Abundant Rain!

ABUNDANT RAIN
—Ann Privateer, Davis

Splashing night
the road reflects light lilke
black linoleum.
Engines hum, press home
wonder if
Joan of Arc will lead them?

Rain clears the way
candy wrappers
swirl toward sewers
where nothing shines.
Rain piles. Wind will
not cease, yet meals will be eaten.

_________________

Thanks, Ann!

Some wonderful things crossed my desk while I was gone, including submissions for Snake 9 (deadline 2/15). Three others of note:

•••The latest issue of Tiger's Eye: A Journal of Poetry, which includes poetry from Rattlechappers Taylor Graham (Living With Myth) and Jeanine Stevens (The Keeping Room, to be released 1/11), as well as new Snakepal Laura LeHew of Eugene, who sent us poems for Snake 8. Plus, Sacramentan Nancy Wahl scooped up First Prize in the current TE poetry contest! This TE also includes a "complementary insert", an expanded broadside, from slam poet Jean C. Howard (yes, slam—check it out!). TE Co-Editor Colette Jonopulos is herself a rattlechapper (The Burden of Wings).

•••The Vietnamese International Poetry Society's fourth anthology, Flowers of Love, which was sent to me by President Sinh Quang Le, who has had poetry published in two issues of The Snake. This anthology, published in 2004 (Be Davison Herrera is an Associate Editor), contains poems in Vietnamese, French and English, and includes work from Sacramento Poets Lawrence Brooks, Jason Cudahy, Tom Goff, Nora Laila Staklis, and Leah Levine in addition to many fine Vietnamese poets across the country. Order it from nhuhoalesinh@yahoo.com.

•••Good news, indeed! Battery Park City Authority in New York has designated Poets House the long-term, non-profit tenant of a 10,000 square foot space in a new building in Lower Manhattan, starting in 2007, with rent-free occupancy guaranteed through 2069! Space for the library's current (and rapidly growing) 45,000 items will expand, and the new facility will be readily accessible on the cusp of the financial district and one of the best-used and most beautiful parks in the city, with views of the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. Rattlesnake Press has chapbooks in the Poets House library, and this new success (and glimpses of longevity) is excellent news, not only for the Snake, but for the thousands of poets everywhere who are displayed within its walls. For the move, they have a fundraising goal of $6.5 million, 75% of which has already been met. More information at www.poetshouse.org.

_____________________

I didn't get to wish you Merry Christmas, but Happy New Year! Let's get racy with D.H. Lawrence:

NEW YEAR'S EVE
—D.H. Lawrence

There are only two things now,
The great black night scooped out
And this fireglow.

This fireglow, the core,
And we the two ripe pips
That are held in store.

Listen, the darkness rings
As it circulates round our fire.
Take off your things.

Your shoulders, your bruised throat!
Your breasts, your nakedness!
This fiery coat!

As the darkness flickers and dips,
As the firelight falls and leaps
From your feet to your lips!

___________________

May all the best lines come to you in 2006—wow! 2006!

—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 Didn't Say WHICH Monday...

Okay: when we left off, I was headed upstate and into Oregon; specifically Coos Bay. The trouble with going places that are somewhat remote is that they are, well, somewhat remote. So Internet turned out to be a problem. I'll spare you. I'm back. Thanks for your patience, and I hope your Christmas was jolly enough.

It did frustrate me, though, because I had all sorts of quasi-holiday poetry picked out and lugged up there. So let's salvage some of it. Mary Zeppa loaned me Archie Ammons' last book of poetry, Bosh and Flapdoodle:


CALLED INTO PLAY
—A.R. Ammons

Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St. Nick: where am I going to

find something to write about I haven't already
written away: I will have to stop short, look

down, look up, look close, think, think, think:
but in what range should I think: should I

figure colors and outlines, given forms, say
mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is

behind what and what behind that, deep down
where the surface has lost its semblance: or

should I think personally, such as, this week
seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is

something going on: something besides this
diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I

could draw up an ancient memory which would
wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill

out my dreams with high syntheses turned into
concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust

for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition
and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite

perfected yet: the gods could get down on
each other; the big gods could fly in from

nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4
interests—money, poetry, sex, death: I guess

I can jostle those....

______________________

GET OVER IT
—A.R. Ammons

I guess old men aren't really good for nothing:
they can cuddle, shuffle, and look

about for where it all went: harmless, they
are attractive, gently innocent, on park benches

or subways, or on the slow side of streets:
women are reassured by them; they are witnesses

without danger, guardian angels: out of the
game, earnings free, they are what they earned

before: they hardly compete at all: their toothless
mouths need no upkeep, no reconstructions,

no root canals or extraordinary measures:
it doesn't matter if their piss-burnt pants

stiffen up or if they seldom shave or use much
hot water: they are wonderfully inexpensive:

unless, of course, something goes wrong: they
just hang out on corners or in alleys, useless,

apologetic, inexcusable, supernumerary,
invisible among the seeing: what good is a mess

of stuff on its way out, nearly out: get on
out, you might say, you're taking up room:

but old men are good examples to the young of
what becomes of things: working, loving,

buying, living the dynamics, many can look
down the steep gradient of the slope to where

the rubbish edges the river and then reaffirmed
they can look back into the lights and run

along to do their parts: when I started this
piece, I intended under the guise of praise

to pour the world's comtempt on old men, but
I wasn't clever enough to modulate it gradually

the way, say, Shakespeare moves easefully
through changing weathers: but at times, old

men will look up at the world, raise an eyebrow
and smile a small smile hard to read.

