Both Rain And Snow...

...can indeed keep Medusa from her appointed rounds; this Gorgon was trapped in Yreka overnight as we traveled home from our Thanksgiving jaunt to the wilds of Coos Bay. Chains were required on the pass south of Ashland, as well as over Mt. Shasta's sisters, so we stopped in-between to spend the night with a cozy cave and a hot meal. Hence, Medusa lied in her last post; she was not online yesterday as promised. Future jaunts may well include my laptop, though, since cable will be hooked up by then, and our wee refuge by the sea will be a "hot" spot, as they say.

Meanwhile, check out my last post for all the poetry doin's this week in the flatlands of Sacramento, where snow is a Christmas card, and not thirty miles of clunk clunk clunk with chains on your tires. Tomorrow (12/1) is the SPC Benefit, of course, with the added bonus of poetry books and special broadsides to be auctioned. And don't forget that Taylor Graham, Phil Weidman and myself will read at the “Our House Defines Art” Gallery, 4510 Post St., El Dorado Hills, 7 pm. on Friday (12/2).

This just in, for those of you who are reading this later edition of today's Kitchen: Susan Kelly-DeWitt writes: I'm reading this Friday night (it's a big week!) in Davis, a benefit reading for the Women's Wisdom Project here in Sacramento, where, as many of you know, I was the program director for several years. I'll be reading with Sandra McPherson, Pamela Moore Schneider and Virginia Wiegand. The art from WWP artists will be on display and for sale, and Five Figs Couture is donating a portion of any sale to the WWP. It would be great to see you there if you can make it—I know this is a busy time of year, and a busy week. That's Friday (tomorrow, 12/2) at 7 pm at Five Figs Couture, 803 Second St., #307 (upstairs above Shuz), Davis. RSVP: 530-756-3500.

Another special event this week: Sunday (12/4), one of Sacramento’s first Poets Laureate, Dennis Schmitz, will be featured at PoemSpirits, 6 pm. Co-host JoAnn Anglin will also do a brief presentation on current U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser from Nebraska. Location: Rooms 7-8 at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., Sac. (2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd., between Howe and Fulton Avenues). Refreshments and open mic: we invite you to bring a favorite poem to read. Questions? 916-481-3312 (Tom Goff, Nora Staklis) or 916-451-1372 (JoAnn Anglin). An emeritus professor of English, Dennis began at Sac State in 1966, teaching writing, literature and translation. He became a mentor and model for many regional poets [including Medusa]. His first collection, We Weep for Our Strangeness, came out in 1969. His poetry collections have since been published by major literary presses and his work has been in the American Poetry Review, Poetry Magazine, The Nation and Chicago Review, among others; he has also appeared in and edited many anthologies. A former Guggenheim fellow, Dennis has also been awarded six annual fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.

________________________

When I think of snow, I think of Robert Frost:

STORM FEAR
—Robert Frost

When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
"Come out! Come out!"—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.

___________________

LOOKING FOR A SUNSET BIRD IN WINTER
—Robert Frost

The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.
A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.

_________________

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
—Robert Frost

Whose woods there are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

_____________________

—Medusa (who's still clunk-clunk-clunking in her sleep)

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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Happy Thanksgiving!

WHEN TURKEYS WERE CLAY
—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks

Smell of warm wet wool over squeaky
muddy rubber boots: peckish first-graders

cooped up, restless in November rain.
Cool white ceramic turkeys nestle

in small hands as cheap brushes feather
poster paint in neon globs and patches.

None of us had ever seen turkeys, so we
made them up, leaving fan-tailed rainbows

leaping over dusty paper towels. . .

_________________________

In addition to this Saturday’s readings (see yesterday’s post) here are some upcoming events to take note of on next week’s busy poetry calendar:

***Monday (11/28) The Sac. Poetry Center present the Zen Marxist Launderettes (Ellen Johnson, Erin Doyle, Carolyn Schneider, Emily Wright, Margaret S. Burns, Laura Ann Walton, Sandra K. Senne, Mira Kores, Cecile Martin) at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac), 7:30 pm. Info: 451-5569.

***Wednesday (11/30) will be a read-around at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., Placerville, 6-7 pm. It's an open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.

***Thursday (12/1) Sacramento Poetry Center’s Annual Benefit will be held from 6-8 p.m. at the home of Burnett and Mimi Miller, 1224 40th St., Sac. Poetry by Tim McKee and Charles Curtis Blackwell, music by the a cappella quintet, Cherry Fizz, complimentary wine and hors d’oeuvres, silent auction. $25 per person, payable at the door. SPC President Mary Zeppa says, Because arts funding is always a premium, volunteers do most of the work which makes our programs possible. Those who join us on December 1 not only share our celebration but help support our continued survival. If you can’t fit our party into your busy life, you can still warm our hearts, still send us some holiday cheer, still support our ongoing programs with a tax-deductible contribution. If you’ve ever been warmed by, cheered by, delighted by, inspired by an SPC reading or an SPC publication, let your memories of those moments guide your hand as you write your check. And help us spread the word!

***Friday (12/2) Taylor Graham, Phil Weidman and Kathy Kieth will read at the “Our House Defines Art” Gallery, 4510 Post St., El Dorado Hills, 7 pm. An evening of fine poetry surrounded by beautiful art. For more info, or if you are interested in reading, contact Mike Roberts (916-933-4278 or mroberts@ourhousedefinesart.com). There are very few reading venues available in El Dorado County; come on up and enjoy this new one in a lovely setting with three fine, fine poets (well, okay, two fine poets and me…). And thanks to Mike Roberts for supporting local poetry!

***Also Friday (12/2): Poetry Unplugged presents Beth Lisick at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8:30 pm. Earlier this year, Beth Lisick released (via the ReganBooks imprint) Everybody Into The Pool, a collection of ‘true tales’ written from the first person. Also: Gene Bloom, Terrell and Eric, B.L. Kennedy, and more. $5. Info: 916-441-3931.

***Saturday (12/3): Poetry in Rancho Cordova at Club Itaewon, 2942 Bradshaw Road (near King Skate). $3. Info: T-Mo, 519-5213, www.fingerpirntpress.com/terry.

_______________________

Medusa will be taking a wee break during Thanksgiving; I'll be back online Tuesday the 29th.

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

That On-Going Effort to Balance...

THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT
—Amy Lowell

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and tellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snow-ball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone?

____________________

THE CORNER OF NIGHT AND MORNING
—Amy Lowell

Crows are cawing over pine-trees,
They are teaching their young to fly
About the tall pyramids of double cherries.
Rose luster over black lacquer—
The feathers of the young birds reflect the rose-rising sun.
Caw! Caw!
I want to go to sleep,
But perhaps it is better to stand in the window
And watch the crows teaching their young to fly
Over the pines and the pyramidal cherries,
In the rose-gold light
Of five o'clock on a May morning.

_________________________

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.
Today 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.

