Movin' On

Today's photos by Katy Brown, Davis

THE HOTEL OF CONTINUATIONS
—Joyce Odam

The wall in the hall has a way in and a
way out. The wall stretches along itself
unhampered by the doors.

No one walks there. The hall
is too long. A shadow tried once,
but kept fading into the wall.

The carpet is quiet and vacuumed.
the baseboard has no scratches.

The rooms behind the door
have always been empty.
They are only for the stories.

It was always long ago.

It is always now.

I think I lived there once,
but only my mother remembers
and she won’t tell me.

That is me playing at the end of
the hallway with the toys
I still keep hidden for protection.

I think I remember.

__________________

Thanks to Joyce and Katy for today's offerings. Sacramento County's Adult Protective Services are moving their offices, so Katy was slave-labor forced to move during the Labor Day break (ironically). Every parting leaves some sadness, though, so Katy took these photos of the now-empty offices, triggering our Seed of the Week: Movin' On. Divorce? Retiring to a desert isle? Empty-nesting? Or heading some new place mentally, not physically? Movin' on can be good or bad, or anywhere in between. Tell us about it, and send your poems and art/photos to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs, though; go to Calliope's Closet under SNAKE ON A ROD in the skinny blue box at the right for all the SOWs we've dug into in the past.


More to chew on:

Submissions for the autumn issue of the Song of the San Joaquin are now being accepted. The deadline is September 15. Please see www.chaparralpoets.org/SSJ.html for more info and submission guidelines.

The Modesto Slam on Rye poetry slam is now the third Wednesday of each month. The next one is September 15 at 7:30pm at the Prospect Theater, 520 Scenic Dr., Modesto (sign-ups to read start at 6:30). See www.slamonrye.com for more details.

HOW TO FORGET
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Take nothing for memory.
Let fly the hurts that linger.
Erase the scars—
the flesh will tingle.

Perfect the stare, its inward look.
Permit the darkness its reforming.

Reshape the new
lest it contain
the shape of knowing.
Let nothing do—

let nothing through.
There’s nothing owing.

___________________

HAIRPINS
—Joyce Odam

Tangle of hairpins
in a coffee jar . . .

and your hair so short now,
your thrift so valuable.

__________________

LILACS
—Joyce Odam

What is the hunger of lilacs:

early and vain,
sweet as yearning,
too soon for readiness,
too late for regret,

I remember them with all my heart.





THE MEMORY OF SORROW
—Joyce Odam

The room I left was empty
except for the memory of sorrow.

Sorrow lived in the shadow
that existed in the mirror.
The glass shifted and I shrank back.

The room had six walls if you count
the ceiling and the floor.

The window belonged to
the doorway and the doorway
belonged to the hall.

I belonged to the shadow
but the shadow no longer loved me.

I broke the mirror and let the shadow go.
The window broke my face
into shards of reflection.

I left the room and entered the hallway
which had an exit.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

BROKEN SLIPPER

Cinderella, you said.
And we laughed
and let midnight
come and go
on the clock.

__________________

—Medusa

After the Bloodletting

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

A SAVAGE MEAL
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

(for A. Menebroker)

After the bloodletting was done
Gainer was reduced to a pile of bone.
His assistant and editor both commented,
that though the meat was stringy—
it wasn’t tough enough...

___________________

Thanks, Bill, and thanks to our other artists for pix and poems, too—even a poem celebrating Chalk It Up! (sort of...), which is still going on today at 16th & P Sts. in Sacramento.

The Poetry Machine that is Northern California is revving up this week; Bill Gainer will be reading twice: Weds. at Red Night Poetry (with Trina Drotar and Sandy Thomas) and then Sun. at Bird and Beckett in SF with Annie Menebroker, A.D. Winans, and Art Beck. Also on Weds., SPC will present readers from the Sixteen Rivers Press anthology, The Place That Inhabits Us, in the Central Library. Tonight, though, SPC is featuring Tim Z. Hernandez and Maceo Montoya at Sac. Poetry Center (25th & R Sts.).

