Dreams Made of Silver

Window, St. Francis of Assisi, Sacramento

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING



This belongs to the night.


It has those lights about it.


It has that shape we love


That curls into our own body


As we lie abed, not sleeping


But remembering how sleep


Was and what kinds of gifts


It brought to us.



We are unable to speak,


Think ourselves still asleep,


Covered in the cream of darkness


That pulls on our legs, urges us


To dance if only for a moment.



We stand upon the water.


This must be the part of dreaming.


But we find we are water; we


Move through one another,


Scooped into an iridescence


That we can barely remember,


“Mommy, I was glowing.  Am


I still glowing?  I think I am."

There is Saturday everywhere.


The morning leaks through the blinds,


Slides across the room and finds


Our eyes.  “Yes, you are still


Glowing.”  Right now, it’s the sun


On your skin; the soft, tiny hairs


On the body capture light for


Their moment and fill the morning


With smiles that will stay with us.


They are the daughters of longing.

 Winter, 2016

THAT THE MOON

That the moon doesn't care for Spring.
That it doesn't fill itself out as an announcement
That a season is coming.  It has its own games,
Water, the blood moving through mammals,
Huge hatches of insects making another music.

Still it shines brighter than all else in the night
Sky.  It opens the earth itself in rain or clear
Light and gives names to the waking of the ground.

No matter where we go, if the night is open,
Clear and the course of this spinning planet
Is open and not just showing off the stars,
There she is, her royal majesty, directing everything
From the top of the night, not caring who or what
Sees her light, the llama races or mischief
In the eyes of old magicians somewhere in Mexico.

Slipping through the fog above the Great Lakes,
Holding court before the Northern Lights,
It is still the moon, careless and reclining
On the whole of our sky with us always loving it.

 Sunset From My Kitchen Window, Locke
 

YOUR SISTER AND THE MOON



I caught your sister


Giving away pieces


Of the moon again.

___________________


THE BARLEY DANCING



There are things the heart knows


And never tells one.  The song 


Of the ship, whispers made cutting


Through the waves with the bow,


Signaling with a wake of many colors.



The moon, a transparent wilderness.


We had always supposed


These charms were gathered in


Just at evenglow by folk


Who lived where heavenly objects


Were reflected in the waters.



They were often seen plucking starlight


From the water’s edge, raking the moon


Light away from small ponds, pools in alpine


Meadows.



Some of these sites could be located


By the particular kinds of plants


That grew in the area where


The charms had been previously found.



The seasons come from a high family


But I thought to take one of them


To my own heart and make it my home.



But they have no home


And they put my foot to wandering.



Now, while the barley is dancing,


I must ask you to hold my heart


To your heart and do not let it go.


I’ve lost it more than once and know
,

To lose it to a season, all that is charmed


Must also flow away from those secret


Things the heart will never tell, but knows.


 Angel, St. Francis of Assisi, Sacramento

THE AVENGING ANGELS



We had just made our way past the barricades


When we noticed the edge of the pavement,


From the century-old cut-marble curbs to almost


A third of the way into the traffic lanes, were filled


With blood.  “That’s blood,” said Ramon.



“They must just have opened fire on the people


Involved with the march for human dignity that the villages


Had organized.  Prepare yourselves,” he said as we moved


Toward the city center.   “We are the ones who have been


Sent to redeem these people.”  I hoped we would never


Have to do this.  We are once again the avenging angels.



Our wings seemed metallic in the sweep of klieg lights


That began to sweep the park.  We donned darkness


Through our skin and began to rise into the air in total silence.

________________________


BECOMING A SONG



I will open my hand.


I will make the gesture


I learned in the lowlands.


It makes the world


Look like morning.



We can see the thin waist


Of last night’s fire find a


Way to the top of the


Oak grove.  It has 


Rooms among the clouds.



You can come with me.


We know the names


And the saints of the air.



They call you goddess


For you were found asleep


In the forest, your hands pointed


Toward awakening.



You were listened to by


Peacocks who rustled


Their feathers for you;


That soft smoothing, the


Gentlest of branches.



I remember wanting to kiss you


Or wanting to return to the river.


The boat carried a reverie that


Understood how these 


Branches worked.


I dreamed I was home.



It was a blaze


I had never seen before.


A thousand tundra swans


Rising above the morning fog


Attempting the same sky


Over and over as in


A dream made of silver


When there had once been


A home.

 Fairy Tangles, Locke
 

SWEPT AWAY
 



We never would have believed they had weapons


As powerful as the ones we encountered,


Rational thought removed from incredible


Distances, the idea that history was a voice of reason,


A kind of clarity and certainty that we need go no further.



Passion offers us a seat claiming it is turning


Us loose, that we have forgotten the easiest

Part.  The pastel-colored clouds are ordered


Into position.  They wait in line near the horizon.



We discuss if it is visions we are having, elevated,


Degraded, mansions we were never supposed 


To occupy, let alone live in.  Every age has its own


Idea of the genuine.  We avoid it at all costs.