__________________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Those Danged Hamsters...

THOUGHTS AT 3 A.M.
(for Ruth)
—Margaret Ellis (Peggy) Hill, Wilton

The hamsters are fighting again
and we’re going to have to get out
the whips or find another town.
Maybe a pail of cold water would help.
Black ones charge against the white
like a chess game with the queen long gone.
The gray babies keep running foot races
on the merry-go-round while bells ring
constantly. Sawdust flies around the room
from all the fluffing and failing.

Windows are taped shut, newspaper
headlines splashed all over the pans.
Watering systems have been shut down.
Squeaks and bellows, hair flying,
teeth gnashing comes from backwash.
Sharp nails scratch glasses that sit
on books, raises hair on the back of necks
Tranquilizers won’t be effective unless
we serve some meat for dinner.

Night times have fooled the clock,
and night shades have stripes.
There are certain days when talk
of porcupines triggers the little terrors
to slip into high gear, sharpen teeth
and struggle towards freedom.
You can’t sell the critters when
they see red and carry the placards
out in front of the house.

Soon enough they will go back
into the dungeon and sleep soundly
until the fife and drum corps signals
another round of battle.

_________________________


Thanks, Peggy! Peggy is one of the many local poets and writers to be featured in the upcoming Snake.

Coming up this Saturday (11/16): The Show hosts Rodzilla, The Forgotten One, and Born 2B Poets with open mic contest ($20 prize!), 7-9 pm at the Wo’se Community Center (2863 35th St., Sac). Tickets $5 at Underground Books or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com. Info: 455-POET.

Also Saturday: From Tundra and Bone features Anne Coray & Rebecca Morrisson in a poetry reading, 7:30 pm, The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Midtown Sacramento. Come enjoy a presentation by Anne Coray, Alaskan poet, author of Bone Strings (recently published by Scarlet Tanager Books in Oakland). We also feature Rebecca Morrison, Alaska-born-and-raised poet who has been active in the Sacramento-Davis arts communities for many years, as well as webmistress of www.eskimopie.net. Sponsored by Escritores del Nuevo Sol/Writers of the New Sun. Info: 916-451-1372. [Medusa says check out www.eskimopie.net for cool local poetry and other features.]


GALLANT CHATEAU
—Wallace Stevens

Is it bad to have come here
And to have found the bed empty?

One might have found tragic hair,
Bitter eyes, hands hostile and cold.

There might have been a light on a book
Lighting a pitiless verse or two.

There might have been the immense solitude
Of the wind upon the curtains.

Pitiless verse? A few words tuned
And tuned and tuned and tuned.

It is good. The bed is empty,
The curtains are still and prim and still.

________________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

STYLE IS THE DIFFERENCE

SNAKE IN THE WATERMELON
—Charles Bukowski

we french kissed in the bathrub
then got up and rode the merrygoround
I fell over backwards in the chair
then we ate 2 cheese sandwiches
watered the plants and
read the New York Times.
the essence is in the action
the action is the essence,
between the moon and the sea and the ring
in the bathtub
the tame rats become more beautiful
than long red hair,
my father's hands cut steak again
I roller skate before pygmies with green eyes,
the snake in the watermelon shakes the shopping cart,
we entered between the sheets which were as
delicious as miracles and walks in the park,
the hawk smiled daylight and nighttime,
we rode past frogs and elephants
past mines in mountains
past cripples working ouija boards,
she had toes on her feet
I had toes on my feet
we rode up and down and away
around,
it was sensible and pliable and holy
and felt very good
very very good,
the red lights blinked
the zepplin flew away
the war ended,
we stretched out then
and looked at the ceiling
a calm sea of a ceiling,
it was all right,
then we got back in the bathtub together
and french kissed
some more.

________________________

Tune in today at 1 pm to KVMR 89.5 FM to hear BookTown, a bi-weekly radio show spotlighting the literary scene, co-hosted by Molly Fisk and Eric Tomb. Then head on down to HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.) to hear Bob Stanley read, sponsored by Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30 pm.

Catch another radio show at 5 pm on Wednesday: Dr. Andy's Poetry and Technology Hour on KDVS 90.3 FM, hosted by Andy Jones. Info: culturelover.com. And of course, Mahogany Urban Poetry Series meets Wednesday at 9 pm at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.


2 CARNATIONS
—Charles Bukowski

my love brought me 2 carnations
my love brought me red
my love brought me her
my love told me not to worry
my love told me not to die

my love is 2 carnations on a table
while listening to Schoenberg
on an evening darkening into night

my love is young
the carnations burn in the dark;
she is gone leaving the taste of almonds
her body tastes like almonds

2 carnations burning red
as she sits far away
now dreaming of china dogs
tinkling through her fingers

my love is ten thousand carnations burning
my love is a hummingbird sitting that quiet moment
on the bough
as the cat
crouches.

____________________

STYLE
—Charles Bukowski

style is the answer to everything—
a fresh way to approach a dull or a
dangerous thing.
to do a dull thing with style
is preferable to doing a dangerous thing
without it.

Joan of Arc had style
John the Baptist
Christ
Socrates
Caesar,
Garcia Lorca.

style is the difference,
a way of doing,
a way of being done.

6 herons standing quietly in a pool of water
or you walking out of the bathroom naked
without seeing
me.

_____________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Ronald Stuart Thomas

IN CHURCH
—R.S. Thomas

Often I try
to analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen.
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.

____________________

ECHOES
—R.S. Thomas

What is this? said God. The obstinacy
Of its refusal to answer
Enraged him. He struck it
Those great blows it resounds
With still. It glowered at
Him, but remained dumb.
Turning on its slow axis
Of pain, reflecting the year
In its seasons. Nature bandaged
Its wounds. Healing in
The smooth sun, it became
Fair. God looked at it
Again, reminded of
An intention. They shall answer
For you, he said. And at once
There were trees with birds
Singing, and through the trees
Animals wandered, drinking
Their own scent, conceding
An absence. Where are you?
He called, and riding the echo
The shapes came, slender
As trees, but with white hands,
Curious to build. On the altars
They made him the red blood
Told what he wished to hear.

____________________

GONE
—R.S. Thomas

There was a flower blowing
and a hand plucked it.

There was a stream flowing
and a body smirched it.

There was a pure mirror
of water and a face came

and looked in it. There were words
and wars and treaties, and feet trampled

the earth and the wheels
seared it; and an explosion

followed. There was dust
and silence; and out of the dust

a plant grew, and the dew formed
upon it; and a stream seeped

from the dew to construct
a mirror, and the mirror was empty.

___________________

SUDDENLY
—R.S. Thomas

Suddenly after long silence
he has become voluble.
He addresses me from a myriad
directions with the fluency
of water, the articulateness
of green leaves; and in the genes,
too, the components
of my existence. The rock,
so long speechless, is the library
of his poetry. He sings to me
in the chain-saw, writes
with the surgeon's hand
on the skin's parchment messages
of healing. The weather
is his mind's turbine
driving the earth's bulk round
and around on its remedial
journey. I have no need
to despair; as at
some second Pentecost
of a Gentile, I listen to the things
round me: weeds, stones, instruments,
the machine itself, all
speaking to me in the vernacular
of the purposes of One who is.