_____________________

IN VIEW OF THE FACT
—A.R. Ammons

The people of my time are passing away: my
wife is baking for a funeral, a 60-year-old who

died suddenly, when the phone rings, and it's
Ruth we care so much about in intensive care:

it was once weddings that came so thick and
fast, and then, first babies, such a hullabaloo:

now, it's this that and the other and somebody
else gone or on the brink: well, we never

thought we would live forever (although we did)
and now it looks like we won't: some of us

are losing a leg to diabetes, some don't know
what they went downstairs for, some know that

a hired watchful person is around, some like
to touch the cane tip into something steady,

so nice: we have already lost so many,
brushed the loss of ourselves ourselves: our

address books for so long a slow scramble now
are palimpsests, scribbles and scratches: our

index cards for Christmases, birthdays,
Halloweens drop clean away into sympathies:

at the same time we are getting used to so
many leaving, we are hanging on with a grip

to the ones left: we are not giving up on the
congestive heart failure or brain tumors, on

the nice old men left in empty houses or on
the widows who decide to travel a lot: we

think the sun may shine someday when we'll
drink wine together and think of what used to

be: until we die we will remember every
single thing, recall every word, love every

loss: then we will, as we must, leave it to
others to love, love that can grow brighter

and deeper til the very end, gaining strength
and getting more precious all the way....

______________________

Glad to be back. May we continue to hang onto each other with a grip...

—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 Little Verbs that Bounce & Leap & Cut

SILVER BELLS
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

Across the street a little train runs circles
as if forever. It’s almost Christmas, the store
stays open later than usual, a whistling red
engine under some child’s tree. But this garage
doesn’t celebrate Christmas, the mechanics
go home at five o’clock whether our car is fixed
or not. It isn’t. They’re shutting up shop

as shoppers shut shop-doors behind them
and get in their cars for five o’clock traffic
that celebrates Christmas with red lights.
Our own car’s engine sits like a child’s toy
abandoned sooner than late. You whistle against
the cold that reminds us, Christmas is coming
mechanically as a little train running circles.

____________________

Thanks, TG!

Sacramentan Jane Blue sends us these wise words:

This is prose and it was written in 1935 in a book titled City Editor by Stanley Walker, so he is talking about newspapermen. My mother was a "newspaperman" in that era, in which there were few women, and I am really enjoying this man's words. So I thought you might like them for Medusa.

"He must learn, if he doesn't already know it, to avoid adjectives and to swear by the little verbs that bounce and leap and cut." (p. 43)

"Another group [substitute poets], always small, will be able to cover anything on the face of the earth. These rare and brilliant workmen, to whom the whole world is a pathetically defenseless oyster, are the hope of the papers. They have legs, wind, imagination, knowledge, a sleepless curiosity, and they can write the blunt Saxon tongue."

I love that—"the blunt Saxon tongue"

I really enjoy your blog and appreciate that you keep it going with something. Marianne Moore is very undervalued these days [see yesterday's post].

___________________________

Thanks, Jane! See some of Jane's "blunt Saxon tongue" in her poems in Rattlesnake Review #8 (now available at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac.), as well as some of her fine photography. Jane has been a powerful influence and great contributor to the Sacramento poetry scene for many years. One of her most recent duties was as Editor of Tule Review, which has been on hiatus for a year or so now, but has recently been taken over by Brad Buchanan, Keely Doran, and Robbie Grossklaus. Word is that a new issue of TR will be out very, very soon.

Meanwhile, Medusa will herself be on hiatus tomorrow, but will hopefully be back up on Monday. Content yourself with one more wonderful poem by JTG:


“TORCHED BY AN ANGEL”
(World Wide News)
—Taylor Graham

I spent all day with cinnamon & cloves
in a sugar dough
ginger & nutmeg & there’s the phone
the doorbell/gifts unwrapping
themselves in the closets
among the clothes,
you can’t keep a secret
from the kids & there’s
the phone
who? God? no—

I wound the lights around
the tree
& plugged it in &
all aglow
I reached
to stick a star
on top
&
bam!

You don’t
have a clue (he said)
about Christmas.
And then he lit
that star.

___________________________

—Medusa (aka Nanook. Wish me luck with the dogsleds...)

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.)

Of Wood-weasels & the Abstruse

THE WOOD-WEASEL

emerges daintily, the skunk—
don't laugh—in sylvan black and white chipmunk
regalia. The inky thing
adaptively whited with glistening
goat-fur, is wood-warden. In his
ermined well-cuttlefish-inked wool, he is
determination's totem. Out-
lawed? His sweet face and powerful feet go about
in chieftain's coat of Chilcat cloth.
He is his own protection from the moth,

noble little warrior. That
otter-skin on it, the living pole-cat,
smothers anything that stings. Well,—
this same weasel's playful and his weasel
associates are too. Only
Wood-weasels shall associate with me.

—Marianne Moore

________________________

I MAY, I MIGHT, I MUST
—Marianne Moore

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

________________________

VALUES IN USE
—Marianne Moore

I attended school and I liked the place—
grass and little locust-leaf shadows like lace.

Writing was discussed. They said, "We create
values in the process of living, daren't await

their historic progress." Be abstract
and you'll wish you'd been specific; it's a fact.

What was I studying? Values in use,
"Judged on their own ground." Am I still abstruse?

Walking along, a student said offhand,
"'Relevant' and 'plausible' were words I understand."

A pleasing statement, anonymous friend,
Certainly the means must not defeat the end.

_________________________

—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.)

Waiting for Me

A BLESSING
—James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
He mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

_______________________

Last night's RattleRead was an excellent launch for To Run With The Savages by Will'em Gainer, and we are grateful to all the Grass Valley/Nevada City (and environs) people who made the trek down, as well as to the Sacramentans who were there and/or sent their well-wishes, and to Indigo Moor for reading to celebrate his new littlesnake broadside, Nomads. The affection of the Nor-Cal poets for each other never fails to astound me—this is a place where competition almost always takes a second seat to support for each other. I am so glad to be a part of this.

