More About the Dawg

GUIDE DOG
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

My life unfolds in the brilliant greens of spring.
Against clouds, flowers seem brighter—rhododendrons,
azaleas, roses, snapdragons, pansies, whizzing by.
A blind man, his dog preceding, boards the bus.
The dog sniffs the driver’s seat, which the driver has left
to show the man to an empty seat. Perhaps the dog
thinks she should drive. A woman begins talking loudly
about how a man in a wheelchair had run over her foot.
As though all disabilities are the same, and annoying.
As though the blind man is deaf. As though the dog
is a chair. The blind man stares straight ahead
and the dog lays her head on her paws on the bus floor.
In soft rain all the colors of spring streak by.

_________________

Thanks, Jane! Jane was the first to send a poem to celebrate the Year of the Dog, and she has requested Jim Jobe’s new rattlechap (“I really admire his poetry,” she says). Send Medusa a poem of your own this week—about dogs or new beginnings or whatever tweaks your pen—and I'll send you a rattlechap, either James DenBoer's Black Dog, or Jeanine Stevens' new The Keeping Room, or any Rattlechap you don't already have (let me know). Your poem has to get to me by FRIDAY, though, so email is probably best: kathykieth@hotmail.com.

From now on, each Monday’s post will try to keep up with local poetry events for the week. This may mean that some are added AFTER Monday, so keep checking. I’ll also try to note them each day as they come in, though. For example, here are some that I didn’t post on Monday (but have gone back and added):

•••Josh McKinney announces the following: CSUS (Creative Writing) in conjunction with the Visiting Scholars Program presents "The Nymph Stick Insect: Science, Faith, and Poetry", a presentation and reading by Forrest Gander, on Wednesday, Feb. 1, 7-8 pm, Amador Hall 150, CSUS Campus. Free/open to public.

•••On Friday (2/3), The Other Voice presents Mehdi Moghaddam for an evening of music, dance and poetry inspired by the Persian poet, Rumi. They meet at 7:30 pm in the library of the Unitarian Church at 27074 Patwin Road, Davis, CA.

•••This Sunday (2/5) at 6 pm, experience the interplay of voice with voice, voice with music as Susan Hennies and Joe Finkleman present Two-Voice Poetry with Music, with Francesca Reitano on flute. Location: Room 11 at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues.

And finally, a memorial for Davis Poet Charlie MacDonald will be held on Sat., Feb. 11 at 2 p.m. at Wiscombe's Davis Funeral Chapel, 116 D Street, Davis.


VALHALLA
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Barney,
our barrel-bodied,
middle-aged,
weimaraner-shepherd mix,
lay on the kitchen tiles,
left hind leg
kicking, twitching
in her sleep;
in her dreams,
she ran through ancestral forests
of black Bavarian Pine
chasing uber-rabbits,
the giant stag and boar,
racing fleet as an Indian
through tall trunks
over moss, twigs, and loam,
sure of foot, blind in the wind,
tongue lolling,
raising her voice
in a midnight howl
as over the wood, the moon rose full.

_______________________


TRAVELS WITH COWBOY
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

A long drive down the Valley, cold
then warm and cool again, the kind of day
in March when the season can go either
way, back to winter or ahead to spring;
a day that draws new grass from unplowed
fields and hazes the horizon silver.

We arrive at last at our motel.
I walk our young dog, Cowboy, out back,
and he turns to me with Taco’s gaze—
Taco who died before this pup was born.
Taco, who spent many a night with us
in this same motel.

This evening, the tepid air, no longer
winter and not quite spring, takes me back
to walking other dogs between this hedge
and freeway fence. Dogs long dead
look me in the eye, through the eyes
of this new Cowboy.

And here’s a lonely gap in the fence
where drifters after dark will slip
from westbound interstate to shrubbery.
Like us, they’ll be out of here by dawn.
We travelers through our seasons
of losing, leaving, moving on.

________________________

—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.)

Year of the Dog (& Po-Events 1/30-2/5)

Black dog must investigate every grated sewer opening.
He stiffens, 10 feet ahead, slows and tiptoes,
head lowered to the edge, looks cautiously between the iron bars,
and listens to the echoes of his own breathing drip
underground for miles...

Those are the opening lines from Black Dog, Rattlechap #16, by James DenBoer— a most fitting way to kick off the Year of the Dog. I was born in the Year of the Dog (1946), and will turn 60 in the Year of the Dog—which seemed highly auspicious until I realized that everybody turns 60 in the year of the animal sign under which they were born. (You do the math; it has to do with 12's).

So we're celebrating our canine cohorts with poetry about dogs today, and with a wee freebie: send Medusa a poem of your own this week—about dogs or new beginnings or whatever the hell tweaks your pen—and I'll send you a rattlechap, either Black Dog, or Jeanine Stevens' new The Keeping Room, or any Rattlechap you don't already have (let me know). Your poem has to get to me by FRIDAY, though, so email is probably best: kathykieth@hotmail.com.

Well, butter my ass and call me Biscuit! Co-inky-dinks abound: this Wednesday (2/1) is the reading/release of Clan-of-the-Dog-One-Dog-Press-Man James Lee Jobe's new rattlechap, What God Said When She Finally Answered Me. JLJ is a 'way-fun reader and raconteur who will appear at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. at 7:30 this Weds. Be there. Oh—and a read-around will follow; bring a poem of your own to read, or somebody else's. (And while you're waiting, click on the link to the right of this column to check in on JLJ's dandy blog.)

Other events this week:

•••Tonight (Mon., 1/30), the Sacramento Poetry Center presents Laurie Duesing and Michael Spurgeon, hosted by Bob Stanley. 7:30 pm, HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.). Free; open mic to follow. Info: 916-451-5569.

•••Weds. (2/1) the library staff will present a free short-story and poetry-writing workshop at the Arcade Learning Library, 2443 Marconi Av., Sac., 6:00-7:30 pm. Info: 916-264-2920. And Josh McKinney announces the following: Sacramento State University (Creative Writing) in conjunction with the Visiting Scholars Program presents "The Nymph Stick Insect: Science, Faith, and Poetry", a presentation and reading by Forrest Gander on Wednesday (2/1),7-8 p.m., Amador Hall 150, CSUS Campus. Free/open to the public.

•••Thurs., (2/1) Saul Williams presents "The Dead Emcee Scrolls", a free spoken-word program at CSUS's University Union Ballroom, 6000 J St., Sac., 7:30 pm. Info: 916-278-6997. Poetry Unplugged is also that night at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac. Free (one-drink minimum), 8 pm. Info: 916-441-3931.

•••On Friday (2/3), The Other Voice presents Mehdi Moghaddam for an evening of music, dance and poetry inspired by the Persian poet, Rumi. They meet at 7:30 in the library of the Unitarian Church at 27074 Patwin Road, Davis, CA.

•••This Sunday (2/5) at 6 pm, experience the interplay of voice with voice, voice with music as Susan Hennies and Joe Finkleman present Two-Voice Poetry with Music, with Francesca Reitano on flute (and we hope a percussionist as well). Location: Room 11 at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues.