_____________________

Thanks, Ronald Stuart! And our thanks to Bloodhound Judy Taylor Graham, who searched-and-rescued R.S.'s two first names for us, finding this entry in
oldpoetry.com/authors/R.S.%20Thomas:
Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936. As promised in yesterday's post, TG's copy of Allegra Silberstein's In the Folds will be winging its way to her.

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Let the Typing Begin!

Snake 8 is now in the stages of being put down on paper, thanks to all of you—poets, columnists, artists, photographers—who sent me your wonderful work and who continue to allow yourselves to be associated with that-there rascally reptile. Target release date is early December.

In the mood for a road trip on this spectacular Fall day? The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery will host a poetry reading at 4 pm today in the gallery (10115 J St., Modesto), featuring the writing group Licensed Fools. Info: Gordon Preston (523-8916)...gordonbp@sonnet.com. I've been down there, and the gallery is very nicely appointed, situated in the middle of the reconstructed inner city of Modesto. I also know the Fools and their writing; way cool.

Also tonight is the 7th Annual Poetry Festival at Shasta College in Redding. It starts at 7:30 PM in Room 802, and many poets from the region will be participating, including Tehama Snake-pal Patricia Wellingham-Jones. Heck, that's only a couple of hours up the road. Stop at the bird sanctuaries on the way and say hi to our wintering friends.

Or stay in Sac and go to Underground Books to hear Flo-Real, Terry Moore, and Rob Anthony at "Candlelight Love Poetry Night". 35th & Broadway, Sac., $3, 7-9 pm. Sounds like a great place to take a date. Info: Terry Moore, 916-455-POET.

Tomorrow (Sunday 11/20) at 3 pm, FRIENDS OF ARTHUR & KIT KNIGHT (including Annie Menebroker, Joan Kruger, the Hansens and other Valley people) will host a goodbye potluck for poets/writers Arthur and Kit Knight, who are moving to Yerington, Nevada in December. This will be a sit-down late lunch potluck, so PLEASE RSVP richard@poems-for-all (916-442-9295) if you'd like to attend. Bring a dish to serve six, and any tributes or poems you'd like to read in their honor.

Also on Sunday is the Third Sunday Writing Group at 1:00. This is one of the long-running workshops in Sacramento, and meets at various locations around town. Info: Rebecca Morrison at eskimopi@jps.net.

And Monday night, Sac. Poetry Center features Bob Stanley, local poet and musician and SPC Board member who has served the Sacramento poetry scene well over the years. 7:30 pm at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.). Info: 916-451-5569.


THE ONE FURROW
—R.S. Thomas

When I was young, I went to school
With pencil and foot-rule
Sponge and slate,
And sat on a tall stool
At learning's gate.

When I was older, the gate swung wide;
Clever and keen-eyed
In I pressed,
But found in the mind's pride
No peace, no rest.

Then who was it taught me back to go
To cattle and barrow,
Field and plough;
To keep to the one furrow,
As I do now?

___________________

In honor of The Snake, another of which is in the throes of birth:

ADDER
—R.S. Thomas

What is this creature discarded
like a toy necklace
among the weeds and flowers,
singing to me silently

of the fire never to be put out
at its thin lips? It is scion
of a mighty ancestor
that spoke the language

of trees to our first
parents and greened its scales
in the forbidden one, timelessly shining
as though autumn were never to be.

______________________

Thanks, R.S! Medusa will send a free copy of Allegra Silberstein's new book, In the Folds, to anyone who can come up with R.S. Thomas' first name—but you have to show me (or tell me) your source...

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Transformations

TRANSFORMATIONS
—Thomas Hardy

Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.

These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.

So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!

____________________

Regretfully, Sacramento poet Anatole Lubovich passed away this week, following heart surgery. Anatole moved here from the Bay Area several years ago; he has maintained ties to friends and poets in that area, as well as forming new friendships here. He will be missed at the Hart Center Tuesday Night Workshop, as well as at Ina Coolbrith Circle events, where he usually won prizes for his skillful wit and smooth use of the rhythm of words—a facility which he also expressed in his many light-opera performances onstage. He and I shared a love of Gilbert and Sullivan; our last conversation, in fact, was about how appropos some of the political commentary of HMS Pinafore remains today.

Anatole was also a frequent contributor to Rattlesnake Review. I don't think he would mind if I published some of his poems here today. The first appeared in our very first issue:


GRAY HEREAFTER EVERAFTER
—Anatole Lubovich

Some, with rapturous visions of postmortem vacations,
Hope to catch God's attention by self-flagellations.

While mouthing high praise for His bounty—it's funny—
They insult Him by spurning His wine, milk and honey.

No wings, harps or haloes, or heavenly robes
Await these ascetics and hedonophobes.

The just disappointment they'll meet after death
Will eternally reek from their pious gray breath.

_______________________

PROPER PLACE
—Anatole Lubovich

When one says something tongue-in-cheek,
Then squints his eyes and makes a face,
I think, what's odd 'bout tongue in cheek?
It seems to be its proper place.

_______________________

And then there was the Limerick Olympiad, where he and Mabel Mello faced off in Issue #3:

There was once a young chieftain of Gypsies,
Who insisted his love was for keepsies,
But divorce court's inquiry
Subpoenaed his diary,
Which was dotted with rows of ... ...

_______________________

Rest, Anatole. Our community has lost one of its own.

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Kissing a Panther

HAVE YOU EVER KISSED A PANTHER
—Charles Bukowski

this woman thinks she's a panther
and sometimes when we are making love
she'll snarl and spit
and her hair comes down
and she looks out from the strands
and shows me her fangs
but I kiss her anyhow and continue to love.
have you ever kissed a panther?
have you ever seen a female panther enjoying
the act of love?
you haven't loved, friend.
you with your squirrels and chipmunks
and elephants and sheep.
you ought to sleep with a panther
you'll never again want
squirrels, chipmunks, elephants, sheep, fox,
wolverines,
never anything but the female panther
the female panther walking across the room
the female panther walking across your soul
all other love songs are lies
when that black smooth fur moves against you
and the sky falls down against your back,
the female panther is the dream arrived real
and there's no going back
or wanting to—
the fur up against you,
the search over
and you are locked against the eyes of a panther.

_______________________

Poetry in the area this weekend:

***Tonight at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac.: Poetry Unplugged presents Bill Gainer, Song Kowbell, Todd Cirillo, 8-ish. Info: 441-3931.

***Friday (11/18): The Jook Joynt 3: Ainsley Burrows at the Hard Rock Cafe, 545 7th St., Sac, $15. Info: malikspeaks@aol.com. Also Friday: The Nevada County Poetry Series: giant open mic to celebrate the release of their annual anthology. Off-Center Stage at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley. Info: 530-432-8196.

