NAKED LADIES ARE DYING
in dusty fields alongside abandoned farm-
houses, where well-worn hands once planted
a few friendly faces. Late August heat
has finished short leafless lives: faded pink
bonnets bob away from searing sun, bow
to the golden grass crowded around bare
feet. Farmhouses are just as faded: porches sag
as paint peels off the dry wood. But the naked
ladies will be back when next year's sun climbs
once again into August: fresh faces will
remember those well-worn hands
planted in the past...
—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks
(originally published in Poetry of the People, July, 2002)
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Change of season. I drove up to Song Kowbell's idyllic retreat in Penn Valley yesterday—everything was dry and dusty and most of the naked ladies were gone. (I still have some in my yard, but the clock is ticking.) More about Song later: we're putting together her littlesnake broadside: watch for it in early October. Song will be reading with Bill Gainer and Todd Cirillo at Luna's on November 17.
littlesnake broadside #16, from Irene Lipshin, is available. It, too, will be in The Book Collector by the end of this week; pick one up for free, or send me an SASE. Here's a sample:
REVOLUTION
—Irene Lipshin, Placerville
At winter solstice
half the bed remained unwrinkled
the nightstand candle burned out.
Winter was bitter, a chilling rain
pelted the roof, ping pinging
into a wailing wind, breaking midnight silence.
By spring equinox red bud explodes magenta,
the old almond tree bursts into bloom,
I sigh relief—the world still turns.
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Thanks, Irene! Irene is part of the lively Red Fox poets up in El Dorado County.
I received a poem from a ten-year-old yesterday for Snakelets; praise be! The deadline is Oct. 1—send poems from the wee ones (ages 0-12). And send poems from people ages 13-19 to VYPERS, deadline Nov. 1.
More about change of seasons, this one from Snakepal Amy Lowell:
SEPTEMBER, 1918
—Amy Lowell
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.
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Thanks, Amy! Know any kid-poets who could send us poems?
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.