When You Listen

Photo by Joyce Odam

LIKE GRIEF

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

What a gift—this plaintive
sound from your imagination—
this little crying,
heart-shape, heart-size,
growing larger as you listen.

You have heard it before,
when you were a child
in another season.
The sound was lost
and you had to find it,

save it,        hold it.
And it seeks you now,
as if you were its mother—
like grief—and remembrance
of grief, having found each other.

_____________________

PROCRASTINATION
       (after “Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer”
        by Jane Kenyon from her book, Otherwise)
—Joyce Odam

It was simply this—as simple as
simple is—as slow and careful
as procrastination—almost
deliberate, the way we

drifted away from tedium
and went out into the
cool sad dusk to let our shadows
touch the shadows there.

It was something we would
remember and care about—
our little deviation from duty . . .
from clock . . . from need to do . . .

we took a walk—
it was as simple and easy as that,
not caring what piled up
behind us, or out-waited our return.

____________________

WHEN THERE IS FEAR
—Joyce Odam

This is the all of it, the resistance,
the surrender,

when all argument is done and each value
proven—

the purity of all that is given in return
for what is taken.

All of this.
All is all. And enough.

Nothing disproves this.
The balance is held, and still is tested.

It is where reason goes
when there is fear—

some dim, unreachable place full of shadow,
full of following light.

____________________

WHEN YOU LISTEN
—Joyce Odam

What is in the box of silence
that echoes so thinly—
little less than a whisper

but louder than a shadow—
a word that comes back to you
with all its meaning—

still insisting—but silence
has been laid-away for good
and cannot be resurrected now.

____________________

GOODBYE
     (after “Goodbye” by Robert Creeley, in
      American Poets Say Goodbye to the 20th Century)
—Joyce Odam

Say it simply. Say it softly and sadly.
It is the longest word you will ever say.
Give it a black border for the death it imitates.

Let it go freely.
You cannot call it back.
It is a word without meaning.

A quick word. A spondee word.
It will come of its own volition.
You cannot regret it.

Let it take everything it needs.
How you hoarded it.
How you refused it—keeping it

longer than necessary.
Let it have your regret, that baggage of doubt,
that second thought.

_____________________

Thanks, Joycey, for whipping us up such a tasty stew today!

Be sure to have a look-see at the new stuff posted in the green box at the right of this column: this week's Form to Fiddle With (the Tyburn); a couple of new Kool Thing(s) of the Week; and our Seed of the Week: Our Feathered Friends. Are we talking about birds? Icarus? Angels? Feathering our nests? Featherbrains? Send your mighty SOW musings to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though—see Calliope's Closet in the green board (under the Snake on a Rod) for all we've tackled throughout the ages...

While you're scrolling around, take note of the gradual increase in poetry readings in our area, now that the holidays are over. Those are on the blue board under the green board.

And if you didn't catch it yesterday, Michelle Kunert has the current album on Medusa's Facebook page, this one of the Sac. Poetry Center's Writer's Brush event for Second Saturday. Check it out!

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

ATTRACTION
—Joyce Odam

Come to my light, says the dark corner of love—
shadow outstretched, like an arm, a glow in the middle,

like an eye. I will promise you whatever you need,
says the lie. And the other enters—enters to be held,

since one has a need of the other—and they meld.

____________________

—Medusa

Photo by Joyce Odam

Stone Songs and Artichoke Hearts

Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
(Be sure to check Medusa's Facebook page for 
more of Michelle's photos of last Saturday's
Writer's Brush event at Sac. Poetry Center)

J.S. TAKES FLIGHT
(a fantasy)
—Taylor Graham

Papa Bach is scarce about the house,
overburdened as it is with death
and childbirth. Ironies of fathering

so many diapered geniuses, some
already gone too young;
it could make a musician nervous.

Under stained glass he pumps
at the organ, chord on polyphonic
chord, the bellows swelling intricate

and silken, a hot-air balloon of woven
color. The vaulted ceiling gapes.
J.S. climbs aboard; on contrapuntal

easterlies he rises over rooftops,
farmland, rivers, along the coast, as
Anima mea drifts down, mist upon sea,

its endless segue of shore
into breakers, Gloria Patri sounding
its way to the soundless deeps.