These figures keep returning.  They hold out


Their hands to us.  They offer us gifts that


We are unable to accept.  They seem depraved,


Do not serve the good of the many.  Absent love.

_______________________

THE RUNIC ALPHABETS
                for Viola Weinberg-Spencer

I knew the runic alphabets and tossed
Them into the fire during Winter to keep us warm.
This was a wrong thing to do.  It was something
We thought might work but none of it was true.

Now when I speak, there is only rain
And the roads get slippery as we walk.
We used to have steps but now it’s just bets
If we will make it home before
Christ can remember his name.

_______________________


Today’s LittleNip:

HEART BREAK



I              split


this         love


poem      right


down      the 


middle    just 


to            see


what       was


really      inside


of            one


of            these


things     and 


all           I 


got          was


was         a


broken    heart


_______________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poems and pix!

 Kayak, Locke

Dreamers of Better

Jenner

—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

—Photos by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
 

NIMBOSTRATUS IN WINTER

Elongated gray and purple clouds.
These lengths of cloud wind-sculpted sideways.
Despite some ragged edges, hideaway
sleeper cells of spattering rain,
these thrawn shapes can’t be timber, sawn
in replica draperies, wood saints;
more like El Greco’s mannerist plaints,
the racked laments, the outstretched martyrs
at swim alongside their long tears, their long shrouds.

_______________________

NEW IRELAND

By river in January: the new green.
You and I pace the paths in Ireland:
that’s what we call these two months, and should. Serene
uptufts of grass, since drought took hold, unseen.
Our little dogs nose the freshness:
we too think we might. Green the grass, soft the light.
Countless rain-nourished spears of soaproot,
spiking already alert noses hopeful,
as befits each swordblade hope-shoot,
growing by glows and glows up from mireland,
These omens of sharpened freshness, clean
in the already rinsed without lye
in the no more lean, in the no longer dry,
this lovely length, this Erin ribbon, New Ireland…

  Albuquerque, NM

ON MILLAY’S “TAVERN”

I’ll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill’s crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May sit them down and rest.
              —Edna St. Vincent Millay 

As the sensually acrobatic wing
relies for balance on the finial
blaze of crest and gracile flare of tail,
so figs and thistles lie just now awakening,
need balancing, shaping, steadying,

as did those first shoots you tended, filial
in a Maine seaside town—that densely-grown garden.
And grey eyes? Lest we forget: grey-eyed Athena.
A tavern, yes, where sensual, ardent
carouser as any, she incognito among Millays might cavort.

For all that it serves no retsina,
perfect American Greek: not far to seek,
but near at hand, Grecian as Eros. Yet unlike many,

you, Vincent, envision it, since you remember. What one resort
for impoverished girls but to climb up,
as you, from that seagazing garth and on

to your own high Parthenon,
your Steepletop Parnassus, not erected as is a metropolis
but formed from that saltbreathing bowl, from that meager swell
    of Camden acropolis
(one woman Mentor to teach you your letters): a shallow bowl,
but replete with grey-eyed, grey-faced dreamers of better…

  El Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

TIRED
(Bax, 1945)

You’d written so much music in your time,
the time hot swords are tempered cold for young hands.
No stoppage of mind, your irregular heart withstands:
but somehow outside the blood-warm core, a rime
has crusted and thickened toughly to a rind.
Less and less permeable from beyond the skin,
nothing the delicate, kind shyness could thin
more malleable from down deep. Was it the guilt?
Why has no storm come to renew November,
your young November, beech-branch-whistling wildwind?
(My river’s of four years’ current. When will it silt,
as every conceivable mud came drenching your embers?)

______________________

DiCAPRIO

I wish, my muse, you’d come somehow with us
to see DiCaprio in The Revenant,
me wedged between you and her: so when the onrush
of grizzly mauled Leo’s path-deviant
trapper, raked him to icebreak skin, dark blood,
your hands could’ve bandaged my eyes from that assault.
With you, there’d be no shock I could not have withstood
—to wish this on immortal you can’t be a fault.
Forever young, nonetheless, what hurts inside
chafe strangely against your tenderness and care
for people and creatures? As if you could almost die;
don’t you, muse, need palms across your gaze at times?
No bear should paw one lone man, nor no man hurt one bear
—yet goddess and man-beast can touch.
They may pair like rhymes.

  El Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

TRISTESSE

Fresh-from-the-mating turns aftermath;
the spell subsides in afterglow.
Highest of highs unspeakably low,
lovers still laved in so radiant a bath.

What right have you, just having passed
this sweet ordeal, superbest rite,
to let fall upon you this mood, this night?

Think what you’ve both undergone,
Platonic king mated with poet,
bringing fire by disk by dawn
to an interior pink with glow lit,
shades cast out of the shadow play;
She is pure day.

Why would you mourn? Or even suppose
midnight’s husk scraped down to shadows?
Lovely the strain, lilting the thrust,

she urging the renewal of motion,
tidally meeting, joining ocean
to rivertide, filling arrow with quiver:

One spirit, two bodies in blind trust,
you repeat all pressures of pleasuring entrance,
tantalus-teasing near-withdrawals.
Again and again, spin wheel, spin rowel:
is kinesthesia not pleonasm?