***Saturday (11/19) Underground Poetry Series features Flo-Real, Terry Moore, Rob Anthony and open mike in "Candlelight Love Poem Night", 7-9 pm at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, $3. Info: 916-737-3333. Also Saturday: The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery announce a poetry reading at 4:00 pm in the gallery (10115 J Street, Modesto) featuring the writing group, Licensed Fools. Info: 523-8916 or gordonbp@sonnet.com.

______________________

CHILLED GREEN
—Charles Bukowski

what is it?
an old woman, fat, yellow dress,
torn stockings
sitting on the curbing
with a little boy.
98 degrees at 3 in the afternoon
it seems
obscene.
but look, they are calm,
almost happy,
they eat the green jello
and the red roses shine.

________________________

SHORT ORDER
—Charles Bukowski

I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,
she said.
yes, yes? I asked.
she's young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your
guts.

then she stretched out on the couch
and pulled off her
boots.

I don't have very good legs,
she said.

all right, I thought, I don't have very good
poetry; she doesn't have very good
legs.

scramble two.

_______________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

The Fire That Speaks Our Language

Yesterday, local poets. Today, something from poets faraway in recently-troubled France, from the collection called The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, ed. by J.D. McClatchy, Vintage Books, 1996:


EVERY MORNING
—Claire Malroux, France (b. 1935)

Every morning the curtain rises
Alone, you listen to the dark dissolving
The stars slowly clicking themselves apart
The sky turns back into this breezy scarf
Shaken out by the awakened birds
You don't touch each other but you walk together
Leaning against and within each other until evening
When, alone, you chase the wild night at your gate
Sweet to weep for, like a wet stray dog
You don't want to hear the crows cry
The diminishing number of lines
To be spoken on this stage, set for how long
The shadow grows, flesh hollows itself out, another
Takes your place. Step by step you leave yourself.


Translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker

_______________________

MY BODY
—Jacques Dupin, France (b. 1927)

My body, you will not fill the ditch
That I am digging, that I deepen each night.

Like a wild boar caught in the underbrush
You leap, you struggle.

Does the vine on the rampart remember another body
Prostrate on the keyboard of the void?

Throw off your clothes, throw away your food,
Diviner of water, hunter of lowly light.

The sliding of the hill
Will overflow the false depth,
The secret excavation underfoot.

Calm wriggles into the night air
Through disjointed stones and the riddled heart

At the instant you disappear,
Like a splinter in the sea.


Translated from the French by Paul Auster

________________________

WAITING WITH LOWERED VOICE
—Jacques Dupin, France

Waiting with lowered voice
For something terrible and simple
—Like the harvest of the lightning
Or the crumbling of the plaster...

It is the nearness of the intact sky
That emaciates the flocks,
This jug ot burning rock,
And the revival of smells from the flowerless mountain...

Summits of wind and famine,
Insipid motet, fury of returns,
I dread the ruin which is due to me
Less than this immunity
That fetters me in its rays.

Promised land, land that crumbles,
Despite the columns, despite the drum.


Translated from the French by Paul Auster

________________________

MINERAL KINGDOM
—Jacques Dupin, France

In this country lightning quickens stone.

On the peaks that dominate the gorges
Ruined towers rise up
Like nimble torches of the mind
That revive the nights of high wind
The instinct of death in the quarryman's blood.

Every granite vein
Will unravel in his eyes.

The fire that will never be cured of us
The fire that speaks our language.


Translated from the French by Paul Auster

_____________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

When Dogs Dress Up

WINE DANCE
—Pearl Stein Selinsky, Sacramento

A day without wine
is a thirst-hole
in the calendar...

So bring the cup,
sweet Ganymede
who serves the gods...

Let us sip the nectar-
spell
tripping on the tongue
traveling down
through lightened breast,
pathed
through carefree limbs
to dance
the dark of night
to dazzle-day.

__________________

Thanks, Pearl! Today we celebrate local poets, as the last of the submissions roll in for Snake 8. Here's one from Song Kowbell:


HE WANTED TO
—Song Kowbell, Penn Valley

He said he
wanted to…
as if
I didn’t know…
As if I couldn’t see
the addition to
his already tight Levis.
Reaching his hand
across the great distance
between wanting
and getting
I felt him,
watched him smirk.
Then slowly,
casually he sez…
uummmmm
I thought so…

__________________

Thanks, Song! Come hear her read Thursday night at Luna's, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8-ish, along with Bill Gainer and Todd Cirillo, and pick up all three of their littlesnake broadsides that night, too.

One of Ted Kooser's Poet Laureate projects is his on-line American Life in Poetry, which provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems from people across the country. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry; publications that register can reprint these columns at no charge. The columns are also available to all of us: just type in "americanlifeinpoetry.org".


MANY SHADES
—Steve Williams, Portland, OR

They prattle behind my back
fence. The raven is my sun-shadow, I dangle
from its open beak—tinfoil lace for its hoard.

Under fowl feet, candle-shadow lies
with my moon-shadow. They copulate
in rhythm with witching flame.

From creosote poles, streetlight-shadows coil
around my feet as petals. Some short
and black, others stretched and gray
as if obscurity is allotted and finite.
They all talk at once and shiver.
I can’t understand any of them.

Telephone-shadow argues with my storm,
Sunset is purple, my sunrise and drizzle
are failures I’ve never seen.

Gossip tones emote from a collection of holes,
I walk guitar wires—eyes in the acoustic cave,
feet on prison bars that own no shadow,
find comfort among the silhouettes.

When she bends over me, I hold the kiss long
enough for each to have their turn.

__________________

Thanks, Steve! Well, okay, Portland isn't exactly local, but Steve is an ex-Sacramentan who still manages to feed the Snake every issue, bless his heart. Check out his lively poetry website: wildpoetryforum.com or send for his littlesnake broadside (free with SASE), which was the very first one in the series.

One more local poet: something silly from Kathy Kieth:


RECENT ELECTIONS: WHEN DOGS DRESS UP

we tend to blame them: make fun of
their fashion choices: ridicule

their hairy legs, their mustaches: point
and laugh and turn our heads away in

embarrassment for them and their
feeble attempts to make us happy… Still,

we are the ones who are at fault, for
demanding such nonsense. How can we not

take some of the blame for such perverse
proclivities? How can we not look inside

and hang our own heads—cluck in dismay
at what we require from our all-too-eager

fellow passengers on this misguided, ill-
navigated, lost and very unhappy ark?…


_______________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Making Angels Fly

THE ESTATE
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

I'm done.
I'm giving it all to the church,
the whole damn mess.
They can have it all,
do what they want,
keep it,
sell it,
I don't care.
Maybe get enough money
to buy some wine,
throw a party.
their choice.
I DON'T CARE.
The nuns can go through it,
piece by piece,
they might like
the porn collection.
At worst
they can use it
to teach the choirboys
what it takes
to make an angel
fly.