_______________________

ELEMENTAL
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

They placed stone atop stone,
each row lighter than the one below,
each course reaching out of earth
into sky, which they called the breath
of angels, light defining space.

The walls of stone leaned in, one
toward another, till at last
they almost touched, rock wishing
to be lace, harp, or lily, longing
that arched and spired like music.

Stones became praying hands
to shelter candle-flame,
till plainsong couldn't be
contained, but curved on itself,
echoing and dancing

in lines and strands of tone
beyond unraveling or exegesis,
but rose like earth into sky;
voice of clay, voice of stone,
dust on wind.

_____________________

RODENT OLYMPISM
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

And then the determined mouse
balanced
an eyelash on a toothpick
rolled
the rubber of tiny erasings
swung
on a large paper clip
lifted
a cotton swab up ten steps
danced
to a ring-tone,
and then
swam in the cat’s water bowl.

_____________________

CAMELOT
—Caschwa, Sacramento

The lowly worker
Played the Lottery
And won!
But not the lottery

His prize was
Newfound knowledge
Of how to prosper
He has yet to collect it

It is right there
Waiting at the corner
Of Getouttamy Way
And Dark Alley

Bring your own light
Bring your own map
Bring your own police
It’s that kind of place

Clinging tightly to mystery
Like the Bermuda Triangle,
Writer’s block,
The Black Hole of space

You can’t win
If you don’t play
You won’t win
If all you do is play

Fate sets its own course
Defying human logic
Spearheading rebellion
Changing your lucky number

____________________

WARSHIP A HIGHER POWER
—Caschwa

Can’t use real names
Or ruffle the feathers of
People who own lots of
Real, commercial, residential,
Intellectual, or physical property

They will bring out the big guns
And sue your ass off
Throw you in jail
Toss your future in the garbage

But we still have our precious
Right to vote which lets us
Nominate electors who will
Choose the “right” people
To steer our government, our thinking

We must trust these chosen ones
And everything they say
It is for your better interests
You know, the ones they picked
To honor a higher power

____________________

TIRED POEM
—Caschwa

Feet tangled in the sheets
Head buried in the pillow
Snooze button moot
It is Saturday

The telephone rings
It is a wrong number
Or the right number
At the wrong time

I am not going to honor it
With a reasoned response
Unless you find logic
Coded in my snoring

Yes breakfast will cook itself
While the checkbook balances
All household chores are delegated
To entities outside Dreamland

Clear skies, rays of sunlight
Pierce through the blinds
A rainbow of eyelid colors
I’m being pulled over

For sleeping too fast
Failing to yield to the inevitable
Shock of waking up
Now it’s Sunday…

_____________________

CURRENT EXCHANGE
—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

The penny you picked up
was not meant for
your pinched ways.

Leave it for me,
the homeless
sidewalk sitter——

I will go on
waiting a long time
for another penny

Just so I can,
if you
are willing to
listen,

put my
two cents
in.

___________________

DUALITY
—Michael Cluff

Mr. Lambeau
teaches pre-school
in Sedco Hills
but works undercover
on the weekend
and holidays.

His services
amongst the maven
and matron sets
are quite exhaustive.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

He brought artichokes
picked at the height of ripeness
and left with her heart.

—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

____________________

—Medusa

Canada Geese in McKinley Park, Sacramento

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

The Death of Words

Secret Garden

—Photo by Cynthia Linville
 

I, OR SOMEONE LIKE ME

—Marvin Bell

In a wilderness, in some orchestral swing

through trees, with a wind playing all the high notes,

and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood,

I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision.

As the person on the ground moved, bursting halos

topped first one tree, then another and another,

till the work of sight was forced to go lower

into a dark lair of fallen logs and fungi.

His was the wordless death of words, worse

for he remembered exactly where the words were

on his tongue, and before that how they fell

effortlessly from the brainpan behind his eyes.
But the music continued and the valley of forest floor

became itself an interval in a natural melody

attuned to the wind, embedded in the bass of boughs,

the tenor of branches, the percussion of twigs.