Margaret Bell announces that there will be no Citrus Heights Area Poets reading this month, but feel free to attend the Calif. Writers Club/Sacramento open mic on Friday at Barnes & Noble in Citrus Heights. Saturday, head up to Grass Valley for the Women’s Reading Salon, then swing by the Avid Reader in Davis to hear Louise Nayer, long-time teacher/friend of Pat Hickerson. On Sunday, Taylor Graham reads for the Poets Club of Lincoln. All good stuff! See the B-Board at the right or eskimopie.net for info on all of these and more!

Second Weds. is the usual Rattlesnake Press reading at The Book Collector, but we’re still on hiatus, for a lot of reasons—mostly due to my shiftlessness. Watch for further developments, especially once Richard Hansen gets back from Edinburgh (still scheduled for late Sept.; Mom is doing well and celebrated her birthday on Sept. 3. They’re going on a wee trip, even!).

Every so often, Ellen Bass sends out a list of calls for submissions from journals around the country. Here is her current list for you to sink your teeth into:


•••CALL FOR POETRY SUBMISSIONS: ECHOES #11 FOR FALL-WINTER 2010
Deadline: September 30, 2010

We are a small, hand-stitched publication and will consider poems of one page or less. Please submit up to three poems. No previously published work will be accepted. No simultaneous submissions. Entries should be submitted within the body of one email. No attachments, please.

Email all submissions to
Submissions Manager Carol Deprez
Echoeslit.submit@gmail.com
Subject line: Echoes Submission

Questions? Paula Anderson, Editor
andersonp3@earthlink.net
Subject line: Echoes

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: 2011 PERUGIA PRESS PRIZE
Deadline: November 15, 2010
Prize $1000 and publication

Perugia Press announces its annual contest for a first or second unpublished poetry collection by a woman. Submit manuscripts with a $25 entry fee. Send an e-mail, SASE, or visit us online for complete guidelines. The 2010 winner, “Each Crumbling House,” by Melody S. Gee, is now available from our web site.

Perugia Press Prize
P.O. Box 60364
Florence, MA 01062
info@perugiapress.com

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: ARKTOI BOOKS
Deadline: November, 2010.

Looking for Creative Nonfiction by Lesbian Authors
Arktoi Books, an imprint of Red Hen Press, specializing in the work of lesbian authors, is calling for book-length submissions of Creative Nonfiction: www.arktoi.com.

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: THE ONE HUNDRED WORDS POETRY ANTHOLOGY
Deadline: December 1, 2010

Theme: The Sex Poem
Edited by Patricia Smith

How do we re-energize and reinvent the sex poem? We identify the 100 words that are the most blatant offenders, and we declare them off limits. That forces us to examine the act without the customary escape routes, those words that say "I don't know how to say this, so I'm saying this."

For a list of the forbidden words, please email 100Wrds@gmail.com. Submissions of any length or style will be accepted at the same address. Please, no more than three poems per submission. As of yet, no publisher has yet been wooed for this project, but the search is on.

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: MAGNOLIA LITERARY JOURNAL

Magnolia publishes socially engaged literature by women. They are accepting works of fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry on topics of social and political significance. Full submission guidelines available online October 1st: www.hercircleezine.com/magnolia-journal

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: HER CIRCLE EZINE, AN ONLINE JOURNAL, CELEBRATES WORK BY WOMEN THAT ADDRESSES SOCIAL ISSUES

Artists and writers featured in Her Circle (www.hercircleezine.com) use their work as a means of addressing identity, gender, ethnicity, politics, and statutes that surround and shape women's lives, challenging us to reevaluate and re-imagine the world in which we live. We accept book reviews, guest blog posts, and feature articles on topics related to women's literature and visual arts. While we prefer unpublished material, we will consider works that have already been published in print or online.