_____________________

The lively Grass Valley trio of Bill Gainer, Todd Cirillo, and Song Kowbell will read at Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sac.) this Thursday night (11/17), 8-ish. All three of them have published littlesnake broadsides, and all three are rattlechappers-to-be. Bill's new rattlechap, To Run With The Savages, will be released December 14, in fact, at The Book Collector. (Poor Song; various publicity releases keep spelling her name every-which-way. It's SONG KOWBELL, and that's a fact.) Show up with your party shoes on; it's gonna be lively!

By the way, Medusa is very pleased with the new feature in The Sacramento Bee Sunday Ticket section: a very tidy listing of coming events on page 4, including a section for "Books, Poetry and Lectures" which lays out the week's events in an eye-catching, easy-to-find, easy-to-read format.

Other happenings this week:

***Tonight (11/14) Sac. Poetry Center present Julia Levine and Ruth L. Schwartz at HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac., 7:30 pm. (after the Board meeting at Hamburger Mary's at 6).

***Tomorrow (11/15) the Third Tuesday Poetry Series presents Michael Pulley and Nwando Mbanugo, La Raza Bookstore, 1421 R St., 7 pm. Info: 743-5329.

***Wednesday (11/16) the Urban Voices series features Will Staple and Quinton Duval, South Natomas Library (2901 Truxel Rd., Sac.), 6:30-8 pm. Also that night, Joshua McKinney reads with a few CSUS alumni in the Library Gallery on the CSUS campus, 7 pm.

***Thursday (11/17): Bill, Song and Todd read at Luna's (see above).

***Friday (11/18): Khiry Malik Moore presents The Jook Joynt 3: NY poet Ainsley Burrows at the Hard Rock Cafe, 545 7th St., $15. Info: Malikspeaks.com or malikspeaks@aol.com. Also that night, the Nevada County Poetry Series celebrates its annual GIGANTIC open mic (usually known to run 'WAY into the wee hours) and the release of its 2005 anthology in the Off-Center Stage, Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley. Info: 530-432-8196.

More from Bill:


THE POST OFFICE
—William S. Gainer

Thumbing through the pages
she showed me pictures of young women
in lingerie,
said, "At my age, I don't want the clothes
anymore,
just the body."
She let her tongue
tease her lipstick,
turned the page.
I felt things,
said, "You smell nice."
She dragged a finger across her grin.
I said, "You know,
it's nice for an old man
to be tantalized
by an old friend."
She smiled,
let the magazine slip to the trash.

___________________

LATER
—William S. Gainer

Sometimes
I write poems
that scare her.
She reads them
before I get up,
cries
after I leave
and tells me
about it
later.

___________________

Thanks, Bill! See you Thursday.

Yeow—I almost forgot—TOMORROW (11/15) is the (postmarked) deadline to submit your wonderful poems/photos/artwork for Snake 8! Get on it—those snakes are especially hungry today and tomorrow. Send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or hunt up the snail address in the box to the right of this. And stop by The Book Collector to pick up a wee free Snakelets, the new issue of our journal of poetry from youngsters 0-12, as well as a free littlesnake broadside by Sacramentan Claudia Trnka.

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Dewdrops on a Crane's Bill

Today, a collection of poems by Dogen:

Autumn's colors dropping from branches in masses of falling leaves,
Cold clouds bringing rain into the crannies of the moutains:
Everyone was born with the same sort of eyes—
Why do mine keep seeing things as Zen koans?

___________________

In the heart of the night,
The moonlight framing
A small boat drifting,
Tossed not by the waves
Nor swayed by the breeze.

___________________

About the mountain crest
A brush of cloud floating,
Wild geese fly in files passing
As the moon is hiding behind
A pine tree on the ridge.

___________________

Looking out
Past where there are
Cherry blossoms or crimson leaves,
To the grass-thatched huts by the bay
Clustered in the descending autumn dusk.

___________________

A firefly's
Soft glimmer,
As the mountain ridge
Faintly appears under the
Dim glow of the moon.

___________________

To what shall
I liken the world?
Moonlight, reflected
In dewdrops,
Shaken from a crane's bill.

___________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

How the Years Fall Upon Us

LONELY VISTAS
—Quinton Duval

Sometimes the longing begins early,
mornings steering the tractor through
uniform lines of grapes. The mist
settles between the rows, down where
the sulphur grabs hold of the leaves
and workers get that little cough
and surprising yellow in the kerchief.
But you are riding higher, inside the cab
no outer noise can seep into.
Bored, you decide the noise of the motor
is the noise it takes to make the whole
dark engine run, what it costs to play.
And all you see are unchanging rows,
occasional returns, like a ship
on a stage, afloat by simple optical
illusion. What others would see
as lucky, you write off as lonely
vistas, the same old same old thing.
Today you had bologna in your sandwich.
Today is Thursday. You can’t remember
if that’s what Thursdays always bring.
You long for a highway, a free-for-all
white line of constant change. The hands
that fold the lunch meat, lubricate the bread,
are hands you have watched for years.
Are they yours or hers? Does she wonder
where those lonely vistas will lead you?
Does she know you know how separate we are?

________________________

Valley Poet and Publisher Quinton Duval will read, along with Grass Valley Poet Will Staple, at B.L. Kennedy's Urban Voices series this coming Wednesday (11/16), to be held at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac. (free), 6:30-8 pm.

Speaking of publishing, someone asked me the other day for the names of poetry-publishing venues that have quick turnarounds—presses that don't sit on your poems for months and months and months before they notify you and/or publish your work. This is an area where I could use the help of Medusa readers: write to me at kathykieth@hotmail.com, if you will, and let me know about venues that are quick-and-dirty (like the Snake—whose deadline is coming up this Tuesday, Nov. 15!).

If you're looking for venues, there is always Poet's Market, of course, and the classifieds in the back of Poets & Writers. Some of us forget to use The International Directory of Little Magazines and Small Presses, though, from Dustbooks in Paradise (California, that is...). Write to them at PO Box 100, Paradise, CA 95967 or check them out online (dustbooks.com). They publish their directory in paper or cloth, and they also offer the Directory of Poetry Publishers and the Directory of Editors and Publishers. Publisher Len Fulton has been in The Biz for a substantial amount of time (!) and is a very dedicated fella, and I have heard tell that his collection of small press books is AWESOME—truly stunning.

More from Quinton:


TIME'S ARROW
—Quinton Duval

I was in awe of the face
looking back from the snapshot
your surprise letter held:
“Me – 2002.” And it is you,
your eyes the most articulate,
still the blank challenge, full-open
in a face that has evolved.

I would expect that with anyone,
but you are framed in my heart,
if I may say that: “You – circa 1982.”
We knew what we were making
became the past as soon as it left
one set of lips for the other.
We breathed in each other’s words
and saved them away like cordwood
for fires when we would be alone.

Maybe it’s just me, the foot-dragger,
the forestaller. Do you feel time’s arrow
working its way out the other side
of you too? Your letter is as light
as ether. If your picture caught fire
I would inhale the familiar smoke.