He, or someone like him, laughed at first,

dismissing what had happened as the incandescence

of youthful metabolism, as the slight fermentation

of the last of the wine, or as each excuse of love.

Learning then the constancy of music and of mind,

now he takes seriously that visionary wood

where he saw his being and his future underfoot

and someone like me listening for a resolution.

______________________ 

—Medusa

Happy birthday to Cynthia Linville, and don't forget that TODAY is the deadline for submissions to WTF from Rattlesnake Press: See www.rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html

Lucky To Be Alive

Purple Marguerites

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

KING LEAR ON THE HEATH
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The swarms are moving in. They pass
Through our breath and fog the glass of days
Completely. If they have bones, they use
Them to make music, a curious dry, music,
The sound of grasshopper wings in a still field.

We begin to write the opera they contain.
“I am more alive than you,” wail the flutes,
Lugging their way through storms and broken
Reed to light upon the quick scarves of the
Tongue and burst into colorful flame, capes
Unfurled, as if they were not paying attention
To how the story might go. They eat heroes
And heroines alike, spitting out the small bits,
Extinct and irrelevant but always catching us,
Making us regret their actions, passing us
With thick arms and buckets filled with fascinating
Treasures from the deepest parts of the sea.

Finally we are asked to walk among them,
Suspend belief, give ourselves over to their
Crackling displays that take language out
Of the senses violently, pulling our hair
To direct us in the direction they will have us
Go. We become weary meeting other people,
Looking for the light in their eyes that allows
Us to understand they have seen what we
Have seen, heard what they have heard.

From on high we can watch the doors of perception
Swing open and closed, millenniums of behavior,
Always similar to our own but finally crouching
Behind one another. As flies to wanton boys,
Are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.

We will leave the room quickly, dress without
Caring, only to be warm, find our way into the snow.
We will get into our automobiles, humming to ourselves
To keep some sanity and drive off into music, finally
Done with it, lucky to be alive.

_________________________

THE HIGH GOTHIC
—D.R. Wagner

And what is this then?
A tumbling captured by a harp
As it plays against the night
To form its own landscape.

We tell the tales. The symbols
Have their parade. The candles
Crowd to the sides of the nave and pulsate
As the breathing of angels might
As they gather our selves to the space.

I will tell you of the great spires
High above the cathedral roofs
Bouncing what small light is left back
To the precious moon. And we design
Dreams, oh we do, we do.

But they are not dreams for ourselves.
The centuries walk back and forth
Across them. The singing comes and goes
Within the choir and the sparkling from
The high altar stops us once again.
The moment itself before us, totally unexplainable.

_______________________

COURAGE AGAINST THE LION
—D.R. Wagner

He will rend your flesh from your bones
And show his red and bloody mouth
Below vacant eyes caught in the thrall
Blood brings to that mouth.

Courage then, for yours is the voice
The beast wishes for speaking.
We are the ones to tell the tale
Of its lordship of the jungle and
The steppes and the plains.

The lion in the desert. This is
His voice then. “Do not touch me.
Look upon my words and see that
My own blood pours from them.”

Yes they will heal and I shall be
Once again stalking along with death
As if we had nothing better to do.

All these words gathered here
For the sake of what could be a roar.

_________________________

TRYING TO FLY ONCE AGAIN IN THE WINTER
—D.R. Wagner

I have forgotten you
For over one hundred years now.

Here I am tonight once again
Dreaming of your thighs and your embrace.

I can see all the way over to the
Coast. The waves are growing
In size. Their edges have a glow
To them as they meet the shore.

I once had wings but it was at night
And it was cold. I could not fly
For long. I kept falling to the earth,
Picking myself up and trying again.
I could hear your voice.
Maybe I only thought I could
Hear your voice But I did fly.

The first stars are about to come
Out for the evening. One can see
Them dressing beyond the clouds.

I will climb back into
My bed and pull the covers
Up toward my head and I will
Smell you somewhere in this harp
Music that is playing in the dark
My room presents to me. Come here.
Kiss me. It is now
That you are able to hear this.

We shall meet the morning together.
We shall still be making love.
None of this will matter anymore.