Submissions are accepted via email, with the content pasted or typed into the body of the message; please do not send attachments. Submissions may be sent to the following: Book reviews, books@hercircleezine.com

The Writer's Life blog (guest blog posts, short Q & A pieces): books@hercircleezine.com

UpClose interviews, Writing from the Margins, and special features: features@hercircleezine.com

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: CAVE WALL, A JOURNAL OF POETRY AND ART
Deadline: September 30, 2010

They read unsolicited submissions and have included well-known poets.
For guidelines: Send SASE to:
Cave Wall Press LLC,
P.O. Box 29546
Greensboro, NC, 27429-9546 or visit www.cavewallpress.com

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: POEMS ABOUT WINE VINEYARDS
(Imbibing and Production)
Deadline, November 1, 2010
Napa Valley or others

Please submit a maximum of three poems and a brief cover letter with contact information to www.juddshill.com/juddshill/page/poetry.jsp/. Selected poems will appear on the Judd’s Hill website and winner will receive a very big bottle of wine if it is legal in your state. No fee for entry.

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: ROCK & SLING, A JOURNAL OF ART, LITERATURE AND FAITH FOR THEIR WINTER ISSUE 2010-2011

A literary journal committed to standards of excellence and the Christian faith is soliciting authors and artists for their upcoming issues. They will publish two print issues each year and a website (www.rockandsling.com) with expanded content for art, pod casts of readings, author profiles, interviews and more.

Whitworth University, 300 W. Hawthorne Rd., Spokane, WA 99251
Info: tcaraway@whitworth.edu

________________________

Workshops/Retreats:

•••FROM MEMORY TO MEMOIR, A WRITING RETREAT WITH LAURA DAVIS
December 3-5, 2010 with an optional one-day follow up in January

The retreat will provide you with a rejuvenating weekend in a gorgeous, restful setting. Learn how to take your life stories and craft them into memoir. We will examine what transforms a personal story into something that has value and meaning for others. Our time together will be in spent in actual work sessions where you will make progress in your writing using guided exercises that gradually lead you into the memoir writing process.
Info: www.lauradavis.net/Retreats/memory.html

•••WRITING FROM THE HARVEST TABLE, A MEMOIR WRITING WORKSHOP WITH ANDREA STEFFENS: Writing your life through food
November 10-16, 2010
Casa Carmelita, Tlaxcala, Mexico
www.ashlar.org

•••WRITING AS THE SHAMAN FLIES, WITH ANDREA STEFFENS:
A five-day training using writing as trauma resolution
February 16-21, 2011
Casa Carmelita, Tlaxcala, Mexico
Info: mailto:andrea@ashlar.org
www.ashlar.org

__________________

IT HURTS
—William S. Gainer

The problem is
the language
it doesn’t always work—
like
the not loving her…

You see,
see what I mean,
because I do,
I do love her
and when she’s not here
I can’t,
so I don’t
and it hurts
and the language
doesn’t help.

I do,
I do love her...
Tell her for me
please...

__________________

JUST A SMILE
—William S. Gainer

Her in the robe
he gave her
15 years ago,
a little worn,
but still warm,
him in his pajamas,
beard graying,
needing a shave,
42 years married,
sitting across
the breakfast table,
sipping coffee,
buttering toast,
just a smile
between them—
it’s enough…

___________________

THE EXPLANATION
—William S. Gainer

She irons his shirts
in the garage,
hangs them on a old curtain rod.

Likes to suggest what he wears.

He never argues,
not even when she gives him
the one
with cigarette burns.

He quit smoking
in ninety-two.

She never asks,
He never offers...

___________________

THE DISARMING OF GENGHIS KHAN
—William S. Gainer

The secret weapon was
the touch of her fingers
on the rim of his jaw,
pulling him close
and the kiss.
Even Genghis Khan
would have surrendered,
I did...

___________________

birthday girl
—charles mariano, sacramento

there are no gifts
good enough
to shower
or impress

although i’ll try

but i know
all you really want
is that
we’re together
sharing favorite things

a merlino’s freeze,
popcorn, a movie,
holding hands
drives
to anywhere

long as we’re together
everything’s right

i look across the table
at dinner
and see devotion
always devotion

these are the little things
our things
i know,
you cherish most

love
and time…together

__________________

TOXIC COUPLE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Samuel Poisner had two loves,
his dearest Eleanor who would
soon be his bride, and his family
chicken farm. Samuel’s father
bestowed on the couple 150 of his
best chickens, just to get them
started in good stead.