______________________

THE OLD DOG IN THE RUINS OF
THE GRAVES AT ARLES
—James Wright

I have heard tell somewhere,
Or read, I forget which,
That animals tumble along in a forever,
A little dream, a quick longing
For every fine haunch that passes,
As the young bitches glitter in their own light.

I find their freedom from lonely wisdoom
Hard to believe.
No matter the brief skull fails to contain,
The old bones know something.

Almost indistinguishable from the dust,
They seek shadow, they limp among the tombs.
One stray mutt, long since out of patience,
Rises up, as the sunlight happens to strike,
And snaps at his right foreleg.

When the hurrying shadow returns
He lies down in peace again,
Between the still perfectly formed sarcophagi
That have been empty of Romans or anybody
Longer than anybody remembers.
Graves last longer than men. Nobody can tell me
The old dogs don't know.

______________________

CIRCLING OF THE PACK
—Hatch Graham, Somerset

Around the kitchen the pack has all gathered.
Mama sets breakfast down on the floor.
Cody and Piper, and Cowboy all circle –
Who has the best, what is the score?

Breakfast is set down on the floor.
Cowboy’s is special, so he doesn’t like it.
Who has the best, what is the score?
Cody says Cowboy’s is good, so she’ll take it.

Cowboy’s is special, so he doesn’t like it.
Piper tries Cody’s because it’s not hers.
Cody says Cowboy’s is good, so she’ll take it.
But Piper’s got hers, and she’s hoping for more.

Piper tries Cody’s because it’s not hers.
Cowboy thinks Piper’s is actually best.
But Piper’s in his, and he’s hoping for more.
Mama says Cowboy’s is special for puppies.

Cowboy thinks Piper’s is actually best.
Mama says Cowboy’s is special for puppies.
Around the kitchen the pack has all gathered.
Cody and Piper and Cowboy still circle....

(previously published in Rattlesnake Review)

____________________

Thanks, Hatch!—What a magnificent use of the pantoum form. Don't forget that Cody, Piper and Cowboy are search-and-rescue dogs that regularly hunt out the lost. Last Friday I had the honor of hanging out with Hatch and Judy Graham's friend, Song Kowbell, to work on Song's upcoming Rattlechap. The day was shared with her search-and-rescue dogs, Oberon and Zippy, who are also magnificent animals. Song reminds me that Hatch was in on the ground floor of figuring out how to teach dogs to search for lost humans, and that for human handlers to be trained by Hatch Graham "looks great on their resume". Kudos to Hatch and Judy and Song and their beautiful dogs for dragging themselves out of bed on cold, cold nights to go look for those of us who have wandered. ("Whenever we go down the wrong path, we'll always end up at the wrong end." —Assemblyman Dennis Mountjoy, Morovia, quoted today in The Sacramento Bee.)

____________________

STUPID LITTLE DOGS

get mixed up in my legs as I walk
to the mailbox, get wound up in

retractible leashes and pyracantha
and their own enthusiasms: get

tangled up in all the juicy smells
of the day: ears flopping, tongues

flapping, nosey wet noses poking
into everyone else's business—total

disregard of permission . . . These
stupid little dogs don't get it: how life

is just one long retractible leash, one
thorny pyracantha . . .

—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks (previously published in Plainsongs, Spring 2004)

____________________________

—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.)

In the Oak Trees of Heaven

I WAS AFRAID OF DYING
—James Wright

Once,
I was afraid of dying
In a field of dry weeds.
But now,
All day long I have been walking among damp fields,
Trying to keep still, listening
To insects that move patiently.
Perhaps they are sampling the fresh dew that gathers slowly
In empty snail shells
And in the secret shelters of sparrow feathers fallen on the earth.

_________________________

LISTENING TO THE MOURNERS
—James Wright

Crouched down by a roadside windbreak
At the edge of the prairie,
I flinch under the baleful jangling of wind
Through the telephone wires, a wilderness of voices
Blown for a thousand miles, for a hundred years.
They all have the same name, and the name is lost.
So, it is not me, it is not my love
Alone lost.
The grief that I hear is my life somewhere.
Now I am speaking with the voice
Of a scarecrow that stands up
And suddenly turns into a bird.
This field is the beginning of my native land,
This place of skull where I hear myself weeping.

________________________

SMALL FROGS KILLED ON THE HIGHWAY
—James Wright

Still,
I would leap too
Into the light,
If I had the chance.
It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field
On the other side of the road.
They crouch there, too, faltering in terror
And take strange wing. Many
Of the dead never moved, but many
Of the dead are alive forever in the split second
Auto headlights more sudden
Than their drivers know.
The drivers burrow backward into dank pools
Where nothing begets
Nothing.

Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
On the quarter thumbnail
Of the moon. They can't see,
Not yet.

______________________

TODAY I WAS HAPPY,
SO I MADE THIS POEM
—James Wright

As the plump squirrel scampers
Across the roof of the corncrib,
The moon suddenly stands up in the darkness,
And I see that it is impossible to die.
Each moment of time is a mountain.
An eagle rejoices in the oak trees of heaven,
Crying
This is what I wanted.

_______________________

—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.)

Surprised by Joy

SURPRISED BY JOY—IMPATIENT AS THE WIND
—William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy—impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

____________________

WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH
—William Wordsworth

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
This ship ws nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she, and due north her journey took.

_____________________

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE (Sept. 3, 1802)
—William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first spendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying 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.)

A Phrase that Blows (What Fumy Wits!)

THE SNOW STORM
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
Or else expose tough ligament
And tender flesh to what before
Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.

Forceless upon our backs there fall
Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
Devised in many a curious style
To charm our safety for a while,
Where close to earth like mice we go
Under the horizontal snow.

______________________

AN ANCIENT GESTURE
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years,
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.

And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak,
He learned it from Penelope...
Penelope, who really cried.

______________________

It is the fashion now to wave aside
As tedious, obvious, vacuous, trivial, trite,
All things which do not tickle, tease, excite
To some subversion, or in verbiage hide
Intent, or mock, or with hot sauce provide
A dish to prick the thickened appetite;
Straightforwardness is wrong, evasion right;
It is correct, de rigueur, to deride.
What fumy wits these modern wags expose,
For all their versatility: Voltaire,
Who wore to bed a night-cap, and would close,
In fear of drafts, all windows, could declare
In antique stiffiness, a phrase that blows
Still through men's smoky minds, and clears the air.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

________________________

CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall die, but that is all I shall do for Death.

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he cinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabouts of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.

Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me
Shall you be overcome.

______________________

—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.)

In Defiance of Gravity

STRAIGHT AND NARROW ROAD
—Jacques Prevert

At each mile
each year
old men with closed faces
point out the road to children
with gestures of reinforced concrete.