Anyway, Snake 8 is waiting for you at The Book Collector (1008 24th St.), as is Indigo's broadside and all the other various snake-pubs, many of which are free. Or, heck—pop out a few bux of Christmas cheer and buy yourself Bill's new book, or some of the other wonderful small press poetry that Richard and Rachel so generously display.


MILKWEED
—James Wright

While I stood here, in the open, lost to myself,
I must have looked a long time
Down the corn rows, beyond grass,
The small house,
White walls, animals lumbering toward the barn.
I look down now. It is all changed.
Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
Was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
Loving me in secret.
It is here. At a touch of my hand,
The air fills with delicate creatures
From the other world.

______________________

A DREAM OF BURIAL
—James Wright

Nothing was left of me
But my right foot
And my left shoulder.
They lay white as the skein of a spider floating
In a field of snow toward a dark buildling
Tilted and stained by wind.
Inside the dream, I dreamed on.

A parade of old women
Sang softly above me,
Faint mosquitoes near still water.

So I waited, in my corridor.
I listened for the sea
To call me.
I knew that, somewhere outside, the horse
Stood saddled, browsing in grass,
Waiting for 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.)

If Despair is Our Portion

DECEMBER NIGHT
—D. H. Lawrence

Take off your cloak and your hat
And your shoes, and draw up at my hearth
Where never woman sat.

I have made the fire up bright;
Let us leave the rest in the dark
And sit by firelight.

The wine is warm in the hearth;
The flickers come and go.
I will warm your limbs with kisses
Until they glow.

____________________

TWOFOLD
—D.H. Lawrence

How gorgeous that shock of red lilies, and larkspur cleaving
All with a flash of blue!—when will she be leaving
Her room, where the night still hangs like a half-folded bat
And passion unbearable seethes in the darkness, like must in a vat.

____________________

Tonight is RattleRead #22 (I think), featuring Fun Guy and Cool Poet William S. Gainer, who comes to us all the way from the wilds of Grass Valley, where men are men and women are glad of it. Come hear him read from his new rattlechap, To Run With The Savages.

Also premiering tonight will be Indigo Moor's littlesnake broadside, Nomads, and an action-packed Rattlesnake Review #8 will emerge, as well. And I hear there will be wine...


LOGGERHEADS
—D.H. Lawrence

Please yourself how you have it.
Take my words, and fling
Them down on the counter roundly;
See if they ring.

Sift my looks and expressions,
And see what proportion there is
Of sand in my doubtful sugar
Of verities.

Have a real stock-taking
Of my manly breast;
Find out if I'm sound or bankrupt,
Or a poor thing at best.

For I am quite indifferent
To your dubious state,
As to whether you've found a fortune
In me, or a flea-bitten fate.

Make a good investigation
Of all that is there,
And then, if it's worth it, be grateful—
If not, then despair.

If despair is our portion
Then let us despair.
Let us make for the weeping willow.
I don't care.

________________________

—Medusa (who is definitely ready for some wine...)

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 Long Torture of Delayed Birth

A PERSON FROM PORLOCK
—R.S. Thomas

There came a knocking at the front door,
The eternal, nameless caller at the door;
The sound pierced the still hall,
But not the stillness about his brain.
It came again. He arose, pacing the floor
Strewn with books, his mind big with the poem
Soon to be born, his nerves tense to endure
The long torture of delayed birth.

Delayed birth: the embryo maimed in the womb
By the casual caller, the chance cipher that jogs
The poet's elbow, spilling the cupped dream.

The encounter over, he came, seeking his room:
Seeking the contact with his lost self;
Groping his way endlessly back
On the poem's path, calling by name
The foetus stifling in the mind's gloom.

______________________

In the case of Snake 8, the "long torture of delayed birth" is almost over—as we speak, my Phaser 1600 is crankin' 'em out. Life is 'way better since we moved my printer downstairs, out of Sam's office. Now I can stew over its every little burp and whistle, jump on it whenever it hiccups. In short, Snake 8 will debut its rascally head today and tomorrow, and those of you who have to rely on snailmail will have it soon, as well. As always, my thanks to the many poets who have filled the pages of yet another Snake.

Yesterday's posting lists many of the local readings for this week. Here's one more, from Modesto: The Central California Art Association & Mistlin Art Gallery announces a poetry reading of young writers from Modesto High on Saturday, Dec. 17 at 4pm in the gallery, 1015 J St. in downtown Modesto. English instructor Jennifer Pereira will be bringing 12 of her creative writing students to read, sing, and celebrate their work, including Allison Cisneros, Tim Irvine, Chad Cummings, Courtney Dostie, Lindsay King, Brent Barth, Marina Long, Mara Van de Pol , and Laralyn Murphy. Free; the public is welcome.

_______________________

TO A YOUNG POET
—R.S. Thomas

For the first twenty years you are still growing,
Bodily that is; as a poet, of course,
You are not born yet. It's the next ten
You cut your teeth on to emerge smirking
For your brash courtship of the muse.
You will take seriously those first affairs
With young poems, but no attachments
Formed then but come to shame you,
When love has changed to a grave service
Of a cold queen.

From forty on
You learn from the sharp cuts and jags
Of poems that have come to pieces
In your crude hands how to assemble
With more skill the arbitrary parts
Of ode or sonnet, while time fosters
A new impulse to conceal your wounds
From her and from a bold public,
Given to pry.

You are old now
As years reckon, but in that slower
World of the poet you are just coming
To sad manhood, knowing the smile
On her proud face is not for you.

_________________________

—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 Purple Necessity of a Ceiling

A BOY'S HEAD
—Miroslav Holub

In it there is a space-ship
and a project
for doing away with piano lessons.