______________________

THAT THE MOON
—D.R. Wagner

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.

______________________

ANGELS
—D.R. Wagner

The tips of your fingers.

I wish there may be nothing
Ever else to talk about
Than what is clean, the wind,
The rain, in its many waves.

This dance the snow entertains
Us with, as we laugh at its
Pure beauty. And the flowers!
Have you seen the flowers?

What color is the wind?

Hate and war and power have
Gone now. Shhhh...No one can
Know them any longer.

Oh you angels.

______________________  

Today's LittleNip:  

GAESATAE
—Caschwa, Sacramento

They stood naked on the battlefield
Except for their precious pieces of jewelry
Shedding the fabric of uniforms
To avoid entanglement with brambles

Throwing themselves into the bonfire of dedication
Giving service beyond the call of duty
They perished like water under the bridge
With no medals of honor to outlast them

These battles repeat throughout history
The War on Drugs
The War on Crime
The War on Poverty

Each drawing more Gaesatae
Who surrender only their clothing
Which their enemies proudly hang
High above from telephone lines.


(Happy Birthday, Carl!)

__________________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz), Sacramento

Today Is Your Lucky Day!

Lucky Horseshoes

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

AND THE DREAM WENT ON
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove


             Man had a wooden leg;
             It wooden work.
                     —My Father’s Favorite Saying

I dreamed my father got drunk
With Bill Veeck, the baseball
Rebel, and iconic owner
Of the Chicago White Sox.

Dreamed they woke up beside
The dumpsters behind
Comiskey Park, each wearing
The other’s wooden leg.

I know it was a dream:
My father was careful who
He drank with. And Bill,
Though he’d share a beer
With anybody, was leery
Drinking with folk south
Of the South Side.

I know it was a dream.
But somehow, these yellowed
Season passes in the mailbox,
And the note, “It was my
Left leg, and I want it
Back. Let’s do it again.
Love, Bill.”

____________________

AND THEN,

Mr. Calderon
spilled the coco-coloured coffee
over his yellow dress shirt
paisley tie
and light blue dress slacks.

Jimmy was in elations
since he thought
class would be cancelled
due to his philosophy instructor's gaffe
and lack of balance and concentration.

And then,
when the professor
arrived to class
in flop-flops
white t-shirt
and blue sweat pants,
Jimmy and Anabel
were happier than before.


—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

___________________

AND THEN #2
—Michael Cluff

And then,
Edgar methodically
put down
the phone
crusted with salt
from tears
and smiled
knowing someone
was out of pain
at last
at least.

The sun peaked
over the craggy crest
and today
decided to continue
moving upward
closer to heaven.

____________________

AND THEN #3: January 9, 5:31 p.m.
—Michael Cluff

The phone rang
right after Jacob's mom
called to check in with him.
They are so close
in all the right
and safe ways.

Casting was complete
and I had gotten
the role:
Abe Goldman
the father and dry cleaner
from Chicago via Hungary
of two daughters
one married
the other still not.

I was pleased
and surprised:
the solo sad moment
was when I realized
I would have to go
to several dry cleaners
to pick up my parcels.

The cost of many things
is too fluid
to ponder at times.

_____________________

AND THEN #4
—Michael Cluff

The coffee and copies
were not precise and perfect,
the staples were a tad too tight
and the wrong color of paper
was found by Mr. Fairman
upon his hourly inspection
of the office.

But he forgave
everyone except
Deanna, Mabel, Stephanie,
Natalia, Kiki and Rhonda
for not knowing
better.

Oh
Pablo, Amir,
Matsuo, Sven
and Lamar
in addition.

____________________

RIPPLES
—Caschwa, Sacramento

As we get older
The glass over mirrors
Transforms to dichroic
Ripple texture

Smooth is no longer
A visual possibility
It is now confined to
Rare oral sensations

Get used to vinegar
It will follow you
Like the Paparazzi
There is no escape

Don’t you like purple?
It so becomes you
It is written
You must embrace it

The Shakespeare and Beowulf
Logs are rekindled
For those who still have hearths
To share with their grandchildren

Prepare for life after death:
Keep your subscriptions current
Don’t share your passwords
And leave a forwarding address

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip:  

One hundred years ago, the British government sought to quell once and for all the widespread superstition among seamen that setting sail on Fridays was unlucky. A special ship was commissioned, named "H.M.S. Friday." They laid her keel on a Friday, launched her on a Friday, selected her crew on a Friday and hired a man named Jim Friday to be her captain. To top it off, H.M.S. Friday embarked on her maiden voyage on a Friday, and was never seen or heard from again!!!