Wings levitate you to that last feather-
float atop the brief-wafting spasm.
Memory promises to pleasure
you both long after this last orgasm.

What brings this sadness? Have you no choice,
is she not driftingly, meltingly sensuous silk
still naked and radiant?
Why, this moment sleepy as milk,
must you echo, inner voice,
these stony thoughts, all gradient
crestfallen into ravine and chasm?

Rise light as you can, my sad diving bell,
but no sudden changes of lover, of pleasure:
too-quick alterations inflicting the bends.

You’re joined soul and soul:
all heliocenter.
Twin rainbows blend
in one refulgence,
glowing mister, lambent mistress…

All this tristesse is—sheer indulgence.

 El Santuario de Chimayo, Chimayo, NM

Today’s LittleNip:

It’s not true that life is one damn thing after another; it’s one damn thing over and over.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

__________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Tom Goff and Cynthia Linville for today’s fine Friday repast in the Kitchen! For more about El Santuario de Chamayo, see (and hear) www.elsantuariodechimayo.us/Santuario/.

 Fox Theater, Martinez, CA

Talking Poetry in the Snow

Hans Christian Anderson's "The Snow Queen"

—Artwork by Elena Ringo

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

 

AT CRANE'S BEACH

With a generous fur
of gentleness
yet apparently snug
my kitten murmurs to me
asking for a hug
here in a late-winter storm
as icicles stretch out
along the Coastal highway
near frozen riverbeds
of the hinterland
in the woods
daytime traffic abounds
as our eyes do a double stop
at the red signal
by hanging lanterns
of traveling by street lights
Athena purrs on the rug
in the front of the car
to keep blanket warm
along Crane's sandy beach
I'm taking off my mittens
and get out in the air
to jog along
an expanse of waves
not worrying
how Athena behaves
near snowy Elms
watching two songbirds
along the barrier waves
of a blue Atlantic pier
sing out in the clearing
as it starts to rain
in the January air.

 

WE TALKED POETRY

We talked poetry
for hours in late January
finishing each other’s
sentences on the banks
over the Charles River
the car mirror showed
huge chunks of ice jam
locked over the waterfront
in a thankful sunshine thaw
by the Longfellow Bridge
footsteps of a bird walks
under a high cloudy ladder
of a no-parking sign
grey shadows dance over us
you draw my profile
over my last poetry collection
your hair sweeps in the wind
watching a turtle through
the Cambridge red leaves
you want to visit Mt. Auburn
insisting to visit Robert Creeley
at his last resting place
you need a handkerchief
as my lights go out.

AT MENLO PARK

Meeting Burt and Chas
at Menlo Park
we silently greet to jam
for a brief time of jazz
in this detached place
scratched in my time
with so many memories
moves in the dark
as a fair breeze welcomes us
crowds fill along flagstones
near trees of a shadowy Bay
beneath a sudden downpour
showering on the highway,
as my itinerant poetry
conquers all thoughts
and asks my friends
to remove our small masks
on this free holiday break
as my words pass me by
and we ask why
we all feel lighter this Fall
in our cranberry sweatshirts
sliding over the grass
of Whitman's blade,
we eat spinach croissants
or brie cheese sandwiches
as if we are mendicants
beggars or troubadours
trading in our baguettes
pouring jet shots of whiskey
in green herbal Chinese tea
brought by an attendant
out of doors
on a tall food truck
who himself is barely awake
to serve our condiments,
as the sun welcomes
my talented friends
reaching out into the clover
with our continental luck
wishing for a verbal roust
about our musical lore
as when we had a teen band
called D'amour,
we remember that time
when leaving our home
in late adolescence
to view Leonardo's art at Rome
or with Michelangelo
in his Passion paintings to atone,
going on to exotic Paris
to try out for the French theater
with stoned understudy actors
where we are cast
in embarrassed minor parts,
remembering in D.C.'s gallery
Woman with Parasol
or Manet in his Steamboat
Leaving Bologne
we heard lectures on Cézanne
covered on the museum floor,
we talked about fine arts
and my one-act plays
my friends as four stars
meeting up with
our San Diego friend Mathias
running away from home
with whom we easily
bonded at the get-go,
and spoke of soccer and sports
those reflections and reactions
of wanting to dine at the Grill
at the late opening
of St. Dennis' doors
with shared past photos
of us to last on the tennis courts,
remembering our lasting thrill
at our sophomoric parts
in all our Sixties happenings,
and when we were cast
as freshman into Tamburlaine 

Christopher Marlowe's play,
here as the Bay's coastal rain
trails us on the ground
we speak of the secret wounds
on those lonely sea ventures
as lost sailors sound us out
we sense the hound of heaven
sailing on a parade of floats
from the West Coast
when we were shouting about
a plea to end all wars
which still engulfs all our hurts
yet willing to get in and out
from a continent of ports
where everyone boasts on boats
when we found out love hurts
in our blue Navy shirts
yet we have our friends’ support,
trembling as glasses chime
and toast each other
for an assurance to be together
once more as a vanguard of brothers
when rays of the sun fall
we play the music in our time
vowing in our guarded memory
always to be temperamental friends
in a critically effaced feature
whatever life sends our solo way,
as our long day recommends
this memoir of that day
at Menlo Park ends.