Your hands and your hair,
your belly and your long back,
your eyes spilling tears of joy
sometimes, others not. Talk about
how the years fall upon us. Time’s
whole quiver seems empty now.

____________________

Thanks, Quinton!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Kissing the Apple

THE LETTER TO A HOMELESS PERSON
—Sinh Quang Le, Sacramento
English translation by Le Si Dong

Awakening in the early morning
Through the window
I look at the foliage shaken by some light wind
From the distant freeway, I hear harsh sounds
Generated by vehicles
Reaching towards pompous cities
Los Angeles, New York, Chicago
San Jose, Las Vegas, Reno
Where the high buildings spread their shadows
Making shelters for the homeless.

Hey Carlos, my homeless American friend
I want to send you a world of prayer
Not to tell you pity
As you need nothing like this
I think you surely understand
Human-beings are equal before the Creator
But discriminated against in human society
People say you are lazy, drinking, smoking
Wanting to wander from street corner to streeet corner
Like a beggar.
They don’t want to see you hold out your hand
Asking for charity
They want you to seek a job
And not to be supported
Yet they want to look for justice in you
Whereas human society is full of crimes, injustice
Because of money.

Hey! Carlos! Don’t worry please
Even though the life is miserable
You aren’t alone
In a war-sadness-pain world like this one
For it had one Bui Giang—a poet
A Vietnamese intellectual
And homeless like you
You are different from each other
As Bui Giang—a victim of communist dictatorship
And you—one of capitalist civilization
But you both are alike
In leading a miserable life
And being equal before Almighty God.

_______________________

Sinh Quang Le of the Vietnamese International Poetry Society (VIPS) sends us two poems and tells us that he is helping to organize the Fifth Biennial International Poetry Convention in Houston for September, 2006. (See Snake 6 for a wonderful article by Be Davison Herrera about VIPS, together with some poems from the Vietnamese community.) These two poems today are a tasty preview of coming attractions for Snake 8. (Deadline for submissions: Nov. 15—Just FIVE DAYS!)

Back issues of Rattlesnake Review (and, in fact, all other Snake publications) may be had by sending me Two Bux to cover postage. Most of them are also available (free) at Rattle-Reads at The Book Collector every Second Weds. of the month.

Re-cap of this weekend:

***Tonight: Mary Dawson and Beulah Amsterdam at The Other Voice in Davis (Unitarian Church library, 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis), 7:30 pm. Info: 530-753-2634.

***Tonight and tomorrow: Amiri Baraka performs at the 4th Annual Beat Generation & Beyond Conference, Varsity Theatre and John Natsoulas Gallery & Center for the Arts, 521 First St., Davis. Info: 530-756-3938 or natsoulas.com or nancy@natsoulas.com.

***Also on Saturday (11/12): King of the Mic slam features qualifiers from Sept. and Oct. Mahogany slams in three elimination rounds. CSUS's University Union (Redwood Room). Doors open at 7 pm, show starts at 8, $5 donation goes to Tears of Hope, a local AIDS/HIV research charity for youths in the US and in Africa. Also accepting food and clothing for Salvation Army. Info: slam@malikspeaks.com or www.malikspeaks.com. Grand prize is $200!

***No Poems-For-All reading tomorrow night (11/12), but Bill Pieper reads from his latest book, Gomez, Sunday (11/13) at 4 pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Info: 442-9295.

***Also Sunday: Stockton Poet's Corner presents Catherine Fraga at the Weberstown Barnes & Noble in Stockton, 7 pm. Info: 209-951-7014.

***Or stay home Sunday and listen to frank andrick's radio show, The Pomo Literati (KUSF 90.3 FM), 2-4 pm. Special guest (and Rattlechapper-to-be) Bill Gainer shares the mic with fellow Grass Valley Poet Chris Olander, plus musician David Houston and way-cool pre-recorded poets from here/there/everywhere.

***And if you're not TOTALLY exhausted by Monday, Sac. Poetry Center presents Julia Levine and Ruth L. Schwartz at 7:30 pm, HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.).


A KISS REFUSED
—Sinh Quang Le, Sacramento

Since Eve
Embraced the apple and kissed it,
The Lord was angry.
When Adam
Embraced and kissed her apple,
He was chased by the Lord
Out of Eden.

Aware that kissing is a sin,
Today—still there is a fool
Who enjoys kissing the apple
Though only once
But he has been refused
As she is afraid
She could not enter into Paradise.

_________________

Thanks, Sinh!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

The Old Hat Without a Head

NEW MOON IN NOVEMBER
—W. S. Merwin

I have been watching crows and now it is dark
Together they led night into the creaking oaks
Under them I hear the dry leaves walking
That blind man
Gathering their feathers before winter
By the dim road that the wind will take
And the cold
And the note of the trumpet

________________________

Midnight tonight! That's your last chance to get poems to the Towe Auto Museum poetry contest. Send $10 and up to 3 poems about some form of personal land transportation to the Towe Auto Museum Poetry Contest, 2200 Front St., Sac. 95818. Info: 916-442-6802.

Rattle-News: The new Snakelets is in The Book Collector (free), or send me $2 and I'll mail you one. Also new at TBC is Allegra Silberstein's rattlechap, In the Folds, which was released last night to a rousing crowd, along with Claudia Trnka's littlesnake broadside, Public Places, Private Spaces. That's 23 chapbooks and 18 broadsides under Medusa's belt, but who's counting... And submissions for the Review are rolling in, including some lovely sketches last night by Rhony Bhopla. Don't be left out—get 'em in by next Tuesday, please (11/15).

My Arts Reporter came yesterday from the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Council, featuring a very good article on HQ—Headquarters for the Arts (Sacramento Poetry Center's new home) by Rattlesnake Review Interviewer-in-Residence (and Rattlechapper) JoAnn Anglin. Subscriptions to AR are free: smac@cityofsacramento.org. AR also lists local events, grants, workshops—lots of good stuff. In it, I see that the Northern Cal. Publishers and Authors (NCAP) will meet this Saturday (11/12) from 10-Noon at Tower Books on Watt. Candy Taylor Tutt will speak about covers: bring your favorite—or "worst"—book cover. Info: Pat Canterbury, Patmyst@aol.com.

Hidden Passage Books in Placerville (the bookstore with the skeleton under the floor) is becoming more and more of a friend to local writers and musicians, sponsoring various events there, such as the read-around on fourth Wednesdays which is hosted by Hatch and Taylor Graham (except this month, when it has been moved to the 30th because of Thanksgiving) and frank andrick's traveling poetry show. Now I see in the Arts Reporter that the store will be sponsoring a new monthly publication, for which they want short stories, poetry, haiku, essays, historical pieces, etc.: "whatever your heart desires... you have a voice—use it...!" Up to 4000 words, MS Word preferred. The publication will be free and "cheaply presented" (no contributor compensation). Submit to Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., Placerville or hiddenpassagebooks@hotmail.com.