__________________

The aging poems continue. While you're sitting around aging, you might as well go hear some poetry! Tonight at Luna's Cafe it's Bill Pieper; tomorrow choose from Jack Hirschman at the Art Foundry or Al Young at Grass Valley; Saturday it's Robbie Grossklaus at The Book Collector. See last Monday's post for details. At least there's plenty of good poetry to listen to while our wrinkles deepen and gravity takes over those growing mounds of flesh... :-)

On a cheerier note, next Wednesday at James Lee Jobe's Book Collector Rattle-Read, we will also premiere littlesnake broadside #20 by the illustrious Sacramento treasure frank andrick (small f, small a). This is his long-admired (also long and admired) Lamantia poem, Aurelia Occultica Lamantia—AOL. Come get yours (free) and hear the shy frank read a smattering of it. Here's a tasty sample:


This morning/mourning paper

I feel a void

The knowledge and presence

of a void—paradoxia paradiso

Space does not rush in to fill

This void

Void of voids—oh void of voids



Eye that smoothes

The eye that caresses

That touches with tenderness

Shaping the sacred into suicide shapes

Invisible patterns only seen in vision

Open eyed—wild eyed—third eyed

____________________

Thanks, frank! Next Wednesday will indeed be a historical day in Sacramento, with two heavyweights sending poetry into the stratosphere.

One more from Prevert; these translations were by Lawrence Ferlinghetti for City Lights.


THE DUNCE
—Jacques Prevert

He says no with his head
but he says yes with his heart
he says yes to what he loves
he says no to the teacher
he stands
he is questioned
and all the problems are posed
sudden mad laughter seizes him
and he erases all
the words and figures
names and dates
sentences and snares
and despite the teacher’s threats
to the jeers of infant prodigies
with chalk of every color
on the blackboard of misfortune
he draws the face of happiness.

_______________________

—Medusa (still defying gravity)

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.)

Eating the Earth, Drinking the Rain

FOURTH NIGHT AWAKE
—James Lee Jobe, Davis


The subtle changes of light

whisper that night is easing

back into morning again.

We live on a wheel.

Outside, beads of dew

form in the garden, on

the long leaves of the corn

and on the sticky fuzz

of the fast growing peach tree.


My wife's little snores float

across our home, she and our sons

are lost in a land of dreams.

The shadows fade from black to gray

and in the neighbors' Mulberry tree

the Magpies begin to stir.

There. Night is past.

_____________________

James Lee Jobe will be reading next Wednesday, February 1, at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., at 7:30 pm. JLJ has been published in Manzanita, Tule Review, Pearl, and many other periodicals. His poems are also included in The Sacramento Anthology: 100 Poems; Jewel of the Valley: A California Anthology, and How to Be This Man: The Walter Pavlich Memorial Anthology. He edited and published the poetry journals, Clan of the Dog and One Dog Press. He is a producer of radio commercials in Sacramento and lives in Davis, California with his wife and children. What God Said When She Finally Answered Me (Rattlesnake Press) is his fourth chapbook. (Please note that this month’s Rattle-read has been moved from the 2nd Weds. to the first one.)

Speaking of the top of the state, as we were yesterday, Berkeley poet Richard Silberg will be this month's featured reader in the Writers Read series at Colored Horse Studio in Ukiah tomorrow night (Thurs., 1/26) from 7:30-9 pm. Richard is associate editor of Poetry Flash and is the author of a volume of criticism, Reading the Sphere, and two volumes of poetry: Doubleness, and the recently-published Deconstruction of the Blues. Featured reader will be followed by an open mic session, with a six-minute time limit per reader. Refreshments available. Donation requested. Colored Horse Studio is located at 780 Waugh Lane, between Gobbi Street and Talmage Road. Info: 275-9010, 463-6989 or 468-9488.

Sandra McPherson writes: Poetry will miss Charlie Macdonald, young (49) and witty, much published, humble, a sonneteer, student of Thom Gunn’s, and a teacher of the art he knew deeply and originally. A memorial for Charlie will be held on Feb. 11, 2006 at 2 p.m. at Wiscombe’s Davis Funeral Chapel, 116 D Street, Davis, CA. Read more about Charlie in the Davis Enterprise obituary at http://www.davisenterprise.com/articles/2006/01/23/obituaries/344obit1.txt

Tonight (1/25), attend the Hidden Passage Poetry Reading from 6 to 7 p.m. at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St. in Placerville. 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.


THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF MIDNIGHT SOUNDS
—James Lee Jobe, Davis


I could just lie still in so

overtake me and feeling each moment. I could wait, as still as trees,

as quiet as night. The forest eats the earth, and drinks the rain.


The night is a thought of simplicity that I long for, each tree

is a friend who speaks my secret language of midnight sounds.


Lay down close with me in leaves, on the forest floor.

By light of day we’ll go, each to our own wanderings.

_______________________

—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.)

For the Birds

LAST OF HER LINE
—Lara Gularte

She follows ghost ruts of extinct wagon roads,
finds her husband, her mother, her baby.
They make their way single file
along the night trails of her memory.

Bent to the ground with age,
with the death of everyone she knows,
she walks slowly over the pasture.
Near a stand of oaks
through vein work of branches,
the sky sends signals to her eyes.

In a field wrapped by drooping barbed wire
where death perches on fence posts
she goes down on her knees,
with the wild mustard and gopher holes.

The snake tenses its muscles
as she waits,
on the other side of cold grass.

___________________

Thanks, Lara! Lara is one of the North Valley poets who have kindly sent poems for the next issue of Rattlesnake Review, due out in March (deadline Feb. 15). This issue will include lots of work from the poets of Chico and points north, including the Skyway Poets. Tune in to see some glorious poetry from people who live in the "upper end" of California.

Northenders are lucky to live near the bird sanctuaries up there, and this is the time of year to see all our feathered friends. This weekend, for example, is the Snow Goose Festival (1/27-29) at the Chico Masonic Family Center, 1101 W. East Ave., Chico. Sign up for more than three dozen field trips and workshops offered by the organizers of this family-friendly seventh annual event. Info: 530-345-1865 or www.snowgoosefestival.org.

Or this same weekend, head down to Mare Island for the San Francisco Bay Flyway Festival, featuring sunrise and sunset marsh tours and walking tours of the naval shipyard. The event is based in Bldg. 897 at Mare Island, near Vallejo. Info: 707-649-9464 or www.sfbayflywayfestival.com. This weekend is for the birds!


THE EAGLE
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

_________________________

THE SWAN
—F.S. Flint

Under the lily shadow
and the gold
and the blue and mauve
that the whin and the lilac
pour down on the water,
the fishes quiver.

Over the green cold leaves
and the rippled silver
and the tarnished copper
of its neck and beak,
toward the deep black water
beneath the arches,
the swan floats slowly.

Into the dark of the arch the swan floats
and into the black depth of my sorrow
it bears a white rose of flame.

_______________________


RIVER ROADS
—Carl Sandburg

Let the crows go by hawking their caw and caw.
They have been swimming in midnights of coal miners somewhere.
Let 'em hawk their caw and caw.

Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a hickory stump.
He has been swimming in red and blue pools somewhere hundreds of years
And the blue has gone to his wings and the red has gone to his head.
Let his red head drum and drum.

Let the dark pools hold the birds in a looking-glass.
And if the pool wishes, let it shiver to the blur of many
wings, old swimmers from old places.

Let the redwing streak a line of vermilion on the green wood lines.
And the mist along the river fix its purple in lines of a
woman's shawl on lazy shoulders.

______________________

—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.)

Don't Forget Your Dream of Me! (&Po-Events1/23-28)

S/HE SAID
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

“I’m more linear, actually,” you offer,
back erect as the plane of your cheek,
gaze burrowing into my viscera—
we talk about language,
feelings shifting behind our words.
I (the circle to your straight line,
port to your ship) receive
the thrust of your argument,
then return to myself.
Tied and swabbed, you sway within
my waters’ gentle kisses—
inclusive, eternal,
woman’s language, woman’s love.

_____________________

Thanks, Ann!

This is a big week for poetry in our area, as witnessed by page 4 of The Sacramento Bee’s Sunday Ticket section yesterday, with poetry lined up almost every day. Shazam!

•••Tonight (1/23), Maddy Walsh will read at Sacramento Poetry Center. Maddy is a charming young poet who has had many adventures, which she writes about very effectively. Hear her at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.) at 7:30 pm. Info: 916-451-5569.

•••Wednedsday (1/25) is the annual Burns Night: A Tribute to the Scottish Bard at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac.), 8 pm. During the open mic, read a selection from Robert Burns, other Scottish poets, or poetry of your own that celebrates either Burns, Scotland or Libations. Info: 442-9295.

•••Also Weds.: The Mahogany Urban Poetry Series at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., 9 pm. Info: 916-492-9336. $5 cover.

•••Thursday (1/26) features Bill Pieper at Poetry Unplugged (Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac.), 8 pm. Info: 441-3931. Also that night: Poetic Light Open Mic, 8-10pm at the Personal Style Salon, 2540 Cottage Way, Sac., Info: 470-2317; or Evening of Poetry, 7 pm, Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way, Sac. Info: 916-284-7831.

•••Friday, on the 27th, San Francisco Poet Laureate Jack Hirschman will read with Agneta Falk at the Art Foundry Gallery, 1021 R St., Sac., 8 pm. Refreshments; $5 contribution requested. This reading is made possible in part through a grant from Poets & Writers, Inc. Info: www.breitpoet.com/foundry.html.

•••That same night (Friday, 1/27), the Nevada County Poetry Series’ Annual Fundraiser presents California's new Poet Laureate, Al Young, and the Inkwell student writers from the Nevada Union High School. Tickets can be purchased in Grass Valley in advance at Odyssey Books, The Book Seller and Cherry Records ($8 general, seniors and students, and $2 for those under 18) or at the door ($10 and $3). Refreshments included. The show will be in the Main Theater at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. Info: 530-432-8196 or 530-274-8384.

•••The 27th is also Thomas Crapper’s birthday. Tom, born in 1910, did a heckuva lot to improve what we lovingly refer to now as, well, The Crapper.

•••And Saturday (1/28), Poetry Now Editor and Rattlesnake Press Asst. Wrangler Robbie Grossklaus will be releasing his new chapbook, Kissing Einstein, at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., 8 pm. Robbie is not releasing this beautiful publication through Rattlesnake Press, despite my whining, because he is anxious to make a mark for his own publishing house, Polymer Press. Fair enough; the loss is mine. Info: 916-442-9295.

•••Also Saturday (1/28): Brothers to the Sisters, with Tika and Franklin and the Ladies of Mahogany, Wo’se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sac., 7-9 pm., $5. Info: 916-455-7638.

Finally, Colette weighs in with a poem about aging:


IN OUR VEINS
—Colette Jonopulos, Eugene, OR

The gods forget their dream of us, drop
their protective arms, leave us like
the ‘69 Ford moored in the driveway. We
imagine glory recaptured, new upholstery,
white leather with deep stitches, cracked
dashboard replaced, wheels perfectly rounded
without scars from pulling too close
to the curb, suspension no longer
jarring. We demand the original red, take
her top down even in the misted
foothills, slide through curves, right ourselves
and keep driving, never using the rear-view
mirror. Still-slumbering gods forget the pact
of youth, the lie of Mercury in our veins,
eternal bodies that cruise coastal waters
in scant clothing hoping for the high
of sex, or something close. Bodies like ours
need time to stretch in the morning, our
fenders rumpled, tie-rod ends leaky; when
the new models parade their aerodynamic
selves, we recognize their cocky attitude, fearless
maneuvers, we shake the shoulder of
the gods, long tired of our whining engines.

_______________________

Thanks, Colette!

—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.)

My Bowl is Full This Morning

Today's poetry is from Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf: Zen Poems of Ryokan, edited and trans. by John Stevens (Shambhala, 1996).


Late at night I draw my inkstone close;
Flushed with wine, I put my worn brush to paper.
I want my brushwork to bear the same fragrance as plum blossoms,
And even though old I will try harder than anyone.

____________________

Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off frfom all worldly matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?

I'm so aware
That it's all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?

_____________________

REPLY TO A FRIEND'S LETTER
—Ryokan

Your smoky village is not so far from here
But icy rain kept me captive all morning.
Just yesterday, it seems, we passed an evening together discussing poetry
But it's really been twenty windblown days.
I've begun to copy the text you lent me,
Fretting how weak I've become.
This letter seals my promise to take my staff
And make my way through the steep cliffs
As soon as the sun melts the ice along the mossy path.

_____________________

In Otogo Forest beneath Mount Kugami
You'll find the tiny hut where I pass my days.
Still no temples or villas for me!
I'd rather live with the fresh breezes and the bright moon,
Playing with the village children or making poems.
If you ask about me, you'll probably say,
"What is that foolish monk doing now?"

_____________________

Along the hedge a few branches of golden mums;
Winter crows soar above the thick woods.
A thousand peaks glow brilliantly in the sunset,
And this monk returns home with a full bowl.

_____________________

—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.)

Just Dreams

BUS STOPS
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Downtown Sacramento waiting for a bus in late December
Does anybody know if Yolo Bus 41 stops by here?
either on 9th and K, off the light rail
or on L and 8th, or in front of the Macy's men's store?
I want a one that's going to West Sac,
that stops by Harbor Blvd, with the new IKEA
they're having a job faire
and I wanna get there before 5PM
"Oh ma'am, believe me, you want the 42A or B"
a blind man insists
"No you'd be better catching the 40",
says a grandmother
"No maybe you really want the 42B,"
says another woman, "But I don't know it it stops here"
she adds "I just pick up my disability check on Jefferson Blvd."
Nobody who appears to be looking for work rides the city bus
and I wonder if the "crazy" people wandering the streets
including a laughing rain-soaked lady in a mini skirt
got that way trying to figure out our system of public transportation

______________________________

Thanks, Michelle!

V.S. Chochezi writes: I received my copy of the Review. I enjoyed reading it very much. Wow, you attracted a great deal of Sacramento talent and also talent from other areas! I was pleased to be included with so many poet heavy weights.

My favorite poem in the whole book was to my surprise, a form poem that Joyce Odam wrote, Kyrielle. I love that line, "these days of woe are nothing new!" Feel
free to share my comments with her.

Congratulations on a GREAT edition!

Keep up the great work :)

______________________

Thanks, V.S.! V.S. (Sananaa) is one-half of the mother-daughter duo, Straight Out Scribes, and they will be reading at The Book Collector on April 12 to help the Snake celebrate his second birthday (the terrible twos!). Both Sananaa and her mother, Stajaabu, will be releasing littlesnake broadsides to celebrate the occasion.

Before that, though, getcher pens a'grindin' and send poems for Snake 9, due out in March. Deadline is February 15.


JUST DREAMS
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Nothing different from an ordinary stream of a dream,
first I became a big coned pine tree
covered with snow while shielding a statue of a gnome
with a radio show talking about German heritage
then I turned into a rocket, then became the Statue of Liberty
standing tall toward the sky with my torch so high
because I saw a ceiling caving in
and then I awoke with the alarm clock ring.

_________________________

—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.)

Before I Fade and Rot

ON TURNING SIXTY
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds
—William Carlos Williams

Listen to the cheeping chatter
rousing you from youth’s dreams
slipping, falling into morning.
Glad! the silly dawn-birds sing.
Gone is 59 forever! Your angst
twisted in a daisy chain. Girls
suppose Age settles somewhere
else, not on a bare limb outside
each window. But Come! the birds
sing to you now. Their tiny feet
track laugh-creases on the snow.
Woe to wrinkles, the scaly claw.
Wrong of all these blather-birds,
so ephemeral, to warble Spring
gone down last year and the last
to lands where Winter’s crows
sing sweet, Wake up and listen!

______________________

Thanks, TG!

Village Homes Community Center in Davis is holding a series of readings; the next will be this coming Monday (1/23) from 6:45-9 pm. In addition to open mic (sign-ups at 6:45), the featured performer for January will be Dr. Joan Garcia, usually known as Granny, or The Frog Lady, who produces songs and stories from the heart, music for children 2 to 102. She draws upon the richness of her experience to create a bubbling fountain of "silly songs," stories that allow the child in all of us to take joy in the simple things in life. Dr. Garcia has been featured at poetry venues in San Francisco and Walnut Creek, and given performances in Davis, Concord, Rio Vista, Sacramento, and other local communities, spreading her tales beyond the local community through her performances, through CDs available on her website (www.grannyspearls.com), and through videos for public access television (Vacaville and Sacramento). DIRECTIONS: Follow Russell west past the Arlington jog. First right after Arlington is Portage Bay. Turn right into the parking lot at 2661 Portage Bay. Park and follow the sign to the sidewalk to the Village Homes Community Center.

Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry has a contest deadline of February 28. Guidelines: tigerseyejournal.com. Mail entries (3 poems, $10, SASE) to Tiger’s Eye, POBox 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.” For further Tiger info, click on the link to the right of this. And while you're at it, click on the two new links: Ekphrasis and Poetry Depth Quarterly (PDQ), both fine, international publications headed by local poets. (And send a wee note to Tiger Co-Editor JoAn Osborne, who has recently spent a small stint in the hospital.)


LOVE POEM
—Edward Abbey

Under that leaking sky
the color of dead souls
where the snow is always gray
on asphalt and cement
and obscure birds
of dubious origin
seldom sing
or never sing at all
in the naked elms—
we found, somehow, you and I,
through the confusion
and brutal dullness
of the city falling in its sickness—
the shock of something wild
and secret, almost forgotten,
that flows through eyes
and nerves like fire—
yes, you and I,
in the good sweet luck
of our coming together.

________________

TERROR AND DESIRE
—Edward Abbey

The light floods out and falls
for the last time today
over the canyon walls
where the tiger lizards play.
Where the scorpions play.

West, the nighthawks circle,
cry, plunge and kill,
in the sun's cool fire
flared above the hill.
Dying over the hill.

(While under the juniper tree,
with a cold elegance,
the rattlesnake glides,
death in his glance.
Hunger in his glance.)

The night creeps after the sun
with the faith of a lover,
or the stealth of one
with hate to uncover.
With fear to uncover.

I think that I could follow
and walk through fire,
forever, into that great hollow
of flame and desire.
Of terror and desire.

_____________________

AUGUST, 1956—ARCHES
—Edward Abbey

Once more before I fade and rot
Let love come
Come to me let it come
As the wren to the canyon
And berry to the juniper
The tassel to corn
O let love come and grow within me
Like an angel-child, like a child-angel,
Descending a moon-ray
Like a plume of tamarisk
Falling on grass.

____________________

And finally, Richard Hansen writes: Susan Kelly-DeWitt asked me to pass along the sad news that poet Charlie MacDonald passed away Wednesday evening.

—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.)

Carping, Part Two

Yesterday’s carping about turning 60 next month brought commisseration from here and there, and impatience from poets who are past that and gearing up for the next leap. Here are two from Ellaraine Lockie:

BIRTHDAY REBELLION
—Ellaraine Lockie, Sunnyvale

The cinema super complex celebrates
senior citizenship for us at fifty-five
A birthday gift given
on every big screen outing
One I awaited with frugal fever
usually saved for a Nordstom sale
A three-dollar bribe into early old age
From some baby boomer bureaucrat
An executive decision
made in politically correct mode
That I suddenly can’t accept

The incorrectness of it
unbalancing more than a checkbook
As I take the ticket
from a person with pimples and braces
Who doesn’t even ask for an ID
And hasn’t heard of Jack La Lanne
or Mary Higgins Clark

Seniors who haven’t bought someone
else’s senility schedule
Maybe sniffed fear like me
of danger in self-fulfilling prophecy
And followed the scent of self-protection
to places that honor the elderly
at an acceptable age
Say seventy-five

____________________

AFFIRMATION
—Ellaraine Lockie, Sunnyvale

To every thing there is a season
and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
“Turn Turn Turn” by Pete Seeger
from Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, Verse l

Kids grow up (in theory)
Parents grow down (in practice)
before they finally die
Pets grow replacement lives forever
The partner grows not at all
Stunted in his muddy status quo

I outgrow the giving
Thirty something subservient years
Filtered through female compost
That nourished sprouts
Cultivated offshoots
Teenage blossoms
Carried weight of overripe fruits
Enriched their perennial deaths

I’m depleted now of decay
Of equipment to make it
Or desire to invent imitations
Gravitate toward plastic plants
Silk flowers, stuffed animals
Glass goldfish, TV dinners

I sow seeds for regrowth
outside sterile soil
Free like the breeze
that scatters the seeds
A wild weed dancing life
around a dormant tree
Self-indulgence fertilized
by its own impending death

__________________________

Thanks, Rainy!

White Lotus Poetry & Prose Workshop
at Hollyhock Retreat Center
Cortes Island, British Columbia
With Ellen Bass
July 2-7, 2006

Ellen Bass writes: I'm looking forward to teaching at Hollyhock July 2-7, 2006. To see more of this gorgeous place and to register, please visit hollyhock.ca. If you have questions about the workshop, please contact me at ellen@ellenbass.com or my assistant, Shalom, at victors75@rattlebrain.com or at 831-423-3064. In this workshop we will allow ourselves to extend our roots deeply into the mud of our experience in order to give voice to our writing. This is an opportunity to meet the poems and stories that gestate within us and to engage our most valuable resources—attention, courage, precision—in bringing them into being. There will be ample time for writing and time for sharing and response, hearing what our work touches in others. We'll help each other to become clearer, go deeper, express our feelings and ideas more powerfully. From beginners to experienced, all writers are welcome.


THE FLY (An Anacreontic)
—William Oldys (1696-1761)

Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Gently drink, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Could’st thou sip, and sip it up;
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.

Just alike, both mine and thine,
Hasten quick to their decline;
Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore summers when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one.

__________________

Thanks, 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.)

Cruisin' on into Sixty

TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY
—William Carlos Williams

Old age is
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a a snow glaze.
Gaining and failing
they are buffetted
by a dark wind—
But what?
On harsh weedstalks
the flock has rested,
the snow
is covered with broken
seedhusks
and the wind tempered
by a shrill
piping of plenty.

___________________

The old lady who calls herself Medusa will turn sixty in a few weeks, snakes, mood swings and all. Don't expect to be spared any of her angst; poems about aging will abound. Here is one from a north-valley poet:


HINDSIGHT
—Sally Allen McNall, Paradise

She was looking at her whole life.
This didn't feel voluntary, though she knew
death itself could be voluntary—as when
Mother died on her 96th birthday.

She herself noted a new willingness
to sleep in the daytime, and the waning
of certain appetites, for example, for change,
change which is human life.

She was looking at her whole life,
and now it seemed intolerable, the delays,
the fast and slow endings, the near and far
misses, but more than anything

the imagination's childish stubborn fondness
for a good story line. No question, she
herself would do it all again, and exactly,
without foresight as before, fear and sadness

slid quickly under each moment. But she
would beg like a dog, as before, waking
the whole house, demanding a plot,
recognition scenes, resolution, just as before.

And here was spring, with its tacky adorable
analogies and promises, no helpful narrative,
and here was the morning news again
of the usual random atrocities going on.

A rough stone, heaved into place in the lake
writes this, but also this, and then this,
touching, opening, opening us. She was looking
at her whole life, and would have to revise it again.

_____________________

Thanks, Sally! "Spring, with its tacky adorable analogies and promises, no helpful narrative..."

Sacramento Poet Laureate Julia Connor will read tonight at South Natomas Library on Truxel Road as part of the Urban Voices series, 6:30 pm. Or head down to the Central Library at 6:30 pm tonight to hear Julie Rivett, granddaughter of Dashiell Hammett, discuss The Maltese Falcon in the West Meeting Room, 828 I St., Sac. She will also talk about the traveling Maltese Falcon exhibit on display in the library through Jan. 29. Info: 916-264-2920.

Poets Laureate abound, in fact! A week from Friday, on the 27th, San Francisco Poet Laureate Jack Hirschman will read with Agneta Falk at the Art Foundry Gallery, 1021 R St., Sac., 8 pm. Refreshments; $5 contribution requested. This reading is made possible in part through a grant from Poets & Writers, Inc. Info: www.breitpoet.com/foundry.html.

And that same night (1/27), the Nevada County Poetry Series presents California's new Poet Laureate, Al Young, and the Inkwell student writers from the Nevada Union High School. Tickets can be purchased in Grass Valley in advance at Odyssey Books, The Book Seller and Cherry Records ($8 general, seniors and students, and $2 for those under 18) or at the door ($10 and $3). Refreshments included. The show will be in the Main Theater at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. For more information call (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384.

Well, okay. This aging thing is fatal, but not serious:


MIRROR MIRROR
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

Mirror bright mirror on the wall
I'm not the fairest of them all

Thankful enough to be here this day
I'll take my wrinkles out to play

And when the men look right through my skin
I'll just be glad for the shape I'm in

Being invisible has its plus side
I can do anything nothing to hide

So mirror mirror do your worst
When fun is calling I'll be there first

____________________

Thanks, Pat!

—Medusa (mood swings and all)

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.)

Life With the Graveyard

QUARTIER LIBRE
—Jacques Prevert

I put my cap in the cage
and went out with the bird on my head
So
one no longer salutes
asked the commanding officer
No
one no longer salutes
replied the bird
Ah good
excuse me I thought one saluted
said the commanding officer
You are fully excused everybody makes mistakes
said the bird.

__________________

Colette Jonopulos sends us a dandy website: http://literaryfriendships.publicradio.org/. Check it out!

This Thursday, Molly Fisk will present "An Evening of Replenishment and Creativity" at the Off Center Stage, Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, 7:30 pm. $10. Info: 530-271-7000. Molly Fisk also writes: There's a little bit of room in the January Internet Boot Camp, which begins this coming Sunday, Jan. 22nd, in case any of you would like to sneak in at the last minute and write some secret poems for your Valentine. If you're not familiar with Poetry Boot Camp, it's really fun and you can read all about it here: http://www.poetrybootcamp.com.

Yesterday I posted an announcement of the Open Mic, Peace Poem Theme at the Art Gallery Poetry Readings 05-06 Series, Mistlin Art Gallery 1015 J St., Modesto (Home of the Central California Art Association), 4 pm. Host Gordon Preston is asking those who wish to read to e-mail your poem(s) to him at gordonbp@sbcglobal.net so the reading roster will be managable. He also says "Chanting expletives will not be welcomed."

Saturday, attend the poetry/concert by Terry Moore, Heatwave and WAR at the Bob Hope Theater, 242 E. Main St., Stockton, 7:30 pm to benefit the Children's Miracle Network at UC Davis. Tickets $35-55; info: 916-455-7638.

And mark your calendars for April 1, when the City of Pleasanton and the Pleasanton Cultural Arts Council will present the 5th Annual Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival, with featured guest Billy Collins, in addition to a day of writing workshops for adults and children, including a Teen Slam Poetry workshop by Tshaka Campbell. More info & registration: www.pleasantonarts.org (click on Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival). Pleasanton Poet Laureate Cynthia Bryant has promised to send me a few flyers, as well.


FAMILIAL
—Jacques Prevert

The mother does knitting
The son fights the war
She finds this quite natural the mother
And the father what does he do the father?
He does business
His wife does knitting
His son the war
He business
He finds this quite natural the father
And the son and the son
What does the son find the son?
He finds absolutely nothing the son
His mother does knitting his father business he war
When he finishes the war
He'll go into business with his father
The war continues the mother continues she knits
The father continues he does business
The son is killed he continues no more
The father and the mother go to the graveyard
They find this quite natural the father and mother
Life continues life with knitting war business
Business war knitting war
Business business business
Life with the graveyard.

_____________________

THE DISCOURSE ON PEACE
—Jacques Prevert

Near the end of an extremely important discourse
the great man of state stumbling
on a beautiful hollow phrase
falls over it
and undone with gaping mouth
gasping
shows his teeth
and the dental decay of his peaceful reasoning
exposes the nerve of war
the delicate question of money.

Today's poems appear in Lawrence Ferlinghetti's translations of Prevert as published by City Lights.

—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.)

Wailing in Unison

EVERYDAY
—Abd al-Rahim Salih al-Rahim

The stubborn donkey
rises up with the rooster at daybreak
to follow exactly the same route.

At nightfall, the stubborn donkey
returns with his heavy load,
exhausted, saturated with sorrows.

The stubborn donkey,
after the usual vicissitudes of life,
stretches his limbs in the dark
and caresses his thoughts
and jumps among the stars
like a distant dream,
ethereal and alone.

______________________

Here are this week's poetry activities in our area; let me know if I've left any out:

•••Tonight, Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30 pm: A Celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. presented by Dr. Tchaka Muhammed: an open mic to share MLK-inspired poetry. Also featuring the film, Mighty Times. HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Info: 451-5569.

•••Wednesday (1/18): Urban Voices presents Sacramento Poet Laureate Julia Connor, 6:30-8 pm, South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac. Free. Also that night: Mahogany Urban Poetry Series, 9 pm, Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5 cover. Info: 492-9336.

•••Thursday (1/19): Poetry Unplugged features Poet/Painter David Wiley and poet/journalist Rachel Savage as they perform vision-driven tag-team poetry and prose from the Luna stage. Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac. 8 pm, free. Info: 441-3931. Also that night: Poetic Light Open Mic, 8-10pm at the Personal Style Salon, 2540 Cottage Way, Sac., Info: 470-2317; or Evening of Poetry, 7 pm, Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way, Sac. Info: 284-7831.

•••Todd Cirillo, who will be releasing a rattlechap this spring, informs me that he and Matt Amott are starting a small press up in Grass Valley. There will be a reading Friday (1/20) to celebrate the start of their Six Ft. Swells Press with the first chapbook release in their Cheap Shots Poetry Series, Tonight, You're Coming Home With Us. The reading is at 7 pm at Odyssey Books, 989 Sutton Way, Grass Valley. Info: 530-477-2856. You can order any Six Ft. Swells release from sixftswells@yahoo.com, beathearts@hotmail.com or call 530-271-0662.

•••Also Friday (1/20), 7:30 pm: Los Escritores Poetry reading featuring Anthony Martin, guitarista & poet, and Jim Michael, bilingual poet extraordinario! Followed by open mic. $5 or as you can afford. La Raza Galeria Posada/Bookstore; 1421 R St., Sac. Info: Graciela Ramirez 916-456-5323. http://escritoresdelnuevosol.com. All events of the Escritores are open to all.

•••Saturday (1/21): Open Mic, Peace Poem Theme, Art Gallery Poetry Readings 05-06, Mistlin Art Gallery 1015 J St., Modesto (Home of the Central California Art Association), 4 pm.

______________________

THE ROAD
—Abd al-Rahim Salih al-Rahim

We have lost our way back home
a sudden dread seized us
we may never find our way back
because we are getting further and further away.
We sat on a mound in the wilderness
staring at each other
while the evening bled cold into the sky
and a hollow weeping echoed through our souls:
Why have we lost our way home?
Why have we lost the way?

____________________

WAILING
—Abd al-Rahim Salih al-Rahim

At midnight
An owl flies from my breast
hooting harshly
the wind snatches up the call
and carries it over highway, track, roof
At once there's an answering call
tearing the night's mute robe
moaning in pain.
At once the two cries join up
wailing in unison
at the soul's gates.

_____________________

Today's poetry is from Iraq: Poetry Today, edited by Daniel Weissbort. The al-Rahim poems were translated by Saadi A Simawe, with Ralph Savarese, and with Daniel Weissbort. Medusa offers them on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in hopes that we will be able to hear each other from across the room, across the country, across the globe.

—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 Diver's Clothes

Today's post is poetry by Rumi, from Open Secret: Versions of Rumi, translated by John Moyne and Coleman Barks:


Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.

____________________

Does sunset sometimes look like the sun's coming up?
Do you know what a faithful love is like?
You're crying. You say you've burned yourself.
But can you think of anyone who's not
hazy with smoke?

____________________

THE BOTTLE IS CORKED

The rock splits open like wings beat
air, wanting. Campfire gives in to rain,
but I can't go to sleep, or be patient.

Part of me wants to eat the stones
and hold you back when you're leaving,
till your good laughing turns bitter and wrong.

I worry I won't have someone to talk to, and breathe with.
Don't you understand I'm some kind of food for you?
I'm a place where you can work.

The bottle is corked and sitting on the table.
Someone comes in and sees me without you
and puts his hand on my head like I'm a child.
This is so difficult.

_____________________

THE DIVER'S CLOTHES LYING EMPTY

You're sitting here with us, but you're also out walking
in a field at dawn. You are yourself
the animal we hunt when you come with us on the hunt.
You're in your body like a plant is solid in the ground,
yet you're wind. You're the diver's clothes
lying empty on the beach. You're the fish.

In the ocean are many bright strands
and many dark strands like veins that are seen
when a wing is lifted up.
Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins
that are lute strings that make ocean music,
not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.

_____________________

—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.)

More Sea Than Land

GROWN-UP
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

________________

Half-past eight? Who can stay up that long???

Here are a few reminders for this weekend:

•••Friends of the Sacramento Public Library will hold their first bargain clearance sale at the Book Den Warehouse, 8250 Belvedere Av., Ste. 8, Sacramento, from 12-5 pm today and from 10-4 on Sunday (1/15). Members of "Friends" can also shop from 9-noon today.

•••Tonight: Poems-For-All presents David Larsen, Lauren Gudath, Sean Finney & David Hayward at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., 8 pm. Free; also free mini-books. Info: 442-9295. This afternoon: Patricity in Spirit in Truth Open Mic at Queen Sheba's restaurant, 1537 Howe Av., Sac., 3-5 pm. Info: 920-1020.

•••Sunday (1/15) the Third Sunday Writing Group meets from 1-3 pm. Info re: location: eskimopi@jps.net.

•••Also Sunday: Poets Cleo Kocol of Roseville and John Doyle from Chico will be the featured poets at a Special Event sponsored by the Lincoln Library and Lincoln Arts Poetry Open Mic, 3-5 pm at the Scout Hall (behind the Lincoln Library) in Lincoln. Free to the public.

•••And Monday (1/16), the Sacramento Poetry Center will hold a Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration, with a video screening and open mic to share MLK-inspired poetry. 7:30 pm at HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Info: 451-5569.

____________________

CAP D'ANTIBES
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

The storm is over, and the land has forgotten the storm; the trees are still.
Under this sun the rain dries quickly.
Cones from the sea-pines cover the ground again
Where yesterday for my fire I gathered all in sight;
But the leaves are meek. The smell of the small alyssum that grows wild here
Is in the air. It is a childish morning.

More sea than land am I; my sulky mind, whipped high by tempest in the night,
is not soon appeased.
Into my occupations with dull roar
It washes,
It recedes.
Even as at my side in the calm day the disturbed Mediterranean
Lurches with heavy swell against the bird-twittering shore.

______________________

THE FAWN
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

There it was I saw what I shall never forget
And never retrieve.
Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to believe,
He lay, yet there he lay,
Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft small ebony hooves,
The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer.

Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here
Till I return," so spotty and plain to see
On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.

I would have given more than I care to say
To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend
One moment only of that forest day:

Might I have had the acceptance, not the love
Of those clear eyes;
Might I have been for him the bough above
Or the root beneath his forest bed,
A part of the forest, seen without surprise.

Was it alarm, ir was it the wind of my fear lest he depart
That jerked him to his jointy knees,
And sent him crashin goff, leaping and stumbling
On his new legs, between the stems of the white trees?

_______________________

—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.)

Good Day to Escape

TO A FUGITIVE
—James Wright

The night you got away, I dreamed you rose
Out of the earth to lean on a young tree.
Then they were there, hulking the moon away,
The great dogs rooting, snuffing up the grass.

