—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
STATE COLLEGE—Sacramento, 1960’s
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA
Anthropology teacher with ice blue eyes, smokes
marijuana in class, not saying much, gazing
at some tiny spot on the back wall.
American Lit teacher sings “Wobbly” songs
in a brown suede miniskirt.
A fictional boy drills holes in his mother’s coffin,
letting in yellow butterflies.
History of South America—an assigned text
—boys make love to ripe, red,
flesh-filled melons.
English Lit teacher discusses Goldsmith’s
“Deserted Village” and, in the same breath, shouts down
demonstrators from second floor windows.
Prehistory of North America—a place in Kentucky
so rich in game, Native Americans refuse to establish
camps or settlements.
Learn the tragedy of kings—Shakespeare teacher
with a Scottish name and southern accent.
Culture and Personality—babies in four cultures
have a bath, and a Balinese man in trance bites
the head off a live chicken.
Social Anthropology—I write “pubic” recognition
instead of “public” on my essay, I get extra points.
African Literature—Achebe watches Things Fall Apart
in other time zones.
California Prehistory—at the time of white contact,
Native Americans inhabit all available eco-niches.
Graduate seminars—discover symbolic wounds, purity
and danger, the mystery of Chaco Canyon, unmapped
aboriginal trade routes in Borneo, Malinowski’s
disgust with the novel.
Master’s Thesis—I explain my version of ritual pollution
in the Solomon Islands. Last chapter needs a rewrite.
I ignore this.
Newman Center—Anthropology Dept. wine and cheese
parties, living it up with chunky cheddar and jack on
colored toothpicks, Annie Green Springs, Gibson Rose,
Dashikis and polyester.
(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review, 2007)
—Photo by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
GARDEN AT RIVER-SHORE
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
A large, verdant garden
Lies along a low-flowing river
In a valley just above the sea
There for you and me to wander.
And we do
On sunny days
With little wind
But just a gentle breeze.
We listen to a woodpecker
And track him down
By his pounding sound
And see the red top of his head
Beating out the rhythm
Through his long, pointed beak
Only then, do we speak.
—Photo by Caschwa
INFERNAL AUGUST
—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
Slow dusk on hot nights: pitchy
darkness seeps through summer
heat, like black ink spreading over
a yellowed page: then mosquito clouds swarm
into this heat, melt into the dark-
ness; and crickets start to scratch
their rough legs together in a steady sound
that crawls slowly into houses alongside
the heat and the darkness. . . Windows
are open as far as they’ll go: but windows
only let in more heat and darkness
and the steady creep
of the scratching: open windows only let in
what they’re supposed to push out: the heat
and the darkness
and the mosquitos and the scratching: all
pushing back against the windows, pushing
through the tattered screens, pushing into
the helpless house. . . Then the heat
and the darkness and the mosquitos and
the scratching all ooze
themselves into the bedroom, creep
along its musty walls, and finally crawl onto
damp, peevish, still wide-awake skin. . .
—Photo by Caschwa
GORILLA
—Kathy Kieth
Midnight fur slides along Plexiglas zoo
walls as he passes right by me, eyes
brushing mine: quick scan of me while
his offspring mug, touch fingers to tourists
through transparency, and his mates roll
on the dewy grass, stretch long arms at
spider-angles. He passes right by, bigger
than a man: taller, wider, but mostly just
bigger— taking more space than a man as he
patrols this small patch of borrowed land
edge by edge: builds his daily nest: spins
today's web with old, old amber eyes . . .
—Photo by Katy Brown
HALE’S, RAVIOLI AND SCARY OLD MEN
—Kathy Kieth
Summer mornings when I was little, my mother
and I would head downtown, past the hop fields
and railroad tracks into Sacramento. We’d park
in the city lot, then walk to Hale’s to shop
for shirts or slips or sandals. But there was a price
for this adventure: we had to cross the park,
where old men sat in clouds of smoke and flannel,
bragging like conquistadors at checkerboards,
smelling of stale cigars and dirty laundry. I doubt
they even noticed another haus frau towing
a skinny kid with glasses, but we’d tuck our heads
just the same and sail through the bushes and
benches and strange accents, relieved to finally
arrive at the crosswalk. After our spree at Hale’s,
we’d stop at the deli across from the park and buy
cold ravioli pillows lined up in grids under
filmy clouds of flour, their tidy boxes safely tied
with string. Then, parcels clutched close, we’d plow
through the park again, past all the smoky old men
nodding in the sun.
My mother and I never did figure out the punch-
line to the cosmic joke that hooked us together.
But for a few years we agreed on some things,
like Hale’s, and ravioli, and scary old men. . .
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I can promise you that when I go to Sacramento, I will pump up Sacramento.
—Arnold Schwarzenegger
___________________
Thanks to today’s contributors on this 32nd Sacramento Poetry Day! Jeanine Stevens wrote about Sac State (back when it was called "Sac State"); I, too, went there, though none of my professors smoked weed in class—that I knew of. Joseph Nolan is actually in Stockton, but poems about rivers and valleys do apply. I wrote about the heat, the zoo, and downtown Sac back in the '50's; I included my gorilla poem about the Sacramento Zoo because I hear “they” are thinking of moving it. Wow…. I grew up on the zoo. I had a piano teacher in Land Park, and every week after my lesson, my mother would take me to the zoo to hang out and ride the ponies. That was, well, at least 3-4 year ago….. And thanks to Caschwa and Katy Brown for evocative photos of the City of Trees.
For more about Sacramento Poetry Day, go to Patrick Grizzell's article at www.facebook.com/patrick.grizzell/posts/10208638162724506/.
Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry takes place tonight at Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento, 7pm, on the theme of “Holy Ghosts, or NOT!!” Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
City of Trees
—Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate Poetry!)
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