Samuel knew exactly what to do
and quickly got the business going
with those 150 hens producing a
bumper crop of eggs. He put up
a billboard at the roadside to
feature their product and their
country hospitality, hoping to
attract a fair share of passersby.

Business was fine the first few
days, but then tapered off until
some weeks later it came to a
virtual standstill. Samuel could
not believe it, it should have been
a sure thing.

He checked the billboard to make
sure no one had tampered with it,
and it still bore his message in
giant bold letters:
ENJOY SOME EGGS WITH
SAM & ELLA POISNER.

__________________

POETRY EVERYWHERE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Small children with crayons
but no coloring book
will put little pictures
everywhere one might look…

Graffiti imposing
on bare fences and walls
as the mail must go through,
it’s a duty that calls.

Likewise unsung poets
too poor to purchase pens,
will make up rhymes and odes
heard only by the hens

and by old goats who have
no savvy of fine verse.
At least it got published
for better or for worse.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

BEFORE REDEMPTION
—William S. Gainer

Amnesty International
sent me
an ink pen.
I sent them
twenty dollars.
Somehow
I feel
forgiven...

__________________

—Medusa

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

What Will Our Children Do?

THE WAY WINGS SHOULD
—Rumi

What will
our children do in the morning?
Will they wake with their hearts wanting to play,
the way wings
should?

Will they have dreamed the needed flights and gathered
the strength from the planets that all men and women need to balance
the wonderful charms of
the earth

so that her power and beauty do not make us forget our own?

I know all about the ways of the heart—how it wants to be alive.

Love so needs to love
that it will endure almost anything, even abuse,
just to flicker for a moment. But the sky's mouth is kind,
its song will never hurt you, for I
sing those words.

What will our children do in the morning
if they do not see us
fly?

__________________

—Medusa

(Today's poem was translated from the Persian
by Farideh Azodi Davidson and Daniel Ladinsky)

Paper Spiders

Costa Del Sol, El Salvador
Today's Photos by Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

LUNCH IN EL SALVADOR
—Janet Pantoja

fried fish
with frijoles
two tortillas and rice
Salvadoran fruity fresco drink
for lunch

FLOUNDER
—Janet Pantoja

fish
for lunch
in El Salvador
fried to a crisp
yummy?




PLATO TIPICO DE EL SALVADOR
—Janet Pantoja

fresh cream
on fried plantains
tortillas filled with cheese—
pupusas—beans and rice also
good!

___________________

AFTERNOON SNACK
—Janet Pantoja

pan dulce
sweet, delicious
tasting, eating, savoring,
with cold milk or hot coffee
Salvadoran pastry

___________________

Thanks, Janet, for the cinquainian culinary tour of Costa Del Sol. We've been on a "travelogue" with Janet Pantoja these past few weeks—a rare treat!


The Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize

The Cultural Action Committee of Davis, Downtown Davis Business Association, Armadillo Music, and the John Natsoulas Center for the Arts are proud to announce a poetic tribute to the reluctant leader of the Beats, Jack Kerouac, with the Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize. In a contest to be judged by Beat icon Michael McClure, poems emulating the spirit of the Beat Generation will be chosen for cash awards, for publication in Blue Moon Literary and Art Review (www.bluemoonlitartreview.com), and for public performance with live jazz at the 4th annual Davis Jazz and Beat Festival Oct. 8 & 9 (www.natsoulas.com/html/jazzweb/index.html). This year the contest will be judged by a key member of the Beat generation, Michael McClure. McClure is one of the five poets (including Allen Ginsberg) who read at the famous San Fransisco Six Gallery reading in 1955. (See www.thing.net/~grist/l&d/mcclure/mcclure.htm/.) Deadline is Sept. 21 (emailed or postmarked); no entry fee. First Prize is $200, Second is $100, Third is $50. For more info, go to culturalactioncommittee.com/2010/07/the-jack-kerouac-poetry-prize

__________________

TINY PAPER SPIDERS
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Tiny spiders
living on the page,

papers that once were
others' papers
when paper was fresh.