And there is
Noah's ark,
which shall be first.

And there is
an entirely new bird,
an entirely new hare,
an entirely new bumble-bee.

There is a river
that flows upwards.

There is a multiplication table.

There is anti-matter.

And it just cannot be trimmed.

I believe
that only what cannot be trimmed
is a head.

There is much promise
in the circumstance
that so many people have heads.

_____________________

Monday (12/12) go the the Sacramento Poetry Center Board Meeting at Hamburger Mary's on 17th & J, Sacramento, 5:45 pm, then attend the reading at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.), featuring Albert Garcia, Dean of Language and Lit. at Sac City College, 7:30 pm. Albert will read from his second book, Skunk Talk (Bear Star Press). Info: 916-451-5569.

Be sure to attend Bill Gainer's reading this Wednesday (12/14) at The Book Collector to celebrate the release of his new chap, To Run With The Savages, and to pick up a free copy of the new Snake 8. Also appearing that evening will be Indigo Moor, who will read from his new (free) littlesnake broadside, Nomads.

After Bill's reading on Wednesday, head on over to Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant (1704 Broadway, Sac.) for the Mahogany Urban Poetry Series at 9 pm. $5 cover. Info: 916-492-9336.

Thursday, it's Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sac.) for Rachel Gregg, with Open Mic before and after. 8 pm. Info: 916-441-3931. Or the Poetic Light Open Mic from 8-10 pm at the Personal Style Salon, 2740 Cottage Way, Sac., free. Info: 916-470-2317. Or an Evening of Poetry hosted by La Rue at Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way, Sac., 7 pm. Info: 916-284-7831.

Friday, attend a book party to celebrate the publication of Luke Breit's new novel, The Tumultuous Times of Jesus in the 21st Century, from XLibris publishers. Music by Junkyard Burlesque and Roberta Chevrette & friends. 8 pm. Champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Art Foundry Gallery, 1021 R St., Sac. Info: 916-446-POET.

Saturday, The Show features LSB Jam Session. Born 2B Poets & NY Grand Slam Champ Tshaka Menelik Imhotep Campbell. Wo'se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sac. Info/tickets ($5): Underground Books or Terry Moore, 916-455-POET (not to be confused with Luke's number, 446-POET).


THE ROOF OVER OUR HEAD
—Miroslav Holub

No sooner does a human head develop
than there sprouts over it
the purple necessity of a ceiling, a cave
or a mole hole.

Because we know from centipedes
that there are always enough feet to get somewhere
but sometimes not enough feet
to get back again.

Lightning from the gods' leather quiver
furiously drums against the tin roof,
giving rise to a profile of the house
and an approximate portrait of
father and mother.

And in the black hole at the world's end
will be a poppy-seed embracing all
caves and buds and shelters,
as well as the collapsed summer house in our garden,
the weakest point of our already defeated
thatched defences.

_________________________

—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.)

And You, Mountain—

Du Berg, der blieb da die Gebirge kamen
—Rainer Maria Rilke

You, mountain, here since mountains began,
slopes where nothing is built, peaks that no one has named,
eternal snows littered with stars,
valleys in flower—

Do I move inside you now?
Am I within the rock
like a metal that hasn't been mined?
Your hardness encloses me everywhere.

Or is it fear
I am caught in? The tightening fear
of the swollen cities
in which I suffocate.

_____________________

Ich liebe meines Wesens Dunkelstunden
—Ranier Maria Rilke

I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.

Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that's wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a gravesite
and making real the dream
of the one its living roots
embrace:

a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs.

________________________

Ich ben nur einer deiner Ganzgeringen
—Rainer Maria Rilke

No one lives his life.

Disguised siince childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,

we come of age as masks.
Our true face never speaks.

Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits of armor or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the walls.

Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.

_____________________

Und doch, obwohl ein jeder von sich strebt
—Rainer Maria Rilke

And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:

All life is being lived.

Who is living it, then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?

Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?

____________________

—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.)

Bare Naked Slugs

A SLUG'S NIGHTMARE
—Ilija Ladin, Bosnia

Thus being brought to life he was naked
a bare naked slug
Then he hid himself in his shell
but again naked he was
a bare naked slug
Then he hid himself in the weeds
But again naked he was
a bare naked slug
Then he hid himself in a crack in the Earth
But again naked he was
a bare naked slug
Then he hid himself in its heart
into the Earth's heart
But again naked he was
a bare naked slug
And they already after him
set out for him
slugokill
to get rid
of him

And everything was licked up
but for his coarse
tongue!
A trace of his oh what a splendour!

______________________

Today (Saturday 12/10), attend Patricity in Spirit in Truth, open mic at Queen Sheba's restaurant, 1537 Howe Ave., 3-5 pm. Into: 920-1020.

Tomorrow (Sunday 12/11) Poet's Corner in Stockton presents John Moreaty reading Norbert Hirschhorn's The Empress of Certain, 7 pm, at Barnes & Noble in Weberstown Mall. Info: 209-951-7014.

Monday (12/12) go the the Sacramento Poetry Center Board Meeting at Hamburger Mary's on 17th & J, Sacramento, 5:45 pm, then attend the reading at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.), featuring Albert Garcia, Dean of Language and Lit. at Sac City College, 7:30 pm. Albert will read from his second book, Skunk Talk (Bear Star Press). Info: 916-451-5569.

Today's poems are from Scar on the Stone: Contemporary Poetry from Bosnia, edited by Chris Agee (Bloodaxe Books). Agee says: When humanity lies in ruins, when the house of light must be rebuilt, no task is surplus. The poem no less than the nail responds to the moral imperative of reparation.