 

WHY BECKETT

With an excited voice
Dave, one of my directors
who is also a painter,
is about to speak
and do a shout-out
for the Original Theater
with one of his rave posters
he’s here about
to advertise my plays
for the coming week,
with all the fierce tension
of an adolescent wise-guy
he will always leak
his slight smile
and flies like Superman
by the stage hallway
to hand out fliers
on the classy aisle
with bright detachment
of his simile's language
he opines to know by heart
all the thespian parts,
and mainly corrects
the actors if they forget
their selected lines
yet does not target anyone
with a companion of arrows
or tease anyone with his darts,
now(on the q.t.)the French critic
has told Dave quietly tonight
he believes
and reveals that bz and Beckett
have quite a connection too
as they both know how
to be arbitrary
and gore the ox on occasion
or be literary-sly as a fox;
the critic on this occasion
is bearded with great insight
seated in a special box
for tonight's performance
who has just returned from Paris,
for this special occasion
Dave hangs onto
one of the first aisle seats
as the first act is about to begin
and speaks to him,
when hidden jazz music beats
are heard from backstage
for the waiting audience
with introductory remarks
from the critic's kindly
discerned word,
as stage lights break to dim
with so many sparks of ennui
flamed in marked applause
but not to embarrass him
or any of the aged company
but to burn like a Godot image
again and again,
the critic somehow knows
"that B.Z. has a close connection
to Samuel Beckett,"
yet his learned remark
with subjective introspection
has remained with me
in a sonority of skillful years
by his tongue's persuasion
through many tall barriers
of young bold sobriety
and older poverty
resonant in a writer's residence
throughout the highways
of our far country,
finding equality and humanity
in those theatrical inspections
and responses
disclosing the skill of my stars
when integrity sponsors
my love, will and mind
and informs me
of many fearfully aligned
or subtle aspects of nuance
we can discover by chance
from a play's second inspection
in recovery of another
new clever scene or set
bz will not turn away
nor will he ever forget the critic's
just sentiments of my debt
to Beckett
even when heavy curtains
must fall
I will open the sunny blinds
to witness an opening
that shines a thrill on all.

MOZART'S HOUR
(birthday January 27)

If all the notes
over your miniature statue
here at the grand piano
were to play here,
or we were to review
all of your sonatas
or to share your music dramas
concertos or cantatas,
or I were to follow
all the Masonic chords
offering a choral song
by myself on the organ
I'd give you a span
of all the music awards
from our public library
with any critic's wealth
beyond any augmented hour,
or if my diminished words
could hum and deliver along
at your distinguished powers
there would be saved
one day-long Requiem sound
with red-and-white flowers
on a divine grave ground
in the sunshine
of a brave Mozart
by the Rhine riverbed.

ELIZABETH BISHOP'S DAY
(birthday February 8)

A parting day
as you leave Cambridge
for the enlarged thrill
of travel to Brazil
we will always remember
your imparting to us
a sunlight's ray
by large snow drifts
as another semester passes
and in knowing laughter
as you return to your classes
we wait at a celebration
for the new Elizabethan energy
that loyally loves poetry
as did Sir Walter Raleigh
alerted by free verse
from those wisdom of phrases
of those who travel
to far countries of the universe
pouring out as ethereal images
of your royal poetry's perception
out of your lips and mouth
at the luncheon reception
we feeling a bit disconcerted
after the mourning doves
have also deserted us to go South.

 

DEAR EMILY

At Amherst
the leaves are scattered
in the shadows of snow
as my car seems cursed
and is unable to travel far
yet on the go
he chooses to visit you
my sister,
it probably
doesn't matter
with all your
fair-weather fans scattered
in a world-wide tower
of Babel
where life never ends
with honorable friends
who offer you flowers
at a reasonable hour
at every season,
not willing to delay
or suspend a speculator's visit
to a greater poet any longer
we are your winter friends
no strangers in offering
to Em all their amends.

YOU KNOW WHY

You know why
we are both here
standing in the same line
wanting the same latte
as your lips tremble
in the shadowy corner
of the bright coffee café
with a last cheese croissant
on the chess table
this ruddy February
at 8 o'clock in the morning
the sun coming through
landing on a Picasso print
near the warming kitchen
a woman in a beaver fur
is asking me to help her
on the double
after seeing my car trouble
by barely clearing myself
out with a shovel
I'm offering to pull her out
of the bicycle lane
with her yellow French car door
caught in the grass thickets
of the fallen evergreen
next to a fellow bachelor
who is lost as if a dream
in a weekend snow's ravine,
a few boys are daring to throw
snowballs our way
I'm wanting
to strain my neck
at the white windows
to see two eagles
by upper-deck shadows
with a nest of a bedded secret
at a future day,
we're taking in the mountain air
up here in Vermont
to cross-country ski
bright and early
at first light
on the fairly snowy slopes
feeling as an exile
on the high ledges
smiling with a hope
with the weight of a gesture
that my identity be renewed,
I'm reciting a Valéry poem
in the recesses of my being
at nature's itinerant soul
whom he expects to empower
over February's first light
reviewed with a poet's business
as he reveals a happening
of blessing us with his insight
with an open country feeling.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Forever is composed of nows.

—Emily Dickinson

__________________

Many thanks to B.Z. Niditch for today’s poetry par excellence, interweaving many references to snow as he did, inspiring me to find some appropriate (though anonymous) photos.

A couple of local notes:

•••Frank Dixon Graham’s workshop on international poetry forms begins tonight (Thurs. 2/4), 7pm, at Clunie Community Center. More info about it in the green box at the right of this column (under the Brain).

•••It’s Poetry Out Loud time again, and counties around the country are selecting winning high school youngsters for their poetry recitation talent. The El Dorado County competition (sponsored by the El Dorado Arts Council) will be held next Tuesday, Feb. 9, at the Imagination Theater, El Dorado County Fairgrounds, 100 Placerville Dr., Placerville. There was an article in the Mountain Democrat saying that they need judges and other volunteers—and certainly our Medusa readers are qualified to judge teenagers reciting poetry! Info: 530-295-3496. Those eight winners will go on to the State Finals in Sacramento Feb. 28-29, and those winners will go to Washington D.C. this summer.  For more about the national POL organization, see www.poetryoutloud.org/about/.

—Medusa

 Magic Cat

Poems From Six Decades

Skeletorsmith

—Photos and Poems by Smith, Cleveland, OH

CONFESSIONS OF A CONSERVATIVE

Let others munch spare frogs legs and things
Or their mother's tidbits so fine.

Not me.  
I prefer wee bumblebee wings
With a pipe of blueberry wine.

I've no desire for porcupine stew
Aunts coated in chocolate yea thick
Fried crocodile
Ala flayed caribou
Or some other chef's table trick.

A simple table whenever I dine.
Not mine all these modern cuisines.
I'm quite satisfied with blueberry wine
And old fashioned bumblebee wings.


~ ~ ~ - 1975
 

 Xmas Light Lady

THE HEART AS ARSONIST

Sure the kindling,
but as well the wood.
The place as such
and substance
of the matter.
Time.
Amounts of time to flicker,
flame in bright arrogance,
become fuel to continuity,
faded maturation.

It is not wonder
yet is
why wolves, weres and lovers
lie dreaming before fires
fire places
emotions.
It is the melancholy
of the cycle calling
Warmed atavisms
consumed in life
in love of rebirth.
The remembrance
of werewolves wanting wings.

All these
the core past caring
belonging
the fire is
is love.
The spark
to kindle the passion
then human the substance
to weather completion
this this is love.


~ ~ ~ - 1985
 

 She 'n Me

PAST LIES AND POVERTY

Old wonders shrink, grow tame in time
The new fear hangs on
In quiet desperation, quit of desire
Like the shadow of a crowded
Culture in which each
Declare their innocence
In straight unfocused silence

It is there
The smell of unwashed
Dishes smug in the stench of our
Unclean shame
Like a salesman's underbreath
Fishy, stale
The deep teal, the tiled resonance

Of hungers on top of hungers


~ ~ ~ - 1995
 

 Night Vision

AUTUMN LEAVES

Leave me not in love and truth
Leaves me not at all

Leave my loss its soft misuse
Leaves my foreskin small

Leave my lost belief in youth
Leaves my use in thrall

Leave my use in used abuse
Leaves me moist of all


~ ~ ~ - 2005

 Sisyphus Smith

DADA GREYBEARD

A lady poet followed me home
And asked if I could keep her
I replied
It must be denied
For I had no room in my freezer
She engineered her stay
Of relocation with play
Charm and elocution
Praised this and that
Allowed a wee pat
Counted on evolution
I may be cheap
And easy too
But for female I’m hard-wired
And too
It’s sort of cool
This once being the one that’s desired
Though I question her taste
Her need of rat waste
A too hasty fade
Will shatter shades
I cannot replace
Best to see
What she reweaves
What treasure in her trundle
Though it fracture my plan
I am but man
And man is meant to bundle


~ ~ ~ - 2015
 

 Red Lip Love

CONVERSATION WITH WIFE 11

Leaning back in my chair,
Lady bends over and kisses me.

I reach up my two hands,
cradle her breasts.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm holding these up for you,
was afraid they'd fall and hurt me."

"Oh, you're sooo brave, and manly . . .
now can you make me some coffee."

"Coffee for the breasts?"

"Yes, that is the price."

"Ah, the booby price.”