Happy Fri/13! Watch where you step...

—Medusa

Raven Gets His Just Desserts

We Will Dance Again

Raven Dances

DANCING DICE
—Caschwa, Sacramento

A lady sat limply at the light rail stop
Tattered slacks baring tattooed ankles
Her focus fixated on 3 or 4 pair of
Different colored dice on the ground

If she was to have any luck at all
It would be with the right numbers
Coming up in the right order
She put her trust in those dancing dice

Trains and passengers came and went
Every 15 minutes, predictable people
Commuters, convicts, connoisseurs,
Posers, papas, patrons of the arts

Each with a cell phone or similar device
That disconnected them from light rail reality
And put them somewhere else
Apart from downtown and punctuality

The lady with the dice remained in one place
Rolling those same dice, watching results
Rolling those same trains, over and over
Everyone’s luck depending on those dancing dice.

______________________________

EMPTY DOMES OF DELHI
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

I kneel by the kitchen flap
fist made like triumphant, it loosens
drops small amount of flour
into the steel bowl. 

When there is water
there is no flour.
When there is flour
there is no salt.

Cold New Delhi air
chokes me awake.
I’m banging
on hotel room doors
asking for work.

One Rupee to press a pair
of jeans, means
masala—
will make food dance
on tongues.

When there is salt
there is no masala.
When there is masala,
there is no dall.

A blind beggar girl
on the silt covered street
gestures towards me
with her forehead,
pointing to my Rupee-lined pocket.

We all have a third eye.

I tell her a story about
beautiful flowers floating softly,
drifting in the sky,
sending their scent
to all of the little
girls of India.

When there is dall
there is no spoon.
When there is a spoon
there is no bowl.

The girl is holding
a small steel dome
empty, wanton of
soupy, spicy dall.
She and her bowl
enter my steamy kitchen.
There are no
missing ingredients
just
hungry mouths.

_____________________

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR
—Sibilla Hershey, Davis

When I was a child in Latvia,
during Russian occupation,
we held our breath at night
listening for the KGB knock
on the door, fearing deportation
to Siberia, from where
few ever returned.
My father’s brother
was deported from the apartment
on the floor below.
My father slept in the bathtub
to avoid detection
or rode the street car
at night to escape deportation.

Now, safe in America,
living in a rustic college town
on a quiet suburban street
where roses bloom all year long,
at age 76, I sometimes listen at night
for a knock that, according to statistics,
comes around at 4 a.m.
An unknown Agent
is said to deport, those selected,
to a place from where
no one returns.

_____________________

DISSOLUTION
—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

fall dissolves into winter
as nights grow longer
days shorter,
darker, colder . . .

sun
hides
behind
clouds,
mist,
fog . . .

winter
solstice
comes,
goes
and
then . . .

we become
aware of slightly
longer days, and somewhat
lighter evenings—mood shifts to hope, renewal . . .
spring time, summer warmth, longer days . . . happier times ahead.

_____________________

TIME STEP
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

dance while you can
with or without
in time or out
forward and backward
single file and double joint
along the river
up the road
around the bend
down to the lakes
across the deserts
hum while dancing
spread the fingers, linking hands
around the waist and arch of neck
dizzy with love
of dancing forward
out of time

______________________

DANCE AGAIN (for Aaron)
—Patricia Hickerson

We will be holding hands,
under the sun and planets
dancing for joy
down the avenue
up the alley
around the bend
dancing out of town
along roads
beyond houses
where horses, goats, sheep graze and nibble
where tomatoes shine
strawberries tumble.

We will dance again, yes,
circle the world, skim the seas
call out to each other at night
crossing the street from a theater
moon will light our faces.
There will be joy under the trees
in the bear caves and wolf dens
dogs and cats will scramble at our feet
all creatures our pets
as we dance across fields of mustard, poppies.