PREGNANT GIRL
—Hadzem Hajdarevic

You feel sea-murmur, a buzzing April galop.
The waves are rumbustious greyhounds
but you are a full-fig garden.
Turn your eyes deepsea to the crimson-
and tequila-sunrise rocks
where south wind swells the bellies of the sails.

The rippled-snakeskin wind is a black sailor
with a silver ear-hoop. Don't break out
in shame. Don't get any nearer pure blue.
Touch wild roots at high tide
as the sea grows gentler with itself and you,
and splashes your ankles. St George's hour

ticks over louder, for you. Young rain falls
on the softsilk membrane
where scarlet angels pucker
the umbilical cord.
As if you'd made love with a dolphin
in a sailor's dream; or mine.

___________________

DATES
—Semezdin Mehmedinovic

On the 17th January 1994, he was killed.
For every day since,
he's been dead.

He is dead today too—
Friday the 24th February 1995.
And every evening

something uncanny
happens to me.
When I step into the bathroom

I notice in the mirror
how over my left shoulder
a shadow grows.

It's not mine. And if I look back
over that shoulder,
what do I see?

A dream, but my eyes are open:
a raven has flown down to my table
and it speaks,

saying: on the 17th May
cherries will be ripe in Sarajevo.

I hear it, and I wait.

____________________

—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.)

Brother to Brother

INCEST
—Richard Bruce Nugent

I have seen the tense length of my mother’s lover—
White with strain near the body of her child;
Damp with passion beside ivory softness;
Hot with desire to be cooled with soft coolings—
Had felt hot breath breathe short on the soft lips of me.
Felt taut muscles flinch at the feel of cool softness;
Sensed damp, curly hair brush with tremors my forehead;
Felt dry lips that fumbled in pained passion searching;
Felt hard whiteness damp with thin-lipped desire
For the soft satiation of the smooth cooling ivory
Of the body of the Child of my mother and her lover

(First published as part of "Geisha Man" in
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance, 2002
© 2002 Thomas H Wirth)

______________________

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing the movie, Brother to Brother, in which a young, black, gay poet supposedly meets the aging Richard Bruce Nugent—a poet and short story writer who was involved in the Harlem Renaissance in his own youth. The encounter is fictional, but the movie spurred me to Google Nugent, who was born to a well-to-do family in Washington, D.C. in 1906. Together with other Renaissance writers Langston Hughes, Wallace Thurman, and Zora Neale Hurston, he formed the short-lived black literary magazine, FIRE!!, which was highly controversial because it portrayed the black experience in more realistic fashion than the party line of the day. Plus, it (and Nugent) talked about black homosexuality, a highly politically-incorrect (and dangerous!) thing to do at that time. Nugent lived a flamboyant lifestyle, but he managed to stay alive until 1987.

The movie can be rented from Netflix; Google Nugent (who sometimes went by other names such as Richard Bruce to protect his family) for more info and poetry, in addition to short stories which seem tame now, but were highly inflammatory at the time.


NARCISSUS
—Richard Bruce Nugent

—and as he gazed, there seemed to grow
the sound-soft beauty of pale Echo;
Petaled breasts began to show
On the image pictured there below.

And the beauty of it pained him so:
The smile so double-sexed and slow,
Faint fair breasts and pale torso
Male into female seemed to flow—

(First published in Trend: A Quarterly of the Seven Arts,
January-February-March 1933)

______________________________

MY LOVE
—Richard Bruce Nugent

My love has hair
Like midnight,
But midnight fades to dawn.
My love has eyes
Like starlight,
But starlight fades in morn.
My love has a voice
Like dew fall,
But dew-fall dies at a breath.
My love has love
Like life's all,
But life's all fades in death.

("My Love" appeared in the October, 1926, issue of
Ida Purnell's influential little magazine, Palms.
That issue, devoted to the work of Negro poets, was
edited by Countee Cullen.)

____________________________

Those of you who know Ila Berry, a Bay Area poet and member of groups such as California Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc. and Ina Coolbrith Circle, might want to know that she has been having health problems. Sandy Lee Stillwell writes:
I am sure you must all know that our own dear Ila Berry has had her share of medical problems this Autumn. She is unable to get out much and has trouble with her vision. I thought it would be lovely if you, her poet friends, and fine poets you are, would send her a poem for the holidays. I would suggest that you make it just a small bit sexy in the style of Ila. Her address is: Ila Berry, 107 Marchbanks Court, Walnut Creek, CA 94525, 925-945-8652. Please share this information with other poets who know Ila. Thanks, I know this will brighten Ila's holiday season.

Or, heck—send the lady a poem, even if you DON'T know 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.)

Of Hardpan and Spadefoots

BAD WATCH BLUES
(for sea-sick Freddy,
on his way home)
—Ruth Harrison, Waldport, OR

I stood my watch, I was sposed to get relieved
Oh, I stood my watch, I was sposed to get relieved
But the Colonel didn’t like me, he seemed cold and peeved.

He sent me to the galley, but the galley was closed;
I went back to him, slightly tippy-toesed.

He sent me away, I passed out on the hatch;
Hypoglycemia’s got me, a real bad batch. ...
Forty-five minutes and the crewman came by—
He said are you all right, I said where am I.

Vomit two hours, felt dry and bare,
Got down to my berth among strangers there,
Had the dry heaves for—seemed like weeks
Bunk mate brought hot broth—no one else speaks.

Slept two days, only opened my eyes
When a buddy called with a voice of surprise
Harrison, come up—come and see—
Statue of Liberty wasn’t looking at me.

I saw her backside, a curving line—
That old Bartholdi, he shaped her just fine;
I was glad to see her, however she stood
Old stone lady really looked good.

______________________

Thanks, Ruth!

