
What are the chances of such a thing?
The evening scoots down the low hills
As if it were another child, on a slide,
Being called to dinner just as he
Finally gains his spot at the top.
What to do? Come home now?
Sit down, press one’s legs into the
Sides of the slide and take as much
Time as possible to descend to the ground.
Everyone will understand somehow.
When we reach the bottom of the hill,
The entire landscape looks embossed,
A storybook cover one could run one’s
Hand over and still feel the real worth
The story has to hold. No one has
Visited this place below the hill
For so long we have forgotten the songs
That used to be sung about it.
We believe we are making up a new song.
Rays
THE ESSENTIALS OF THE IDYLL
It is sweetest right next to the sky.
Just before you cross the line.
The air is limpid.
The sea has forgotten
About waves for a few hours.
Words have tracks
As we talk. They look
Like tiny wrens, full of
Close shadings, a bright beak
Flashes; hard to see when
We’re in the woods.
Nothing has a surface.
We are inside of everything.
I was hoping you wouldn’t
Get this far with this poem.
I was hoping the images would
Continue on their own and make
A story for you, elicit a sensation
That would capture you,
Provide some transportation.
Instead, here I am alone
With you, amazed at the color
Of the sky, the way the breeze tricks
Its way through Summer,
The kind of quiet that working
Like this precipitates.
Before you go: one Summer when
I was about eight years old,
My father stopped the car as dark
Was coming. While the children and
My mother watched, he walked into a
Small woods near Lake Ontario
To catch fireflies for us to see up close.
The woods were a great flashing field
Filled with millions of lights, millions.
I have never seen anything like that
Evening ever since then, until now.
Evening Light
RUST-COLORED RAIN
Rust-colored rain.
We survive by drinking
From the edge of dark
Noisy streams far from any
Lights. The stars are but glowing
Trinkets fashioned from what is left
Of unfinished love songs one could
No longer sing.
A sudden rush of wings.
Time doesn't pass here.
It evaporates from the skin.
Sometimes it has a voice.
Otherwise it is only tears
That have such a voice.
Birds swallowed by the dregs
Evening leaves for us.
“Make a fire of these things,”
It offers.
A bottle of spirits is passed
Around. Someone begins to hum
An antique melody, curiously
Much like something that happened
When we were just learning about pain
And weren’t quite sure if we could
Really be this alone for such a long time.
Robin and Fairy Sing
—Anonymous Illustration
BUILDING AN IDYLL
He had allowed the ocean
To enter him
And knew things differently.
Over, in the air, part of a bark
Held by a friendly wave
Has helped us locate space.
Static was collected in tiny rooms.
Whenever we spoke to one another
Sparks exploded in the middle
Of our sentences.
“What beautiful poetry,” they said.
It really didn’t matter what was said.
There was such a shortage
Of the real stuff, it took little
To bring us to tears.
Why, even a small herd of Jersey
Cows grazing near a fence
In the near distance.
He had allowed the ocean
To enter him
And knew things differently.
Over, in the air, part of a bark
Held by a friendly wave
Has helped us locate space.
Static was collected in tiny rooms.
Whenever we spoke to one another
Sparks exploded in the middle
Of our sentences.
“What beautiful poetry,” they said.
It really didn’t matter what was said.
There was such a shortage
Of the real stuff, it took little
To bring us to tears.
Why, even a small herd of Jersey
Cows grazing near a fence
In the near distance.
Chinese Gambling Dream
Today’s LittleNip:
IT’S MY LITTLE TRAMP STEAMER
The remains of the poem.
They do that in the light.
I’ve even seen them free fall
Over our feet, smiles
On their faces.
You wanted fabulous
Rivers. We have them.
They take the crown.
Once we found a story, down
Below the quarry edge
Outside any ledge.
An entire conversation
Was shredded to get to her,
Expelling volcanoes as its
Fingers flipped around.
Evening in Locke
__________________________
Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for a wonderful breakfast of poetry and visuals! Today in Davis, the 10th Annual Jazz and Beat Festival continues, including a reading by Sac. Poet Laureate Indigo Moor this evening. Also this evening, the Second Sat. Reception will take place at Sac. Poetry Center, presenting the gallery show, Pursue Your Passion, with artwork by Anna Marie, Terri Grace and Aja Jones. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
—Medusa
Train Cemetery
Celebrate Poetry!
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