There will be a time, I promise.

_____________________

Thanks to today's poets, including Davisites Sibilla Hershey (welcome!) and Pat Hickerson (who's writing a lot about dance these days), plus Sacramentan Rhony Bhopla, back in the fold after some absence, and Washingtonian/ex-Sacramentan Janet Pantoja. About his poem, Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) writes that "The scene of this poem was downtown Sacramento on K Street, at the base of that multi-faceted building so beautifully captured in the photo you recently posted by [Davisite] Katy Brown."

Speaking of Katy Brown, she brought me the piggie picture postcard [see below] as a souvenir of one of her trips to England a few years ago. How did she know I'd get spammed?? Was she the spammer, or does our Katy have a special prescience? Is that the title of a poem? Can you even SAY "special prescience", with all that mush-in-the-mouth shushing...?

Sac. Poetry Center has a busy weekend planned, including Bellingham Review Editor-in-Chief Brenda Miller visiting tomorrow (Friday the 13th!); Writer's Brush on Saturday (not Monday, my error I briefly posted yesterday—thanks to Trina Drotar for the heads-up); and the Martin Luther King, Jr. reading on Monday. See the blue board at the right of this column for all the details.

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

SUNNY STAGE
—Patricia Hickerson

butterfly line
film of yellow chiffon
soft shoe of rhythm
girls dancing in the light
ripple of applause
wings lift
they fly up to the sun
wings wilt
they drop to the floor
their dance is complete
sun motes cover the stage
applaud the flight
the pile of sun

_____________________

—Medusa

Caption: "What's Spam, Mum? It's something on the Internet, darling!"

What's Behind Us?

Photo by Taylor Graham

SLEEPING STRAIGHT THROUGH
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

And then I try to reconstruct the dreams I didn't have
or don't remember. I used to dream amazing things,
then lie awake to make them poems. An ark, pitched
above the brink of flood. Runes, keys. I'd lie there,
dark, remembering. Insomnia, they
called it. There's help, they said. Stay awake
till midnight. Then, just sleep till the
alarm goes off. And then I
wake up, woozy, tilted
wrong. By dawn, the bed
so full of sleep,
there's no room
for my
dreams.

_____________________

LEAF
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Does naming an object
somehow alter or change it?

Coming to this place, in this
slice of time, I dare not move.
I was not summoned.
It is I who seek to know it.

I dare not be this sacredness—
for I hint of myself as already known
too much.

And so, I stand as in reverence for stasis
as I peer through its light,
neither touching nor knowing,
but feeling only sadness,
for my tongue has moved yet again.

_____________________

GREYSTONE
—Carol Louise Moon

This two-tone gray stone,
dead shadow of an egg
misleads me.

It sits tight and introspective
in its own omniscience

forcing my brain to bend
and squirm under the weight
of its own gray matter.
Or white matter. But, no matter…

This stone’s dull shimmer,
even before the great flood of tears,
draws me.
Yet I come no closer,
not wanting to intrude.

______________________

TUNNEL OF STRANGE ANGLES
(based on a photo by Viola Weinberg
that appeared on Medusa's Kitchen Monday, 1/9/12)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

The light somehow penetrates
this river of stone tunnel: a glacier,
all light on self-grinding glass, abrades
the cobblestone throughstreet flanked
either side by cobbled walkway. Follow me,
traveler, out this gateway arch, the light cries,
and I will guide you straight ahead smack
into a windowless stone wall (lovely dead end!),

or, if you turn right, into a temple-serene
false house, a second gateway
arch into another tunnel (how
often, cries this second tunnel, do you get to
reenact your birth-canal struggle out,
once forward, then retrograde
into another far-from-eager mother?)

(Do you feel yourself
shrink, my beloved, as I debirth you?
Whose is the labor now, I ask?)

Oh, and if you turn a hard left you’re
back outside and under my hottest light,
says the light. And headed—as you are,
whichever of these three true-false ways
you take—God knows not when or to what
or for why.