Paper fields, flat plains—
ink and pencil planted
onto these fields.

Typewriter ribbon
employed as pavement.
Spiders hitch-hiking,
going far.

__________________

FLOATERS
—Carol Louise Moon

I see them in quiet moments of a well-lit
room, like tiny bits of yarn flitting about
but never flying away,

rising a little higher with every blink
of the eyelid. A twig slowly sinking
in a slow-flowing stream

then lifting, as if over an invisible rock.
And tiny yellow lightning strikes—no hot
summer storms brewing—just floaters,

says the optometrist, little floaters
in the eye.

__________________

I THINK HE NEEDS A WITNESS
—Carol Louise Moon

someone who loves him unconditionally
someone who will not touch him
someone to gaze upon his words

someone to absorb his voice
someone to sigh in a way
he has not heard in a long time

someone to leave him
in a void when the
lights dim

__________________

burnin love
—charles mariano, sacramento

last night
my son
on a gurney
intense
screaming pain

2am
three thousand dings
of the elevator,
hours
on butt-hurt chairs

the latest
car wreck
self-destruct,
in progress

hard drinking
demons,
that refuse
to go quietly

opened the door
despite
the hell-bent, raging fire
between us

“three months to heal,”
i said sternly,
“this maddog drinking
has to stop!”

through pained, gritted teeth,
he mumbled,
“i’ll be ok dad”

how many fires
will it take
to burn him down?

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

BURNED
—Joyce Odam

burnt offerings
the potatoes
the hamburger
even the water
burned
today my heart's not in it

__________________

—Medusa

Remembering Mabel Mello

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

CATERING CANCELLED
—Mabel Mello

California Carl catered cabezoni,
chateaubriand, calamari,
consommé , capons,
crumb cake, custards—
charging considerably.

Clara, considering children's celebration,
called Carl's Catering concerning cost.
Carl, clearly clarified
certain charges, credit conditions.
Clara choked.

Clara complained considerably
concerning cost.
Chagrined, Carl considered
Clara cantankerous,
couldn't control Clara's carping.

Clara cussed—canceled catering.
Carl chuckled.
Clara cooked cheeseburgers.
Child celebrants chugged colas, cheered.


(Previously published in MIDWEEK MUSINGS ANTHOLOGY, 2009)

___________________

ETHEL EXITS
—Mabel Mello

Elmer exercised everyday
embracing exertion eagerly.
Elmer encouraged Ethel.

Ethel entered exercise.
Elmer's exercising excessively
enraged Ethel.

Exasperated, extremely exhausted,
Ethel exploded. Enough, enough!
Eventually Ethel excluded Elmer.

__________________

NorCal poets will be saddened to hear that Mabel Mello passed away on August 21. Carol Louise Moon writes: She was a long-time resident of Pioneer Towers here in Sacramento and very active there, as well as at the Hart Senior Center. Mabel was a very talented poet known in our poetry circle at the Hart Center Wed. Workshop as The Queen of Alliteration for her many alphabet poems; she entrusted several to me for DADs DESK. Mabel was a faithful member of El Camino Poets (chapter of Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc.), so many of us attended a memorial service held by her family (on her 90th birthday!) at Pioneer Towers on Thursday, August 26, and met her family and friends. A poem was read which Mabel had written just a few days before—a poet to the very end. She wrote:

"You've eased my cares
And dried my tears.
Forgotten all my sins.
And now you open heavenly doors
And bid me welcome in."

Thanks, Carol. Mabel also sent poems to Rattlesnake Review from time to time, and was posted on Medusa's Kitchen, too. Here are her poems that appeared on November 24, 2008.

___________________

DOUBLE TROUBLE
—Mabel Mello

She looked poorly and dehydrated.
I fed her and gave her water.