Enough already with the chatter! More about crows from Merwin:


CROWS ON THE NORTH SLOPE
—W.S. Merwin

When the Gentle were dead these inherited their coats
Now they gather in late autumn and quarrel over the air
Demanding something for their shadows that are naked
And silent and learning

______________________

EVENING
—W.S. Merwin

I am strange here and often I am still trying
To finish something as the light is going
Occasionally as just now I think I see
Off to one side something passing at that time
Along the herded walls under the walnut trees
And I look up but it is only
Evening again the old hat without a head
How long will it be till he speaks when he passes

______________________

THE DRAGONFLY
—W.S. Merwin

Hoeing the bean field here are the dragonfly's wings
From this spot the wheat once signalled
With lights It is all here
With these feet on it
My own
And the hoe in my shadow

______________________

Thanks, W.S.!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Errata Alert!

Here and there I've mentioned the Towe Auto Museum poetry contest, and I've listed the deadline as November 15. WRONG! The actual deadline is NOVEMBER 10—yikes! that's tomorrow (postmarked). Sorry, folks! Get 'em in NOW.

Allegra Silberstein has a busy week: Tonight she releases her new rattlechap, In the Folds, at The Book Collector (1008 24th St., Sac., 7:30 pm). Then on Friday (11/11), she hosts The Other Voice at the Davis Unitarian Universalist Church: Beulah Amsterdam and Mary Dawson, 7:30 pm. 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis. Info: 530-753-2634.

There will be NO Second Saturday Poems-for-All reading at The Book Collector this week (11/12), but Richard Hansen says: the bookstore WILL BE OPEN in the evening until at least 9 pm (later if the aisles are swollen with folks). Come check out the latest releases in our small press/local poetry section.

About Sunday (11/13), however, Richard says: Please join us in celebrating the release of Bill Pieper's latest novel, Gomez, of which Persia Woolley, author of The Guenevere Trilogy writes: "New spin on the legendary affair of Anais Nin and Henry Miller, this time in free-wheeling pre-AIDS San Francisco. A rich canvas of love, sex, loyalty and deceit with delightful flashes of black humor." A reading from the book, food & libation, and, of course, books for sale. Love, sex, loyalty and deceit! Kewl! That's 4 pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Info: 442-9295.


MY NOVEMBER GUEST
—Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

___________________

DUST OF SNOW
—Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

___________________

THE BEAR
—Robert Frost

The bear puts both arms around the tree above her
And draws it down as if it were a lover
And its choke cherries lips to kiss good-bye,
Then lets it snap back upright in the sky.
Her next step rocks a boulder on the wall
(She's making her cross-country in the fall).
Her great weight creaks the barbed-wire in its staples
As she flings over and off down through the maples,
Leaving on one wire tooth a lock of hair.
Such is the uncaged progress of the bear.
The world has room to make a bear feel free;
The universe seems cramped to you and me.
Man acts more like the poor bear in a cage
That all day fights a nervous inward rage,
His mood rejecting all his mind suggests.
He paces back and forth and never rests
The toe-nail click and shuffle of his feet,
The telescope at one end of his beat,
And at the other end the microscope,
Two instruments of nearly equal hope,
And in conjunction giving quite a spread.
Or if he rests from scientific tread,
Tis only to sit back and sway his head
Through ninety odd degrees of arc, it seems,
Between two metaphysical extremes.
He sits back on his fundamental butt
With lifted snout and eyes (if any) shut,
(He almost looks religious but he's not),
And back and forth he sways from cheek to cheek,
At one extreme agreeing with one Greek,
At the other agreeing with another Greek
Which may be thought, but only so to speak.
A baggy figure, equally pathetic
When sedentary and when peripatetic.

__________________

Thanks, Bob! As for everyone else, I'll see you tonight!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

I'm in the Mood for Lowell...

A RAINY NIGHT
—Amy Lowell

Shadows,
And white, moving light,
And the snap and sparkle of rain on the window,
An electric lamp in the street
Is swinging, tossing,
Making the rain-runnelled window-glass
Glitter and palpitate.
In its silver lustre
I can see the old four-post bed,
With the fringes and balls of its canopy.
You are lying beside me, waiting,
But I do not turn,
I am counting the folds of the canopy.
You are lying beside me, waiting,
But I do not turn.
In the silver light you would be too beautiful,
And there are ten pleats on this side of the bed canopy,
And ten on the other.

__________________________

Speaking of sexy lady-poets, Sacramentan Claudia Trnka will be releasing her new littlesnake broadside, Public Places, Private Spaces, from Rattlesnake Press at tomorrow night's reading at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30-9 pm. Here's a tasty sample:


STRAWBERRY
—Claudia Trnka, Sacramento

The scent rushes ahead,
its light, sweet promise
sweeping over my open lips
and across my tongue,
stalling my eager bite.

Eyes closed, I linger—
savor the aromatic invitation
as if nosing a fine wine
that speaks of sun-filled days,
cool nights, slow ripening.

Teeth pierce its smooth skin
releasing a burst of acrid tartness,
ruby-fruit complexity speaking tales
of dark soils and deep soaking,

warm mulch and sharp-edged hoes,
its wholeness blending with my own—
from subtle, sweet seduction
to surprising sharp tang.

_________________________

Thanks, Claudia!


DISSONANCE
—Amy Lowell

From my window I can see the moonlight stroking the
smooth surface of the river.
The trees are silent, there is no wind.
Admirable pre-Raphaelite landscape,
Lightly touched with ebony and silver.
I alone am out of keeping:
An angry red gash
Proclaiming the restlessness
Of an incongruous century.

________________________

THE MIRROR
—Amy Lowell

Opaque because of the run mercury at its back,
White with a breath of yellow, like tarnished silver,
The old mirror hangs over the chimney-piece
Incased in its carved frame, and reflects the room beneath.
It is warped and bulging, because of the great fires
Of other years; and dim with the sun shining in it every Spring.
Old men and children move before it, and it reflects them all,
Pulling them this way and that in its uneven surface.
The pictures pass over it like mist over a morning window,
And it hangs in its carved frame, tarnished and beautiful,
And reflects everything.

______________________

AFTERGLOW
—Amy Lowell

Peonies
The strange pink colour of Chinese porcelains;
Wonderful—the flow of them.
But, my Dear, it is in the pale blue larkspur
Which swings windily against my heart.
Other Summers—
And a cricket chirping in the grass.

______________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

The Silent Murmur of a Pen

BIRTHDAY CANDLE FOR EDWARD SCHOEN
February 14, 2005
—Katy Brown, Davis

Under a waxing moon, the clouds part to show a star:
one spark in the vast beyond.

You are as close as breathing on still nights like this.
I imagine you pointing over my shoulder
while you help me sight along your arm:
that’s Betelgeuse, the red star in the right shoulder of Orion:
the Hunter of Winter—see his belt? He chases the Bull.
You know your mother is a Taurus.
You named the summer wildflowers for me;
showed me how to catch a fence lizard with a blade of grass;
made flutes from alder branches; sang me lullabies.
You could tie a fly, dress a deer,
and nail a duck with a single shot.
You taught me it was wrong to kill for sport:
we ate every scrap of game and tanned the leather for clothes.

