Happy Birthday to yoooooooo,
The Snake has turned twooooooooo.....
The Snake has turned twooooooooo.....
Don't let the rain scare you away from the SNAKE PARTY tonight (Wednesday, 4/12). Come hear the Straight Out Scribes in their LAST PERFORMANCE IN SACRAMENTO before Staajabu moves to New Jersey, then take home a free littlesnake broadside from each of them. We'll be at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., 7:30 pm. A read-around will follow; bring your own poetry or somebody else's.
ANNOUNCEMENT
—Rod Riesco
The 10.19 will call at Sideways Glance,
Eye Junction, Smile, and Unexpected Chance,
Then Disco, Party, Pub, and Country Walk,
And on to Intimacy, Bed and Talk,
Commitment, Mortgage, Offspring, Menopause,
Where it divides; passengers for Divorce
Should travel in the front. Any passenger
For Widowhood should travel in the rear.
A hot and cold service will be supplied
Throughout. We wish you all a pleasant ride.
_______________________
TURN ON YOUR SIDE AND BEAR THE DAY TO ME
—George Barker
Turn on your side and bear the day to me
Beloved, sceptre-struck, immured
In the glass wall of sleep. Slowly
Uncloud the borealis of your eye
And show your iceberg secrets, your midnight prizes
To the green-eyed world and to me. Sin
Coils upward into thin air when you awaken
And again morning announces amnesty over
The serpent-kingdomed bed. Your mother
Watched with as dove an eye the unforgivable night
Sigh backward into innocence when you
Set a bright monument in her amorous sea.
Look down, Undine, on the trident that struck
Sons from the rock of vanity. Turn in the world
Sceptre-struck, spellbound, beloved,
Turn in the world and bear the day to me.
________________________
THE BURIED STREAM
—James K. Baxter
Tonight our cat, Tahi, who lately lost
One eyebrow, yowls in the bush with another cat;
Our glass Tibetan ghost-trap has caught no ghost
Yet, but jangles suspended in the alcove that
We varnished and enlarged. Unwisely I have read
Sartre on Imagination—very dry, very French,
An old hound with noises in his head
Who dreams the hunt is on, yet fears the stench
Of action—he teaches us that human choice
Is rarely true or kind. My children are asleep.
Something clatters in the kitchen. I hear the voice
Of the buried stream that flows deep, deep,
Through caves I cannot enter, whose watery rope
Tugs my divining rod with the habit some call hope.
________________________
—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.)
ANNOUNCEMENT
—Rod Riesco
The 10.19 will call at Sideways Glance,
Eye Junction, Smile, and Unexpected Chance,
Then Disco, Party, Pub, and Country Walk,
And on to Intimacy, Bed and Talk,
Commitment, Mortgage, Offspring, Menopause,
Where it divides; passengers for Divorce
Should travel in the front. Any passenger
For Widowhood should travel in the rear.
A hot and cold service will be supplied
Throughout. We wish you all a pleasant ride.
_______________________
TURN ON YOUR SIDE AND BEAR THE DAY TO ME
—George Barker
Turn on your side and bear the day to me
Beloved, sceptre-struck, immured
In the glass wall of sleep. Slowly
Uncloud the borealis of your eye
And show your iceberg secrets, your midnight prizes
To the green-eyed world and to me. Sin
Coils upward into thin air when you awaken
And again morning announces amnesty over
The serpent-kingdomed bed. Your mother
Watched with as dove an eye the unforgivable night
Sigh backward into innocence when you
Set a bright monument in her amorous sea.
Look down, Undine, on the trident that struck
Sons from the rock of vanity. Turn in the world
Sceptre-struck, spellbound, beloved,
Turn in the world and bear the day to me.
________________________
THE BURIED STREAM
—James K. Baxter
Tonight our cat, Tahi, who lately lost
One eyebrow, yowls in the bush with another cat;
Our glass Tibetan ghost-trap has caught no ghost
Yet, but jangles suspended in the alcove that
We varnished and enlarged. Unwisely I have read
Sartre on Imagination—very dry, very French,
An old hound with noises in his head
Who dreams the hunt is on, yet fears the stench
Of action—he teaches us that human choice
Is rarely true or kind. My children are asleep.
Something clatters in the kitchen. I hear the voice
Of the buried stream that flows deep, deep,
Through caves I cannot enter, whose watery rope
Tugs my divining rod with the habit some call hope.
________________________
—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.)