A well-meaning neighbor,
noticing her droopy condition,

gave her another generous drink
and waterlogged her.

I disposed of her today.
She was ten years old.

The empty corner near
my apartment door looks strange

without my lush dracaena.

__________________

GROWING OLD
—Mabel Mello

My hearing is fading,
eyesight's grown dim.
I've gained thirty pounds
and no longer slim.

My balance is off.
So I use a cane.
I still get around,
though sometimes there's pain.

My dentures fit well.
Chewing's sometimes a task,
but I still enjoy food,
what more can one ask?

Then there's the memory
that keeps me upset.
What I want to remember
I tend to forget.

Yes, things have grown different
from day to day,
but I wake up each morning,
what more can I say?

___________________

SNOOZING MUSE
—Mabel Mello

My muse is snoozing.
Let her rest.

She's done her best
to stimulate and fill my mind

with myriad thoughts
of every kind.

I'll just sit back awhile
until these new ideas form,

then pick up pen and paper
and finally write that poem.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

It is not right for mourning to enter a home of poetry.

—Sappho

___________________

—Medusa

Photo by Katy Brown

Pressures, Barometric & Otherwise

THE SCRIBE WHO CAN’T DESCRIBE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Upon awakening, I discovered that the
groceries had conspired to escape the pantry.
Cans positioned themselves to roll, boxes
maneuvered to edges where jars just flew
off the shelves, and pouches led the parade
to the exit.

I tried to arrest the fugitives, citing the
authority I have as homeowner and chef, but
the exodus continued. In desperation, I
spent the day
cooking,
frying,
grilling,
poaching,
baking,
boiling,
roasting,
toasting,
sautéing,
broiling,
steaming,
braising, and
searing.

When the day and the feast ended, I went
shopping to burn calories. Reasoning that
weight equals resistance equals exercise, I
filled the cart. Tomorrow? I just can’t
describe it.

__________________

The pressure's on for those Sacramento poets who choose to rassle and cuss with our Seed of the Week: Writing Without Adjectives. Hence Carl's "Scribe Who Can't Describe"—he feels hamstrung and all tied up without the sweet release of an adjective or two, I'm sure. That monarch butterfly, for example—how can we possibly talk about it without at least slipping in a glimpse of color?

Meanwhile, September is bursting at the seams with poetry readings! Be sure to scroll down the skinny blue box at the right side that is Medusa's Bulletin Board for what's cookin', and go to the SNAKE ON A ROD for various other readings, workshops and publications.


Syndic No.1 Publication Announcement

A new online literary journal, Syndic No. 1, a San-Francisco-based revival of the original Syndic published by LeRoy Chatfield, is now LIVE. You are invited/encouraged to review the journal and send the link (www.leroychatfield.us/blog/syndic-no-1) to friends/colleagues who may be interested: (1) in reading it; OR (2) in submitting literary content for the next issue. Syndic No. 2 will be published in November 2010; the submission deadline is October 15, 2010. All are welcome and encouraged to submit literary content. For more information and/or to make a submission, contact: syndic@leroychatfield.us

__________________

CATFISH RECIPE
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

catfish darling,
I’m in love with you
I want to eat you up
here’s how I’d do it:
soak you in juicy egg yolk
roll you in hard-as-rock bread crumbs
toss you into a pan sizzling with oil and butter
soften you up
bounce you over
squirt of lemon, dash of pepper
hot catfish
fleshy and tender
how sweet you are!

I’ve heard you ate a child in Southeast Asia
finally strangled on the poor kid
and died—
was he bothering you?

I know you can grow to 800 pounds,
live to 100 years…
I heard your potent barbels can sting us to death
and since your numbers are now growing worldwide
(not for you the whimper of an endangered
run-for-your-life species)
should we take cover?

from now on
I promise to catch only small catfish
just enough for my lunch, politely fry it up
consume it in courteous bite-sized portions

__________________

SPRINGTIME AT LAKE TAHOE
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Yes it was March, I think, and there
could have been a screeching of gulls
in what I thought was a sun-warmed air.

