And It Is All Over

AUTUMN
—Miroslav Holub

And it is all over.

No more sweetpeas,
no more wide-eyed bunnies
dropping from the sky.

Only a reddish boniness
under the sun of hoarfrost,
a thievish fog,
an insipid solution of love,
hate
and crowing.

But next year
larches will try
to make the land full of larches again
and larks will try
to make the land full of larks.

And thrushes will try
to make all the trees sing,
and goldfinches will try
to make all the grass golden,

and burying beetles
with their creaky love will try
to make all the corpses
rise from the dead,

Amen.

_______________________

PHILOSOPHY OF FALL
—Miroslav Holub

Fingers of the autumn sun
fiddle with yellow foliage
outside. The window reflects
a book and a silhouette
and a silhouette, a halo of hair,
this year we are
immersed in history
like a web in light.

I'm asking whether the existing
lack of genius
is caused by the elimination
of tertiary stages of syphilis.

Some God's spider
hovering above you, above me,
and above the Alka Seltzer.

(trans. from the Czech by Stuart Friebert and Dana Habova)

_______________________

Miroslav Holub helps us with our Fall Snake-a-Thon. Today he would've been 83 years old.

Send Medusa (kathykieth@hotmail.com) your autumn poems by midnight on Tuesday, Sept. 26, and I'll send you a free copy of Phil Weidman's new rattlechap, Fictional Character: The Ernie Poems (or something else equally dandy, if you already have Phil's book).

Here are a couple from James Lee Jobe. Check out his blog (link to the right of this); he is also the new host of The Other Voice in Davis, which has switched to First Mondays. (October 2 will feature Taylor Graham; more about that later.)


the first day of fall
—james lee jobe, davis

it is far too late for amphetamines—your blood
races, your pupils are dilated, you can't remember
why you came here or if there is any meaning
to your psychosis—the doctor doesn't face you
as he reads from notes scribbled on a stained napkin—
his cigarette ashes are as long as can be
without falling, or longer, and a passionless voice
from a loudspeaker in the hall announces
an extended exercise period outside,
in honor of the first day of fall

_______________________

MY SON NOTICES THE WARDROBE
OF MAX CHRIST POET SOMETIME
EARLY IN THE NEW MILLENNIA
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

“Dad, who is that man?”—asked my son, eleven at the time.
“Max Christ Poet.”—said I, knowing he must mean the tall,
deathly thin, 60ish man with no shirt on a cool autumn evening,
a frightening tuft of white chest hair pooching out
from behind his dirty vest, a long, gray pony-tail,
odd bits of jewelry, bones and whatnot,
and various tools hanging from his belt.
This, in a restaurant, at a poetry reading.
“Is he a Hippie, Dad?”
“Yes, Son, I believe he is.” I lean closer,
“Careful! Some say he’s insane!”
“Why does he have two crescent wrenches
hanging off of him?” Good question.
“Max Christ Poet must be prepared for the possibility
of being confronted by a situation
that only one crescent wrench could not handle.”
“Yeah, or maybe he’ll meet a real nut!”

_______________________

Thanks, James Lee!

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, 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.)