Just A Girl Who Loves Snakes

 

—Poetry by Kathy Kieth,

Diamond Springs, CA

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

GARDENING WITH WEASELS

I used to make pictures
with weasels: arrange tiny feet
into rivers and trees, just so—

a weasel tableau. . .
Then just as I'd stand back, brush
fur off my hands, the river

would scuttle under
the couch, the tree would bite
holes in the canvas. . .  So I sold

those damned weasels, took up
gardening instead.  But frankly,
it's not all that different. . .

 

 

 

 

 

BEFORE THE INK DRIES

these shop-worn ideas of mine will have
faded: dimmed like an old woman's

eyesight: yellowed like last year's
sun—crackled newspaper flakes

popping up and peeling like dry skin:
piling like psoriasis: drifting like

so many spent leaves—once the color
of snappy spring dresses, but now

shattering like the husks they are
whenever I try to walk on them. . .

 

 

 

 

 

THERE ARE NO POEMS HERE

in the dentist's chair: no poems
in the metal claws of this harpy

with braces who bloodies my mouth as
her son smiles from full-color photos

on top of the drill. . .  I try to disappear
down the path into that cheap seascape

on her wall, past the cheerful red splatters
of geraniums: steel myself against lightning

bolts shooting up my face.  Finally, limp
and sweaty, I surrender my cheque, slack-

jawed at how much abuse
we humans can take. . .

 

 

 

 

 

WRITING WITH ROSEMARY

Trying to reach every late-summer
bean pulls me slowly into
the rosemary: into its musty
perfume, its seductive arms
so heavily weighted with oil.  Later

this wild scent follows me through
the house: permeates the news
from Iraq and Morocco: floats
over breakfast 'til finally

the musk and I move pen over paper
and tell our story in perfumed ink:
rich courtesans veiled in billows
of silk, lounging on long brocade
couches, waiting for lovers who will
doubtless appear—maybe tonight. . .

 

 

 

Corvid at Nightfall

 

 

WRITING ABOUT RAGE

Raw words crawl on my skin
like cat claws digging into

my arm:  dentist drills before
the shot works:  fingernails

on the chalkboard.  While I am
writing this, in you come—all

chatter—loom over me with in-
sipid tales of this-and-that:  spoil

the flow, shut off the river.  And
there are those claws again—digging

into my arm:  drilling
my roots:  screaming

up my neck, down
the middle of my back. . .  

 

 

 

 

Clouds Over Haze

 

WHEREIN THE MUSE TAKES TO HER BED
AND PRETENDS TO BE CONSUMPTIVE,
LIKE CANDIDE

The bed’s a mess:  she won’t let me open
the drapes:  she won’t take a bath:  with Medusa
hair and blood-shot eyes she yells at me to get-
the-hell out, or mumbles old poems
incoherently. . .  She won’t eat or be tempted
by favorite foods, books, TV:  instead

she sleeps all day, tossing and muttering
and grumbling alone in the dark, while I
timidly tap-tap on the window, try to kiss
and make up, shove cookies under the door. . .

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE STRUMPET EVADES

In searching for a subject of great loft—
a subject worthy of a royal ode—
I find I'm stumped.  The muse has trod too softly
for me to hear, though I have tippy-toed
and badgered, wheedled, whined and even thrown
a tantrum!  Still, the strumpet dodges me.
Alas!—an ode-ist, I shall never be. . .

 

 

 

 

THEY TALK TO ME IN POEMS—

steady stream of missals
handed to me carefully—
tightly chiseled or scratched on the back
of a matchbook: shiny, expensive

journal poems tied up in ribbons or
soft mumblings on a microphone or
ethereals in flimsy cyber-strings of
e-mail: picture poems or quotes

from somebody else: submissions or
just weekend ramblings: bottle-
messages stuffed in the mailbox or
crumpled on the coffee table: flat

smack up against a deadline or
strung out one-at-a-time for
months and months: casual notes
(if you really want this) or please-

please-please swallowing the lines…
They talk to me
in poems: how it hurts and
where it hurts and when

it feels better: who they lost and how
it ended and why why why.  They
talk to me
talk to me

talk to me: carefully crafted or
spilled
splattered
sparkling—an endless, sweet, sweet

cacophony of heart songs
spent clear across
each fluttering page…

 

 

 

 

 

JUST WRITE—

about cannibals and headhunters and circus
clowns, about the red spade leaning against
the barn.  Write, even though your pen runs

dry/jams up/spits out big blobs of bluey-
purple ink and the cat won't stay off your lap
and it's 'way past breakfast time. . .  Write

about that deer staring against old snow, about
the mole over your mother's left eye, about
brave children never born, chances grabbed

and missed, regrets tossed away like worn-
out party hats. . .  Write, write!  Don't let
there be space between pen and paper, air

after the periods, blank spots on yellow pads.

Just write.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Toast, hug, weep, dance. What real choice do we have?

—Carolyn Hax

______________________

National Poetry Month is over, and I have chosen to say good-bye to it with a few of my own poems about writing. And one about publishing—how I feel about the thousands of submissions I have received over the years. You do talk to me in poems, you know, and that one is to let you know that you are heard. Thank you. Keep writing.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!