I’m sure I saw waves softly rippling on the
shore of a dark blue lake surrounded by
seemingly snow-capped mountains.

What must have been stick-like trees with
leafless branches, I’m certain, formed a
pattern that framed my lakeside view.

Overhead—floating in the sky, odd-shaped
clouds possibly looked like woolly sheep
if you happened to be a daydreamer.

__________________

SEQUEL
—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

Daydreams
faded
from childhood days
and innocence,
buried in the attic,
dormant until rescued.
Youngsters with imagination
will mend the torn fraying edges—
pipe dream
redo

__________________

PRESSURE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Sometimes we are just under more pressure
than other times.

The barometer was invented almost
400 years ago, and before then there
was no such thing as air pressure.

At least that is what is seems like in the
U.S. where meteorologists always refer
to barometric air pressure. They don’t
ever say thermometric temperature, or
anemometric wind speed, or micrometric
millimeters, but they staunchly insist on
phrasing it: barometric air pressure.

One wonders how Columbus and his
crew ever got those ships to float on
water, and enough wind in their sails
to make it over here about two centuries
before someone had actually contrived
to make a barometer!

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE DNA EXPERIMENT
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

High school students, of mixed
ethnicity, swab inside their cheeks,

offer DNA samples, for comparison;
they eye each other confidently,

expect "matches" with same skin
color and similar ancestral roots.

Over & over—with surprise, then jolly
acceptance, most are proven wrong!

___________________

—Medusa

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Adjective Happy

Old Sac Band
Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

WOMAN NOT GETTING OUT OF BED
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

I just fucking don’t want to get up
because this is what
I’ll have to do:

wash face (maybe)
brush teeth
shower
dress myself
comb hair
put on lipstick (maybe)
turn on phone
check for messages
leash dog
take him for a walk
stop occasionally
pick up after him with baggie
check mailbox
return dog to house
unleash him
check his bowl
put phone in purse
close windows
leave house
find keys
lock door
start car...

maybe I’ll stay in bed
till noon;
it’s okay
sometimes

isn’t it?

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I used to be adjective happy. Now I cut them with so much severity that I find I have to put a few adjectives back.
—Frank Yerby

When you catch an adjective, kill it.
—Mark Twain

This week’s SOW (write a poem without using any adjectives) finds some of our poets scrambling around in the wings a bit. First of all, you have to identify what an adjective is, which I thought was obvious (modifies a person, place or thing). But when the actual poems started coming in, I was surprised to discover that it wasn’t as easy as I thought. Carol Frith writes, for example: I did a quick check here to make sure I had this straight: traditional grammarians consider articles to be adjectives, while a few modern ones classify them as determiners (what's the diff, I ask??). So I'm wondering: are the poets allowed to use "a," "an," or "the?" in their adjective-less poems? And how about "my," "his," "her," etc.?

Well, I think we shall eschew such correctness, and don’t be surprised if you find a few of the little beasts lurking in today’s poems (colors, for example). Nobody does an exact chin-up, after all; the point is to mess around with your work a little, look at it through different eyes. Why pick on the pretty adjective, you ask—isn’t the point of writing to describe? We’re always telling the beginning writer to “be specific”: a flower by the road comes to life if we call it a fading wild rose by the highway. But how much is enough? Maybe adjectives (and adverbs) are an area where we tend to drift into telling, not showing—maybe we need to leave a little to the imagination sometimes, lest “rooms” that are too ornate become a distraction. How about you? Let us know if you came to any discoveries while you were doing this week’s poetic chin-ups. The best poets are also ace editors of their own work, yes?

I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.
—Truman Capote


Surprise Valley Writers’ Conference still has space:

William O’Daly, one of the presenters, writes: Particularly if you have never visited Surprise Valley, one of the most interesting and beautiful inland landscapes in northern California, please join us for the upcoming “Surprise Valley Writers’ Conference: A Rural Setting for Serious Writing,” September 16–19 in Cedarville, Modoc County. Ray and Barbara March of Modoc Forum, the sponsoring organization, will host a casual evening reception on Wednesday, 9/15; registration, the workshops, and other activities will commence on Thursday morning, the 16th.