________________________

INSTRUCTIONS TO ONE COMING AFTER
—Taylor Graham

Hair wild with all the words wind makes
as I wake up with last night's dreams
on my tongue, ears loud with voices
you might not hear—the sound of rain,

of each drop becoming current,
hair wild with all the words wind makes
and a rushing inside the mind.
There are three rivers in my eyes,

pieces of a portrait, mirror
to be shattered and rearranged—
hair wild with all the words wind makes,
a portrait to be thrown away.

Our footprints melt: what's behind us.
Find the compass-rose of azimuths,
then walk. Do you see my rivers?
Hair wild with all the words wind makes.

_____________________

Good Morning, friends, and thanks to our cooks for today's Medusa fare. Some items of note:

•••Jennifer Pickering and Trina Drotar will be appearing on Capitol Public Radio TODAY at 10 am to talk about the upcoming Writer's Brush event at Sac. Poetry Center next Saturday. Go to www.capradio.org/programs/insight/ to hear it online. Jennifer has also been very enterprising with her artwork. Go to shop.cafepress.com/jennifer-pickering to purchase ups, magnets, prints, tiles and T-shirts that feature her work, or go to fineartamerica.com/art/all/jennifer+pickering/all for prints and cards. Her paintings are part of Writer's Brush and will be shown at SPC Jan. 7-29, and she will have a showing at the Red Dot Gallery in Sacramento (www.redotgallery.com) in April. PLUS, her artwork will be on the cover and featured in Blue Moon Literary & Art Review (www.bluemoonlitartreview.com) in the coming weeks. Busy gal, and an inspiration to us all!

•••This Sunday, Jan. 15 is the next deadline for WTF from Rattlesnake Press. See www.rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html for details.

•••The latest issue of Canary is out. See hippocketpress.org/canary

•••See www.newsreview.com/sacramento/myth-still-magical/content?oid=4715870
for Kel Munger's review of Swan Scythe Press's latest chapbook winner, The Measured Breathing by Michael Hettich.

•••Sac. Poet Laureate Bob Stanley writes: I have a highly esteemed publisher who is considering having me edit an anthology of poems about wine, and the California wine world in particular. He's asked to see some poems as examples, and I wondered if you would be willing to contribute a poem that touches on any aspect of wine, and allowing me to include it in my proposal. If you want to write something new, please do, but older or previously published work is fine as well. The poetic traditions of wine go back a long way, and whether or not you believe that Li Po died in a drunken boating accident, I'm guessing that many of you will have a poetic angle of your own. Feel free to draw from your personal experience—joys, fears, politics, agriculture—whatever bubbles up to the surface. Please send me something by the end of the month (at stanleybob2010@gmail.com) if you're interested, and I'll keep you posted if this project has "legs."

•••916 Ink, a new Sacramento nonprofit, is helping local youth write and publish their original work, and the group needs volunteers to help young writers this spring. If you’re a writer who likes to work with kids, consider becoming a volunteer for 916 Ink. The commitment is 2 hours every week for an 8 week session, plus a three hour training on either Jan. 16 from 6-9 pm or Jan. 18 from 4-7 pm at the Salvation Army in Oak Park.

This spring, 916 INK is working on three projects:
1. High school students from mid-February to the end of April on Wednesdays from 4-5:30 pm.
2. Third, fourth, and fifth graders from mid-February to mid April on Wednesdays from 2-4 pm.
3. "Tweens" from mid-April to the end of May on Thursdays from 4-6 pm.

All the writing for 916 Ink culminates in a book publication for the youth who participated (printed on the Sacramento Public Library's new book machines) and a celebratory young authors’ reading in June at the downtown Galleria.

You can learn more about 916 Ink at www.916ink.org  They were recently highlighted in the Sacramento Bee's Book of Dreams. You can also email Katie McCleary at 916ink@gmail.com if you have questions.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip(s)

PIRATE PERCH
—Taylor Graham

High in the oak,
a nest
overlooking
everything—

a feathered crest,
hooked beak,
hawk.


COUNTRY LANE
—Taylor Graham 

This row
of mailboxes
beside
an empty road,

each box
waiting
for good news.

____________________

—Medusa

 Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento