Thursday, December 15, 2005

Waiting for Me

—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.

—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.


—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 encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to 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.)