~ ~ ~ - 2016

 Oaxaca

STATUS REPORT 155

I hunt outside the pack
no gang of from, no seeking herd

Watch tribal fire from afar
past spread of heat and light

Whisper own word to beat of drum
dance old in dust of new

I eat your roadkill
feed from garbage overfull

Let the cultural compost begin

~ ~ ~

STATUS REPORT 157

The falling snow muffles sound, scatters night
reduces here and now to black and white

In this low light
cellophane shards shimmer like jade

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STATUS REPORT 161

Time cries hurry.
Wisdom whispers wait.

______________________

Many thanks to Smith (aka Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine menu of poetry and pix, spanning sixty years of his writing!

A few local notes:

•••Check out Daniel Weintraub’s Sac. Bee article (Tuesday, 2/2) on Dean Schillinger’s project with young poets and diabetes prevention at www.sacbee.com/opinion/op-ed/article57775943.html/.

•••We’ve been talking about local on-going workshops, so check out yesterday’s Sac. Bee article on a national workshop for all writing genres called Shut Up and Write! It meets regularly in Sacramento as well as in many other areas: go to www.sacbee.com/entertainment/books/article57674763.html for the article. The local group can be found at www.meetup.com/shutupandwritesacto/#past/.

•••This Sat. (2/6), 9-11:30am, Manzanita Press will present a Romantic Poetry Workshop: Something Sweet or Sizzling with Suzanne Murphy. Manzanita Arts Emporium, 1211 S. Main St., Ste. 110, Angels Camp, CA. Reservations required ($25): manzapress.com or manzanitawp@gmail.com or 209-728-6171 or 209-768-9021. Info: manzapress.com/SuzanneValentine.pdf/. Manzanita Writers have taken on the ambitious project of their Emporium in Angels Camp. Check it out!

•••Also this Sat. (2/6), 9:30am-4pm, Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center's 4th annual MoSt Poetry Festival will be held at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, 1528 Oakdale Rd., Modesto. Workshops, luncheon, poetry contest w/guest poets Troy Jollimore, Heather Altfeld. See www.mostpoetry.org for info.

—Medusa

 Be 2

Snow-Dancing

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

TRACING THE HISTORY

It is a long time into the eloquence of stones.  Ravens
carry their own death under their black wings.
            ~
Along the invisibility, the old forms begin to assemble.
The vain reflections claim they cannot live without mirrors.
            ~
Once, in the snow, the snow-ghost led us, followed us, teased us;
we played back for a while, then got lost within the white.
            ~
All night, the storyteller sat mute under a spotlight of intensity,
then got up, bowed, and walked off-stage—and was applauded.
            ~
3:45 says the clock.  I praise this significance of numbers,
write it down to remember.  3:46 says the clock.

_____________________

A TIDE OF GREAT INDIFFERENCE
           After “Shore Birds” by Morris Graves

I stand melting on the slipping edge of a water map,
my feet held by grip of cold—by failure to run . . .           
                  ~~~
here is where the dream shifts : this landscape,
small birds pecking at the snow . . .
                  ~~~
a white shape floats in the dark half of the dream—
makes one last effort and folds into the horizon . . .
                  ~~~
the other side fades out into a dissolving memory—
a small dark speck falling into the last knowing of itself.

 Two Yellow Roses

STANZA

Yes, it is true. I am in the loss—spaced far between it; my
hands cannot find the edge. I housekeep, but the dust wins.
Balances surround me. I accept my gravity, fall through the
television where the silence is. I reward myself with candy,
stuffed in my starving mouth. I ignore the bottle—my last
strength, drown among cups of coffee and diet Pepsi. I cannot
mend the holes in my love, though I praise it with birds that
can sing. Ah, season, full of the right weather, fill me with maps.

____________________

KARMAS

Who is the one in white
standing against the snow,
diffusing against the window light
turning at last to go…?

Who is the one in red
leaning against the gate,
listening to what was never said,
not leaving, thought it’s late…?

Who is the one in black
making such a sound,
someone broken, howling back,
throwing herself around…

And now someone in gray
is standing still as stone.
I beg that one to go away
and leave my life alone….


(first pub. in The Lyric, 1998)

THE MUSE OF REVERIE
Russian Impressionism (works by twenty-two academy
trained master Russian Artists of the past and present)

She is the center—her own muse—
her hands on her lap, her face in a stare.
Memories rest in layers around her:
the closed distance of her mother,
the mute presence of her father;
the attentive white cat on the lap
of an ancestor—seven lives ago.
She feels herself merge,
tries to pull away,
but the past has got her:

the visions swirl:
the old house she lived in,
the murmuring linger of vanished voices,
the thick scent of flowers in heavy vases,
the road of tall trees down to the lake,
the old cabin on the eroding bank,
the drift of summers,
the place where it snowed—
the polished fruit on the polished table
back to the present room that fits around her.

______________________

THE HAUNTED WINTER   

This is a white scene
for lovers only.
They can hide here
and stay forever.
They can name each other Snow
and never melt again
toward any reality.

They can
hold each other
in the white darkness
which only happens
when their blinding eyes close
and they themselves become
this glittering landscape.

 Nude (I) on Rose Petals

STILL

We were
the blue song
hanging in the wind.
Winter
had brought us here
to live among
the trees.
We took the place
of birds.

We broke our melodies
for bread
and lost them
in the snow.
Then
we were silent,
waiting for sad eyes
to let us go.


(first pub. in Manifold, England, 1967) 

 White Vase, Red Rose

RHYME MOUNTAIN

Around the edge of the old
world, the last of the day, cold

fragments of shadow thinning,
curve of night beginning,

the old prayer returning to murmuring lips,
or some old blasphemy, the same old quips,

said to disarm you—make you his.
Nothing was as nothing is.

And you know how the rest of that goes:
the slow trek back, the blinding snows,

the silence that comes down upon the rendings
of story tellers who make up their own endings.

And you always asking me why I rhyme . . . ?
Because it is there—an old mountain to climb.

______________________

THE THOUGHT OF SNOW
      After “March Snow” by Wendell Berry
 
For you, Mother,
this thought of snow—
snow in your honor, imprinted

with joyous boot steps,
danced in the bluish white
under the streetlight—only

it was a later and an earlier time,
merged into now—
part yours,     part mine,

stomping together in the
early snow,     under your window,
where you watched,

and it was with my daughter
that I was snow-dancing.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BLUE SNOW

snow under moonlight,

blue as ache
blue as longing
blue as cold fire

becoming slow translucence,
becoming blue sheen of silence
 
______________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poems and pix; her poems are about snow, and her artwork is about roses, since our Seed of the Week was Roses in the Snow. Our new SOW is When Cats Disappear—they do, of course, fading through walls and into the night and otherwise demonstrating their Mr. Mistoffeleesian roots. Send your poems, photos and artwork on this (or any other subject!) to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs.

To hear T.S. Eliot read his “The Naming of Cats”, go to www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXkLgtusza4/.

—Medusa
 

The More You Know...

Worms on Leaves

—Mandala by Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

THE ROSES BEHIND CECE MILLER’S TAP
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA
 
After hours we’d continue
Into the alley behind the bar.
Sometimes, in a festive mood,
Cece would join us, bringing
Half pints of Kessler’s
And Four Roses.

We’d stand, shivering
In the cold, passing small
Bottles, congratulating
Ourselves on not
Having become the straights
We so despised.

One night a call
From inside.  Odd.
Ominous.  Cece hurried
In to answer.
Dropped a bottle
On the way in.  Son, Chuck,
Dead in Viet Nam.  Broken
Bottle of Four Roses
In the alley slush.

 Tim Kahl Plays E. Indian Wooden Flute
Sac. Poetry Center Reading, Jan. 25

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

INFINITY AS THE BASE MEASURE
—Caschwa, Sacramento
 
Oh aren’t we just precious
In our little angel outfits
Mothered upon us
Off we go outside

Where we are instantly
Judged and measured
Against worlds of possibilities
Against fashion labels

We need to upgrade our
Homes, cars, computers,
Diet, savings plans,
Passwords, relationships

Some use mind-altering
Substances to upgrade
Their mental reach
Some use poetry

The coal miner’s daughter
Wins the lottery
Buys dad a fresh, new
Clean T-shirt

The more you know,
The more you know
How many lies you
Will need to tell

Putting your sparkling
Diamond brain
In the setting of a
Vibrating recliner chair

Shielded from the
Grammar police
By unflinching
Self-smugness

 Grammar Police

—Anonymous Photo

WALTZ ALONG THE NILE
—Johnathan Herold, Lodi, CA



One more song before the sun comes,


One more waltz along the Nile.


Turn with me, wistfully,


Find you dusty, love-drunk smile.



Take my hand and let me lead you,


Let me show you what you knew.


Fan the warming fire within you,


Remind yourself that love is true.



How old we are, this winter's night


Yet still we mislead Charon's sight.



A familiar rhythm, a long-turned dial,


One more dance before the sun comes,


And one more waltz along the Nile.

 Pat Lynch's Gloves with Romeo & Juliet Written On Them

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

WHAT YOU GAVE TO ME
—Johnathan Herold

Past the furthest place you’ve gone,
Or any place you’ll never see,


There is a grove of single tree,
And that is what you gave to me.


It is open, it is green,


Without noise or things unclean.
There the wind blows through the grass,
Past a love that tried to last,


To a branch which hangs a swing,


A place I long to sing again.


In the colors made for me,


There is a grove of single tree.
And as I lie here on this bed,
With lonely heart and somber head,
Waiting still to join the dead,


This is our grove of single tree,


A place that few will live to see.
Tis where you first laid eyes on me.
And that is what you gave to me.

Trek Jumps the Creek

—Photo by Taylor Graham

UNFOLDING DANCE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

It was the feast of St. Francis of Assisi,
and my puppy was dancing for his saint, the one
who touches beasts with blessing, who knows
hearts and tongues of the wild, and sits down
conversing with faiths of all species.