Just a few spots remain open in William O’Daly’s newly expanded poetry and translation workshop, so even at this late date Modoc Forum is accepting applications for the conference and for this workshop in particular. In O’Daly’s workshop, “The Two-Fold Path: Writing and Translating a Life in Poetry”, the group will explore the art of poetry writing and the art of translating poetry as symbiotic partners in a poet’s practice, and will critique both “original” poems and translations. Attendees may bring their own poems, their translations of poems, or a combination of each for supportive and perceptive review of strengths and areas for improvement. O’Daly, a well-published and highly regarded poet, is the authorized English-language translator of the late and posthumous poetry of Chilean Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda; he has published eight books of Neruda translations with Copper Canyon Press. This workshop will be filled on a first-come, first-served basis.

Other presenters will include Sacramento’s Julia Connor, UN Reno’s Chris Coake, and Keynote Speaker Ida Rae Egli. Please see www.modocforum.org for details, including fees, faculty roster and bios, keynote speaker, schedule, and accommodations. Or call Ray March at 530-279-2099.

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NOT QUITE THE GUILLOTINE
—Patricia Hickerson

the husband was leading her to
an apartment in Paris
where he had taken the kids
where Marie Antoinette had once lived
he was leading her up steps
up to the guillotine
where she expected to lose her head
watch it roll along the Seine

oh, she had already lost it
over this man
you know
the one she
recently
spent nights with at the Tuileries?
he was home now with wife and kids
near Montmartre

and she was led back
by the husband

whom she summoned
but only after
she saw someone’s head
roll into the gutter

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A LESSON IN DYNAMICS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

clogs to locomotion
—Elihu Burritt, Walks in the Black Country


Just look at the man. From a furlong
you can tell he’s a farmer. The clodhoppers
he wears—iron and leather—the pair
outweighs a set of horseshoes.

How it burdens the gait! There’s no spring
to the step. How could the man dance,
or give way to a flash of inspiration?
He’ll be a plodder to the end, lumbering

behind the team—if you could call it a team—
of grays who struggle in harness
up the hill. They straggle, leader to shafts,
satellites to the whole, all against gravity.

A Yankee knows better. Let’s apply
mind to matter. If we lighten
the load of man and beast, won’t it
lighten the soul?

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SCRIPTING THE WORLD
—Taylor Graham

[Kings] never knew how to talk and walk and
act with the majesty that befitted a king until
[Shakespeare] taught them.
—Elihu Burritt, Walks in the Black Country


You duck under the lintel, step into the room
where Shakespeare was born. A house in skeleton:
bones of the frame show through the flesh.
But it bore a man who created, for the ages,
worlds of imagination.

Why, even kings didn't know how to behave
like kings, until a man of vision penned the lines.
It takes imagination
to show the world how to act.

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OLMSTEAD STATE PARK
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

We wander off the map, breathe
and stamp dust, dust whose color
whispers of iron (or gold?).

Nora spots bevies and bevies
of quail. These darken the air
with sound: rotors, fanning

the flyway into brush. What creates
this effect where thistle
springs, as if liquid, not silk, drapes

the stalks with white? Thistledown,
I decide, basing my guess on
childhood, on books (snatches

of The Wind in the Willows?)…
Rise, you stars and stars, novas
thinning, upfloating in silver and white,

shining, hairs, hairs, hairs of the cosmos.
You flee, lest you become succulents,
seeds the American goldfinches

lustily devour, pecking at thistle,
at pommels brandishing crests of purple,
pecking, for all we know,

at Scotland—or at the Godhead?…

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Today's LittleNip:

It is a constant idea of mine, that behind the cotton wool (of daily reality) is hidden a pattern, that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of a work of art.

—Virginia Woolf (“A Sketch of the Past”)

__________________

—Medusa (Thanks, D.R. Wagner, for the LittleNip)

And, lest we take It All too seriously...

...Meet Mr. Switchdick!