Hardpan: A Journal of Poetry is a new biannual journal coming from Modesto poets debee loyd, Karen Baker, and Gordon Preston. Deadline for its first issue is Jan. 6, 2006, to premiere in March, 2006. Send poems to PO Box 1065, Modesto, CA 95353 (hardpanpoetry@sbcglobal.net). Include name, address, e-mail, phone, and SASE. The editors promise to respond within 42 days! Send $15 for one year’s subscription. No previously-published work, please.

Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry has a contest deadline of February 28. Guidelines: tigerseyejournal.com, or click on the link to the right of this post. Mail entries (3 poems, $10, SASE) to Tiger’s Eye, PO Box 2935, Eugene, OR 97402. ALSO: The Tiger’s Eye gals would like to see your work space! Send b&w photos (preferably, though color will be accepted), and Colette and JoAn will choose one photo for a future cover of the journal. They say, “Don’t clean up the mess; just show it like it is.”

Tomorrow (Friday 12/9), The Other Voice meets at 7:30 pm in the library of the Davis Unitarian Church (27074 Patwin Road, Davis). The featured poets are JoAnn Anglin, Nora Staklis, and Tom Goff, who together lead the monthly PoemSpirits readings at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento. Open Mic follows, so bring along a poem to share... perhaps a favorite poem of light. (Info: Allegra 530-753-2634 or Betty 530-753-1432.)

No Second Saturday reading at The Book Collector this month.

GREAT BASIN SPADEFOOTS
(found poem, Janine M. Benyus, The Field Guide to Wildlife Habitats, p. 175)
—Ruth Harrison

Look for Great Basin Spadefoots
hunting for insects at night
or heading for breeding pools after a rain.
Dry periods or winters are spent
in underground burrows,
enveloped in a cocoonlike layer
of dead skin. ... Some observers claim
you can get a spadefoot to surface
by stomping on the ground
above its burrow. The skin ... is
relatively smooth and covered
with glands that excrete
a peppery-tasting, musty-smelling substance.
Look for eggs attached to stalks of vegetation
in the quiet waters of temporary pools
or in slow streams. The top of the mass
is dark olive, the bottom silvery-white.
Two jelly envelopes protect each egg.
The countdown starts
at the moment of fertilization.
Listen for a series of low-pitched,
throaty, rapid wa-wa-was.

________________________

—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.)

Smack in the Center of It All

Long-time Northern California publisher (and heckuva poet) Crawdad Nelson has published a book for Eskimo Pie Girl Rebecca Morrison. The book is called The Cook Inlet Poems, a series of poems about growing up in Alaska. Copies can be ordered for $5 from Crawdad (Flyway Press) at crawdiddlydad@yahoo.com. The book includes a couple of photos, plus a beautiful drawing of Mt. Redoubt by Crawdad. Rebecca's poetry will also be seen in Snake 8, and click on the link to her Eskimo Pie e-journal to the right of this. Here is a sample of Rebecca's fine work:


THE CENTER OF IT ALL
—Rebecca Morrison, Sacramento

In the center of the house
was a clean white space
on the braided green rug
where I sat by the fire
in my clean soft pajamas.
White light came through
the many windows from
the sunlit forest.
The clean and the warm
came from my mother
in her freshly ironed
bright-flowered dress
standing in the kitchen,
humming and washing
and baking.
She always said,
You must have good light.
And I grew in that
bright circle,
twirling in her gaze
beside the old fold-up
phonograph, crisp piano
notes falling like
perfect snowflakes
as I choreographed
the enchanted forest,
lying on the clean
spotless rug,
reading my story
book aloud to
her in that perfect
light in the
center of it all.

____________________

Thanks, Rebecca! Check The Book Collector for collections of Crawdad's poetry, too.

And don’t forget: Bill Gainer’s RattleRead is NEXT Wednesday at The Book Collector, not tonight. Dec. 14, not the 7th.


CONSUMMATION OF GRIEF
—Charles Bukowski

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and all the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines...

it matters little

very little love is not so bad
or very little life

what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this

I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

___________________

—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.)

Seeing Ourselves in Weasel

Mustela frenata
(Foster Meadow, Eldorado National Forest)

I suck air between tongue and teeth:
universal squeal of animal distress.
Birdwatchers know this lure:
the little creatures’ soft shrill shriek.

High above the red fir they come winging
dipping low to better see;
warblers, perhaps nuthatch or chickadee—
too fast—too high to name.

Then, from below, eight feet away
undulating with a sinuous flow:
size of a squirrel but richer brown,
black tipped tail an ink-dipped brush,

she smoothly glides wave-like to disappear
beneath this deck of logs where I’m perched.
I think of her in winter white as ermine
seeking nests of sleeping mouse and vole.

Sleek, lithe, intent—why is her summer name
spoken with contempt?
Is she as evil as we think?
Or do we simply see ourselves in weasel?

—Hatch Graham, Somerset

________________________

Thanks, Hatch! This poem originally appeared in Rattlesnake Review.

This just in: This coming Friday (12/9), The Other Voice meets at 7:30 pm in the library of the Davis Unitarian Church (27074 Patwin Road, Davis). The featured poets are JoAnn Anglin, Nora Staklis, and Tom Goff, who together lead the monthly PoemSpirits readings at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento. Open Mic follows, so bring along a poem to share...perhaps a favorite poem of light. (Info: Allegra 530-753-2634 or Betty 530-753-1432.) About the poets:

JoAnn Anglin was an early member of Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol/Writers of the New Sun and the Third Sunday Writing Group. Her work has appeared in Poetry Now and in many anthologies, including The Sacramento Anthology: 100 Poems; Cantos y Cuentos: Poems and Stories; and The Pagan Muse. A chapbook of her work, Words Like Knives, Like Feathers, was published by Rattlesnake Press in 2004.