Your friend Rock would drive his rickety camper
from San Lorenzo just to “talk philosophy” with you.
When you were too sick to leave the house,
the priest came by to talk theology.

I try to explain to your granddaughter the rarity of comets
and lunar eclipses. And I try to tell your star-stories—
but lack your words.
You would have been 100 today.
A red candle gutters for you on my dark mantle.

(4th Honorable Mention, Ina Coolbrith Contest, 2005)

__________________________

Thanks, Katy! Katy is Marketeer-in-Residence for Rattlesnake Review; watch for her next column in Snake 8, due out in December. Have you sent in your poems (etc.) yet? Deadline is November 15, just one slim week from tomorrow!

In need of a quick $10,000? Semaj Publications in Denver writes to say: The Color My Poetry, Color it Mine, International Poetic Expressions Convention/$10,000.00 Poetry Contest will be held in beautiful Denver, Colorado from July 21st - July 23rd, 2006. This will be the best poetry Convention/contest ever presented/assembled. The Color My Poetry, Color it Mine, International Poetic Expressions Convention/$10,000.00 Poetry Contest mission is to unify people of all races, creed and colors from all over the world and let their voices be heard through their creative works of poetry. Contestants will be judged by a fair and unbiased panel of judges who shall award well deserved prizes to contest participants and winners.
For info, check www.semajpublicationsofdenver.com.

Catherine Fraga can be heard tonight at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.), sponsored by the Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30 pm, or next Sunday (11/13) at the Barnes & Noble in Stockton (Weberstown Mall), courtesy of Poet's Corner Press, 7 pm. Info for Sunday: 209-951-7014.

Wednesday (11/9), Rattlesnake Press presents Allegra Jostad Silberstein at The Book Collector (1008 24th St., Sac.), 7:30-9 pm., to celebrate the release of her new chapbook, In The Folds. A read-around will follow; bring your own poems or somebody else's. Also released that night will be Claudia Trnka's littlesnake broadside, Public Places, Private Spaces, and Snakelets 5, the journal of poetry from youngsters 0-12.

This Thursday (11/10), Suzanne Roberts appears at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., for Poetry Unplugged, 8 pm. And Friday (11/11), Mary Dawson and Beulah Amsterdam will read at the Davis Unitarian Church library, 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis, courtesy of The Other Voice reading series, 7:30 pm. Info: 530-753-2634.

Here is a taste from Allegra's new chapbook:

FLIGHTS
—Allegra Jostad Silberstein, Davis

A feather
floats
lifted into
a laughter
of leaves
turning and
returning
like thoughts
spiraling
in the silent
murmur
of a pen
brushing
words
on blue sky
lines.

_____________________

Thanks, Allegra!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Awake in Its Gold Dish

THE OCEAN MOVING ALL NIGHT
—Rumi

Stay with us. Don't sink to the bottom
like a fish going to sleep.
Be with the ocean moving steadily all night,
not scattered like a rainstorm.

The spring we're looking for
is somewhere in this murkiness.
See the night-lights up there traveling together,
the candle awake in its gold dish.

Don't slide into the cracks of ground like spilled mercury.
When the full moon comes out, look around.

_______________________

1652
—Rumi

We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain. We are
the sweet, cold water and the jar that pours.

_______________________

THE NEW RULE
—Rumi

It's the old rule that drunks have to argue
and get into fights.
The lover is just as bad: He falls into a hole.
But down in that hole he finds something shining,
worth more than any amount of money or power.

Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street.
I took it as a a sign to start singing,
falling up into the bowl of sky.
The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
Nothing else to do.

Here's the new rule: Break the wineglass,
and fall toward the glassblower's breath.

________________________

1319
—Rumi

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us. They're right.
Which is fine with us.

_________________________

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)

Cherish the Lithesome Snake

PRAYER OF TREE SPIRITS
—Patricia L. Nichol, Sacramento

Oh, Great Being, hear our spirits housed in trees:
grant that we may be safe in our wooden shelters,
grant that we may anchor the sky to the earth,
grant that we may be full of your essence,
grant that we may revel in tree dances.

Oh, Great Being, let us ever transform with the light:
grow toward the solstice in the descending of the year,
grow toward greater life in the fulsome darkness,
grow to greater heights in the season of the sun,
grow until we become one with your great essence.

Oh, Great Being, may we be a habitation for all life:
shield and cherish the smallest nestling bird,
shield and cherish the lithesome snake,
shield and cherish the rooting life below,
shield and cherish our congruence with the divine.

__________________________

Thanks, Pat! This poem brings two things to mind today: the article in the Bee about the parrots in San Francisco losing one of their trees (did you see the movie about them?), and JoAnn Anglin's recent forward re: an artist who is doing a tree anthology and is looking for tree poems. Sorry; I've lost JoAnn's letter, but she might still have the information. Write to me if you need her address to get the OTHER address... Submitting to private anthologies is always tricky, since you don't know who you're working with or what (or when!) the final project will be, but heck, it might be fun.

If you're in the mood for a daytrip, Livermore's first Poet Laureate, Connie Post, writes to say that David Alpaugh and Robert Sward will be reading at the Martinelli Conference and Event Center tomorrow (Sunday 11/6) from 2-4 pm, 3585 Greenville Rd. in Livermore. Go to www.garrewinery.com for a map. Info: connie@poetrypost.com.

OR—head up to Oroville TODAY for the 13th Annual North Valley Belly Dance Competition at the State Theatre, 1489 Meyers St., 5:30-11 pm. ($12) Info: 530-589-0416 or www.homestead.com/bellydancecomp/welcome.html. Why am I posting a belly dance competition on a poetry site? Just because...

Two KILLER websites for poets: Bob's ByWay, a VERY comprehensive glossary of poetic terms (do you know what catachreses is? Epitrite? Epizeuxis?), and Jan Haag's The Desolation Poems, which is a compendium of examples of poems in various forms. She doesn't list the schematic for these forms, but has examples from most of them neatly catalogued. No need for addresses on either; just type in "Bob's ByWay" or "The Desolation Poems". (Who knows why Jan Haag calls them that...)

Let the mea culpas begin: Kate Wells' wonderful "Totem" poem got left out of the last Snake, so I promised I'd publish it shamelessly around town. I'm posting it here today because (1) it seems to go with Pat Nichol's tree poem [above] and (2) let it serve to warn you that the next Snake deadline is November 15. Oh—and don't forget the Towe Auto Museum poetry contest deadline is also November 15; see previous posts or the last Snake for details.


TOTEM
—Kate Wells, Placerville

Six black buzzards
collect on the dirt road.
Robes spread to catch
sun. They caucus
growing heat.
Let us circle.
Let us dine.
Let us pray the day
to death,
life,
wind.

____________________

Thanks, Kate!

—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)