NOVEMBER ROSE
—Jane Blue, Sacramento
A tall cane scratching at the window in a gale
bows down as if calling help me.
The rose with its green arms stretched up
wears a pink turban. During the 13th century crusades,
St. Francis trudged in his dirty brown robe
to Egypt, to have a talk with the sultan al-Kamir.
He meant to convert the heathen, but came away
marveling and chastened. At another time, St. Francis
trudged to Rome in his one dirty brown robe
to have a talk with the Pope. Squatting
in a brocade-draped niche, he waited to be noticed.
The elfin brown saint like a winter-damaged rose
owned nothing. “If you own anything,” he said,
“you will be compelled to defend it.” Slack rays
of autumn tilt through the denuded trees.
The wind increases. The rose
bows and scrapes, low, low, in a salaam,
then springs up, pleading,
bobbing and bowing, pleading for its life.
A drift of leaves in the gutter
rises up, eddying in the street, playing
ring around the rosie all fall down. The wind
abrades your face, pink as the still-supple rose
and you must bend to it.
(First published in The Way of St. Francis, November-December 2005)
_______________________
UNTITLED (childhood memory)
—Robert Grossklaus, Rancho Cordova
It was a quick fall into the street
from my sled onto the rocks
buried by snow unseen;
it was a long time laying
on iced concrete, the winds
kissing me winter; bleeding.
_______________________
Thanks, Jane and RG! The rest of you have until midnight tonight to send me your poems about winter so I can send you a surprise: kathykieth@hotmail.com, or (postmarked by midnight) P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662. Remember: previously-published poems are A-OK for Medusa. We're trying to stay cool by thinking about winter.
Tickling Medusa:
The usually-cranky Medusa is tickled that people have been writing to say HEY!—where the hell is my Snake 10??? Time was when nobody noticed if they hadn't gotten an issue, so this is progress, indeed! The truth is, though, that every issue seems to take longer to get out of the house, as The List grows. And as you know, every Snake is produced right here in the snakepit—typed, printed, punched and coiled—with all the vicissitudes thereof, such as wrangling the printing machine with all its many, many moods (some of which out-mood Medusa, for sure!).
But readers are very patient, and we are grateful for such blessings. The last of Snake 10 should be going out today. Now all they have to do is maneuver the many moods of the US Postal Service.......!
By the way, if you're wondering whether or not to subscribe, here's the deal on that: Free copies of all pubs. are available at The Book Collector or at readings around town, so don't pay for them unless you're housebound or live far enough away that you don't get downtown much. Subscription money barely pays the price of postage; we do not rely on subscriptions for financial support the way some journals do. And hey—If you contribute work to the Review or any of the other publications, you get a free copy sent to your house! Ay, there's the ticket! Next deadline is August 15.
_______________________
SYMPATHY
—Paul Laurence Dunbar
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still strobes in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
_______________________
Paul Dunbar would have been 134 years old today.
WE WEAR THE MASK
—Paul Laurence Dunbar
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
_______________________
—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.)