Nora Staklis draws strength and inspiration for her poetry from both her American and Latvian ancestries. Nora's work has been widely published in journals such as Tule Review, Rattlesnake Review, and American River Review, and in the anthologies, Poets Against the War and Flowers of Love. One of her poems is soon to be choreographed for a dance to be performed for the Renaissance Winter Solstice.

Tom Goff is the author of Field of the Cloth of Gold published by Poet's Corner Press. His poems have also appeared in many journals including Rattlesnake Review; Tiger's Eye: A Journal of Poetry; Poetry Depth Quarterly and in anthologies. He also writes critical reviews of literary works. New work is forthcoming in Blood on the Page, an anthology of writing as part of the healing process, compiled by Dr. (and Poet) Chip Spann.

And don’t forget: Bill Gainer’s RattleRead is NEXT Wednesday at The Book Collector, not this one. Dec. 14, not the 7th.

Speaking of JoAnn Anglin and Chip Spann, JoAnn will be debuting in this issue of the Snake as Interviewer-in-Residence; her first piece will be about Chip and how his poetry-as-healing program at Sutter has grown over the few years since he first established it.


AT A LOOSE END
—D.H. Lawrence

Many years have I still to burn, detained
Like a candle-flame on this body; but I enclose
Blue shadow within me, a presence which lives contained
In my flame of living, the invisible heart of the rose.

So through these days, while I burn on the fuel of life,
What matter the stuff I lick up in my daily flame;
Seeing the core is a shadow inviolate,
A darkness that dreams my dream for me, ever the same.

________________________

—Medusa (sorry to be late today; our 'Net server has been down)

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 Snake Wait Under His Weed

A SORT OF A SONG
—William Carlos Williams

Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.

—through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

______________________

The Snake is indeed waiting under his weed as I type-type-type; Snake 8 will "hit the stands" next week. Be sure to attend Bill Gainer's reading on DECEMBER 14 at The Book Collector (not the 7th!) and pick up a free copy. Also appearing that evening will be Indigo Moor, who will read from his new littlesnake broadside, Nomads. Herewith is a sample:


NOMADS
—Indigo Moor, Rancho Cordova

For six days we purify metal.
Sleepwalking through sulfur clouds.
A few pennies forged with every muscled
clang of pig iron and rust. Friday’s
whistle, our Pavlovian call to bedlam,
triggers us down to dogs.

Saturday, we hang our checks
on new shoes, silk ties, gold chains.
Scrub iron ore from our fingers,
coke dust from faces before slow fading
from day to night. A bottle of gin
passes between us. We stiff leg
and hip drop a pimp down the boulevard.

We tug our hats down—our faces
become curved horizons with brown,
felt suns rising askew. Walking the bricks,
we crave music worth killing for:
manna soaked in bourbon; grilled
over hot Mississippi coals.

The Easy Lion Jazz Joint exhales
the intoxicating vibration
of wood-stomp and tremor-slide.
Bass so cold it shatters hot breath.
The sax man’s vibrato wrenches
moans from our bodies.
Sways us into fevered cattails
wrapped in sweat and silk.
Spit-shined leather begins to fly.

Two more juke joints before sunrise.
A plate of ribs and a whiskey sour.
Sunday morning is a hangover
hard as an I-beam stove into our heads.
All too soon, the factory whistle.

___________________

Thanks, Indigo!

Tonight (12/5), the Sacramento Poetry Center features Mary Zeppa and Stan Zumbiel at HQ (25th and R Sts., Sac.), 7:30 pm. It's all about—


THE POEM
—William Carlos Williams

It's all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song.
It should

be a song—made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian—something
immediate, open

scissors, a lady's
eyes—waking
centrifugal, centripetal

____________________

—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 Same Message Holds

AMEN
—R.S. Thomas

And God said: How do you know?
And I went out into the fields
At morning and it was true.

Nothing denied it, neither the bowed man
On his knees, nor the animals,
Nor the birds notched on the sky's

Surface. His heart was broken
Far back, and the beasts yawned
Their boredom. Under the song

Of the larks, I heard the wheels turn
Rustily. But the scene held;
The cold landscape returned my stare;

There was no answer. Accept; accept.
And under the green capitals,
The molecules and the blood's virus.

_____________________

A WELSHMAN AT ST. JAMES' PARK
—R.S. Thomas

I am invited to enter these gardens
As one of the public, and to conduct myself
In accordance with the regulations;
To keep off the grass and sample flowers
Without touching them; to admire birds
That have been seduced from wildness by
Bread they are pelted with.
I am not one
Of the public; I have come a long way
To realise it. Under the sun's
Feathers are the sinews of stone,
The curved claws.
I think of a Welsh hill
That is without fencing, and the men,
Bosworth blind, who left the heather
And the high pastures of the heart. I fumble
In the pocket's emptiness; my ticket
Was in two pieces. I kept half.

_______________________

GOOD
—R.S. Thomas

The old man comes out on the hill
and looks down to recall earlier days
in the valley. He sees the stream shine,
the church stand, hears the litter of
children's voices. A chill in the flesh
tells him that death is not far off
now: it is the shadow under the great boughs
of life. His garden has herbs growing.
The kestrel goes by with fresh prey
in its claws. The wind scatters the scent
of wild beans. The tractor operates
on the earth's body. His grandson is there
ploughing; his young wife fetches him
cakes and tea and a dark smile. It is well.

______________________

Today's Sacramento Bee also has Bill Gainer's reading listed for this week. Yikes. It must've been me! Well, the same message holds as yesterday: the reading is the 14th, not the 7th.

—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.)

Gainer Alert!