My puppy rears on his hind legs, stallion
without hooves. He leaps to bear wind in his
mouth like kisses. He sings with sky,
the scent of life. He loves work as he loves
his master calling “don’t stop dancing”—

a ribbon-dance with the nylon webbing
his handler clipped to his harness—
his human always worrying
what commands should be given.
My puppy the creature dancing love.

____________________

SUMMER NO RAIN
—Taylor Graham

Six years old, he’s geared to ceiling fans
and pasture sprinklers spiraling sunflash
of water and air spinning him

in whirlpools of circles never stopping
stranded on his island in a briny sea—salt
in the nerves at birth, or low blood sodium?

From teacher to doctor to the next
expert up the ladder. Questions, no answers.
If he has a fever his hair’s on fire.

He drafts schematics linking sprinklers
to fans to a solar-flasher toy from the bazaar:
blueprints for a mini-city powered by

a boy’s brain circuits of water and sun, free
air. Phoebus-haired he runs headlong.
Beautiful mystery of the spinning circle.

 Eye of the Oak

—Photo by Taylor Graham

AFTER THE NIGHT FAST
—Taylor Graham

I thought it was bright drops of blood on snow—       
some small creature hunted by hawk or owl?       
How much goes on around us we don’t know;        
what secrets of ourselves the labs might show….           
But sun’s just rising in its foggy cowl,           
I want my coffee. And those drops so red?           
Maybe petals of a rose let loose or               
flown—lover’s token or a flaunt, instead?   
Something lost or drawn while I slept a-bed.           
Drops soft and warm as skin, fresh blood before       
it dries, freezes, buries itself in white.
A crimson flame, as some old poet told.
That child skipping ahead, bundled up tight,
is scattering red petals in the cold.

 —Anonymous Photo

WET-WINGED SPARROWS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Wet-winged sparrows sing through rain,
faint notes outside the window pane—
songs that drift like shells to shore,
curve and float like whitecaps roar.
Raising the window for wind's refrain,

we shiver, but sparrows can sustain
aa song though drenched in greenwood lane.
Red oak branches anchor their score.
Wet-winged sparrows.

In sudden storms may we attain
some fairer weather in our brain.
When clouds grow gray and showers pour,
if floundering dreams have lost their oar,
may hopes be heightened while there remain
wet-winged sparrows.


(French Form: Rondeau)

______________________

THE RESCUE
—Claire J. Baker

An elderly couple adopted
a long-homeless Tom cat;
set up for him
in their tidy neighborhood
on half-hidden porch
a palatial mansion of boxes
with ins and outs cats crave;
they tossed in an old bath towel.

Curious, we peek in to see
old Tom curled cozy
under a setting sun—
pellets of past failures
alchemize into gold
and he rests his gun.

 Cat Falls Asleep on Tissue Box

—Mandala by Carol Louise Moon

Today’s LittleNip:

THE KISS
—Claire J. Baker

...so soft
on my cheek
I turn
the other cheek.

___________________

Many thanks to our tasty bouillabaisse of contributors this morning, starting off this busy week in NorCal poetry! Kevin Jones had a different take on Roses in the Snow...

Poetry events this week include Literary Tides: Portuguese-inspired Poems and Other Writings tonight at Sac. Poetry Center. Thursday has two choices: the Squaw Valley Community of Writers benefit at Sierra 2, and The Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis. On Friday night, SPC hosts a book launch for a bio by Dorothy Rice, and on Sunday, two events: Mosaic of Voices presenting Tule Review Writers, and the Einstein Center series featuring Taylor Graham, James Lee Jobe, and Allegra Silberstein. Scroll down to our blue box at the right (under the green box) for all the details of these and other events to come. (And watch for other readings that may pop up during the week, too!)

Also beginning this week, Rhony Bhopla will be facilitating the new SPC Thursday Night Poetry Workshop, this one at Valley Hi N. Laguna Library. Details are under Medusa’s “Food for the Brain” section of the green box at the right of this column. The long-standing SPC Tues. Night Workshop continues to be ably facilitated by Danyen Powell at the Hart Sr. Center; that info is also in the green box.

Speaking of Taylor Graham, see her three poems above, and note that the first two are in response to D.R. Wagner’s poems last Saturday. The third is about our current Seed of the Week: Roses in the Snow.

For more about the French Rondeau form, see www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/poetic-form-rondeau

Poetry Now, a publication of the Sacramento Poetry Center, is pleased to announce a call for submissions for the 2016 issue; deadline is Mar. 28. Poetry Now is becoming an online publication that showcases and celebrates the work of Northern California poets and writers. They accept submissions of poetry and visual art, as well as poetry-related articles, book reviews, and interviews. Go to sacramentopoetrycenter.submittable.com/submit to submit.

And our good pal, Charles Mariano of Sacramento, has finished his book, Tio Boogie, which was two years and 194 pages in the making. He’s keeping distribution low-key, so you can either purchase a copy from him directly, or email me at kathykieth@hotmail.com and I’ll forward your request to him. Congratulations, CM!

—Medusa

 Cover to Charles Mariano's 

new book, Tio Boogie