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.)