LAST WORDS
—Sylvia Plath
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already—the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over—
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.
I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my turquoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face
of Ishtar.
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Things. Sylvia has written about Things; today's poems are all about Things.
CHAUCER'S COMPLAINT TO HIS PURSE
—Geoffrey Chaucer
To you, my purse, you whom I will not slight
For any other, you my lady dear,
Bitterly I complain. You are so light
That certainly you give me heavy cheer.
I had as lief be laid upon my bier,
And hoping for your mercy, thus I cry:
Be heavy again, for if not I shall die.
Grant me this very day, before the night,
Your blissful jingle once again to hear,
Or like the sun to see your hue flash bright
That for its golden brilliance has no peer.
Rudder by which I teach my heart to steer,
Queen of good company, to whom I fly,
Be heavy again, for if not I shall die.
Now purse, you are my solace, life and light.
My savior, down here in this earthly scene!
If you won't be my treasure, ease my plight
By helping me away at least, my queen.
Out of this town, for I am shaved as clean
As any friar! yet still your grace I'll try:
Be heavy again, for if not I shall die.
________________________
Today's events:
•••Celebrate Flag Day today with a rattle-read: Rattlesnake Press will be releasing two B.L. Kennedy publications: his rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems, and a littlesnake broadside, A Conversation with B.L. Kennedy, brought to us by Gene "Gizmo" Avery. All this at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., 7:30 pm. Also tonight: the emergence of Rattlesnake Review #10! Get your copy while the printer is still working. Whatta night! Be there!
•••Also tonight (6/14): To launch its new writing project, Telling Our Stories, for cancer patients, survivors, families and friends, Enloe Medical Center’s Cancer Center presents “A Taste of Journaling.” The informal panel/workshop features Mary Jane DeRoss, Theresa Marcis, Rebecca Senoglu, Margaret Dufon and Patricia Wellingham-Jones discussing the values and principles of journal writing, complete with examples from their collections. Warm-up writing exercises will be included. This event takes place from 6:30 to 8:00 PM at Enloe Cancer Center Conference Room, Fountain Medical Plaza, 251 Cohasset Road (across from Chico Sports Club), Chico, CA. The public is invited to attend. For further information call Rebecca Senoglu at 530-332-3856 or email Rebecca.Senoglu@Enloe.org
________________________
THINGS
—Jorge Luis Borges
My cane, my pocket change, this ring of keys,
The obedient lock, the belated notes
The few days left to me will not find time
To read, the deck of cards, the tabletop,
A book, and crushed in its pages the withered
Violet, monument to an afternoon
Undoubtedly unforgettable, now forgotten,
The mirror in the west where a red sunrise
Blazes its illusion. How many things,
Files, doorsills, atlases, wine glasses, nails,
Serve us like slaves who never say a word,
Blind and so mysteriously reserved.
They will endure beyond our vanishing;
And they will never know that we have gone.
(Translated by Stephen Kessler)
_______________________
Things. Send me a poem of your about things—ANY Thing(s) by midnight on June 20, and I'll send you a free copy of B.L. Kennedy's new rattlechap, The Setich Manor Poems. (Or, if you have that, another rattlechap of your choosing.) Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com, or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662. Things. You know ya love 'em...
—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.)