On Wednesday, December 14, Bill Gainer will read at The Book Collector (1008 24th St., Sac.) to celebrate the release of his new Rattlechap, To Run With The Savages (7:30 p.m.). Unfortunately, Sacramento News & Review has the date listed as Dec. 7. Oy. December 7 would be an inauspicious day for such hilarity, being (1) Pearl Harbor Day, (2) the anniversary of my mother's death, and (3) the anniversary of the death of my all-time favorite cat. So be sure you show up on DECEMBER 14, and not the 7th. Also premiering that night will be Rattlesnake Review #8, as well as littlesnake broadside #19 by Indigo Moor.

Also listing Dec. 7 is Eskimo Pie Girl, Rebecca Morrison's local poetry website. I'm putting her site on my "instant" sites (see links on the right) because it's such a well-laid-out listing of interviews, poetry, and other local poet-phernalia. You should check it on a regular basis to stay in touch with the Local Scene. Just be aware that her listing for Bill's reading should say the 14th.

Here is a sample of the irrepressible Bill, who comes to us all the way from Grass Valley:


CHINESE FOR LUNCH
—William S. Gainer

It's a mystery,
why some insist
on using chopsticks.
Messing with their food
like that.

If you want to play—
get a ball,
if you want to eat—
eat,
if you want to impress me,
then pick up
the check.

____________________

TO RUN WITH THE SAVAGES
—William S. Gainer

Most are one or the other
but to run with the savages
you need to be both:
mean
and tough.

Everything is met
with eyes focused.
No conversation,
no running to momma,
no place to hide.

To survive
you need to learn
to take your meat
fresh.
Remember:
They don’t want to kill you,
they want to eat you
alive.

_______________________

Thanks, Bill! And don't forget that Dennis Schmitz will be reading tomorrow night (Sunday 12/4) for PoemSpirits at the Unitarian Church on Sierra Blvd. in Sacramento at 6 pm. Drive around to the back; it's in Rooms 7-8.

—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 Words are Wild

Three poetry readings tonight: Susan Kelly-DeWitt and friends in Davis, Beth Lisick at Luna's, Taylor Graham/Phil Weidman/Kathy Kieth in El Dorado Hills. Check the last few posts for details. No matter which end of the county you live in, there's something going on near you.

Taylor Graham, as Energizer-in-Residence for Rattlesnake Review, encouraged us to write triolets for this upcoming issue, and she got a good response. Which brings to mind Gerard Manley Hopkins' "A Trio of Triolets":

No. 1—Is there any news today?

'No news in the Times to-day,'
Each man tells his next-door neighbour.
He, to see if what they say,
'No news in the Times to-day'
Is correct, must plough his way
Through that: after three hours' labour,
'No news in the Times to-day,'
Each man tells his next-door neighbour.


No.2—Cockle's Antibilious Pills

'When you ask for Cockle's Pills,
Beware of spurious imitations.'
Yes, when you ask for every ill's
Cure, when you ask for Cockle's Pills,
Some hollow counterfeit that kills
Would fain mock that which heals the nations.
Oh, when you ask for Cockles' Pills
Beward of heartless imitations.


No. 3—'The Child is Father to the Man' (Wordsworth)

'The child is father to the man.'
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
'The child is father to the man.'
No, what the poet did write ran,
'The man is father to the child.'
'The child is father to the man!'
How can he be? The words are wild.

___________________

—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.)

And Miles To Go...

Winter is finally here, with some rainy miles to go before the Solstice turns us around and the days start getting longer again.

WINTER'S WORK
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Rain scrawls down windowpanes like smashed bugs.
Makes me remember my California childhood.
We trimmed the Christmas tree with aluminum icicles
mother called rain. Every winter I unfurled
strands of it, placing each laboriously on the tree
until they grew into a downpour. Afterwards
I packed each disintegrating string back into the skein
of rain, out of thrift, the nemesis of Christmas.
One Christmas day the uncle who always needed
to get a breath of air, swung up the stairs to the porch
and yelled, "It's snowing, it's snowing!" He led me out
with his big firm hand. Then all the cousins rushed
out of the house and we tried to catch snowflakes
on our tongues. Fog blew in and hushed everything,
but it didn't measure up to snow. Cards came,
with a single house in fields of snow, windows
glowing, a fox popped out of its den, unafraid,
and there were no quarreling families inside.

____________________

Thanks, Jane! See more of Jane Blue's poetry—and some of her photographs—in Snake 8, coming to warm up your cockles in mid-December.


SONG AT THE YEAR'S TURNING
—R.S. Thomas

Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream decays.
The props crumble. The familiar ways
Are stale with tears trodden underfoot.
The heart's flower withers at the root.
Bury it, then, in history's sterile dust.
The slow years shall tame your tawny lust.

Love deceived him; what is there to say
The mind brought you by a better way
To this despair? Lost in the world's wood
You cannot stanch the bright menstrual blood.
The earth sickens; under naked boughs
The frost comes to barb your broken vows.

Is there blessing? Light's peculiar grace
In cold splendour robes this tortured place
For strange marriage. Voices in the wind
Weave a garland where a mortal sinned.
Winter rots you; who is there to blame?
The new grass shall purge you in its flame.

_______________________

LORE
—R.S. Thomas

Job Davies, eight-five
Winters old, and still alive
After the slow poison
And treachery of the seasons.

Miserable? Kick my arse!
It needs more than the rain's hearse,
Wind-drawn, to pull me off
The great perch of my laugh.

What's living but courage?
Paunch full of hot porridge,
Nerves strengthened with tea,
Peat-black, dawn found me

Mowing where the grass grew,
Bearded with golden dew.
Rhythm of the long scythe
Kept this tall frame lithe.

What to do? Stay green.
Never mind the machine,
Whose fuel is human souls.
Live large, man, and dream small.

_____________________

—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.)