You raise a hand, hungry to hold your lips
Out of the wailing air; but lights begin
Spidering the ground; oh they come closing in,
The beam searches your face like fingertips.

Hurry, Maguire, hammer the body down,
Crouch to the wall again, shackle the cold
Machine guns and the sheriff and the cars:
Divide the bright bars of the cornered bone,
Strip, run for it, break the last law, unfold,
Dart down the alley, race between the stars.

________________________


It's Friday the 13th! Need to get away? Selene Steese writes: Imagine the writing that will result from eight glorious days in the South of France! Give your writing spirit the chance to soar, and join us in 2007. I've been given the opportunity of a lifetime to teach a writing workshop in the beautiful countryside near the French Alps, and I would love to have you join me! This magical trip will take place May 5-12, 2007, and the cost includes accommodations at a lovely 19th century home with a large garden and a view of Mont Blanc and Virieu castle. Also included in the cost are daily gourmet breakfasts and dinners, two tours each day, plus snacks and drinks while on tour. Lunches, airfare, and personal expenses are not included. There are three double-occupancy rooms available, which means there is space on the tour for a total of six people. For more information, please visit www.frenchescapade.com. (The photo gallery is a must!) If you are intrigued and want to know the total cost, as well as get further details on how to sign up, please email selene@matchlessgoddess.com or call (510) 872-0928. And check out my website at www.matchlessgoddess.com/frenchescapade.htm for more details.

Closer to home, here is a bibliophile alert: Friends of the Sacramento Public Library will hold their first bargain clearance sale at the Book Den Warehouse, 8250 Belvedere Av., Ste. 8, Sacramento, from 12-5 pm Saturday (1/14) and from 10-4 on Sunday (1/15). Members of "Friends" can also shop from 9-noon on Saturday.


DEPRESSED BY A BOOK OF BAD POETRY,
I WALK TOWARD AN UNUSED PASTURE
AND INVITE THE INSECTS TO JOIN ME
—James Wright

Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone.
I climb a slight rise of grass.
I do not want to disturb the ants
Who are walking single file up the fence post,
Carrying small white petals,
Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them.
I close my eyes for a moment, and listen.
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket begins
In the maple trees.

_________________

BY A LAKE IN MINNESOTA
—James Wright

Upshore from the cloud—
The slow whale of country twilight—
The spume of light falls into valleys
Full of roses.

And below,
Out of the placid waters,
Two beavers, mother and child,
Wave out long ripples
To the dust of dead leaves
On the shore.

And the moon walks,
Hunting for hidden dolphins
Behind the darkening combers
Of the ground.

And downshore from the cloud,
I stand, waiting
For dark.

___________________

—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.)

Well, You Didn't Mind Snakeskin...

Yesterday there was an article in The Bee (page A11) about the use of human skin as book covers. Apparently this wasn't all that uncommon in past centuries. The Snake considers this to be justice; after all, people use snakeskin for EVERYthing...

Anyway, Taylor Graham, in her mercy, sends us some dandy snake poems to start the day off right:


WHO’S ON RATTLES?
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

We were marching along
3 miles to roadhead, such
a dry-bone clatter trail,

canteen against
belt-loop and heel
against rock,

we were singing the old songs
to lighten our steps,
syncopated-kicking up

trail-dust, you and I slip-
shodding a harmony,
jazzing it just

to keep ourselves moving
one foot in front of
the other, as if

a song could carry us back
to our car,
when from under a ledge

not 2 inches off the trail,
who cuts in
with the percussion

vibes,
a rattle that just stops
the show?

_____________________

A LITTLE LEEWAY
—Taylor Graham, Somerset

We should allow a little more space
this morning, a gap of sky
between fence and gate, just enough

for an idea to slip through
like a sightseer who lacks the code
to enter. Enough space
for breeze to filter between iron

bars, to dance around rules
like a fool at Mardi Gras;
a few seconds devoted to words

that have nothing to do
with today’s objectives: “purple
oatmeal” or maybe “rapscallion,”

sly as that gopher snake
lying in cool diminishing S-curves
beside the gate;

in-dwellers with their programmed
remotes
won’t see him as they click
their way through.

But I tell you, he’s just playing
dead, he’s playing tongue-harp &
blue-shadow scales

against the rights of passage,
the metallic grid-work of
schedule and rational thought.

_______________________

Thanks, TG!

The release of Jeanine Stevens' rattlechap, The Keeping Room, was auspicious last night—how could it be otherwise, with a fine writer and smooth lady like Jeanine at the helm? Richard and Rachel Hansen have done some early spring housecleaning at The Book Collector, reconfiguring the front small-and-local-press space so it's easier to browse, in addition to providing more space for all things ophidian. Great way to start the new year! Check it out when you pop in to pick up one of Jeanine's new books and a free copy of the brand-new issue of VYPER, the journal of poetry from people 13-19.

While you're there, take a sneak peek at the new Tule Review, which is available there for $5, or you can wait til it comes to you in the mail if you're a member of the Sacramento Poetry Center. Brad Buchanan, Keely Dorran, and Robbie Grossklaus have done a beautiful job on this resurrection, which is now in chapbook format again after the brief switch to newspaper style. Check it out—and start submitting your poems! Info: www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org.

Yesterday, Medusa had the honor of being on Dr. Andy's Poetry and Technology Hour in order to promote Jeanine's reading. Andy Jones does a fine job with this show every Wednesday at 5 pm on KDVS-90.3 FM. Info: www.culturelover.com. Hopefully we will have more about this program and the other poetry offerings on local radio in a future issue of Rattlesnake Review.

Todd Cirillo, who will be releasing a rattlechap this spring, informs me that he and Matt Amott are starting a small press up in Grass Valley. There will be a reading to celebrate the start of their Six Ft. Swells Press with the first chapbook release in their Cheap Shots Poetry Series, Tonight, You're Coming Home With Us. The reading is at 7 pm January 20 at Odyssey Books, 989 Sutton Way, Grass Valley: For info, call 530-477-2856; you can order any Six Ft. Swells release from sixftswells@yahoo.com, beathearts@hotmail.com or call 530-271-0662.

JoAnn Anglin writes: Help the National Steinbeck Center achieve its goal of 10,000 poems. Check out the Web site for the 10,000 Poems Project. http://www.10000poems.com.

________________________

One more from Archie:

WETTER BEATHER
—A.R. Ammons

When a person inquires too much into my
condition, I wonder if he searches for ill

or good: as for my typewriter, it will not do
well in a humidity, it takes on a gummy

lethargy, it refuses its spaces, stalling its
keys which, certainly, just fling themselves

idly against a nonchalance: but let a cool
front through or let a heat wave require the

air conditioner and the keys flick along as easily
as thought: this foreknowledge prevents me

from hastening off, heavy manual machine under
my arm or confined upon my hip by the arm,

hastening off, I say, to the repair shop—
a lucky patience because there no longer are

any shops for this device, and few ribbons
around and sparse typewriter paper: I am in

the midst of a technological redoing which
I will not abide till the radiant screens no

longer flicker: but my talent is so expired
that I need not trouble myself with digital

advances, I merely amuse myself in the comfort
of my own surrounding ignorance, with no

intention of publication and, of course, little
hope that others will press me thru the press.

______________________

—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.)