BOMBARDMENT
—D.H. Lawrence
The Town has opened to the sun.
Like a flat red lily with a million petals
She unfolds, she comes undone.
A sharp sky brushes upon
The myriad glittering chimney-tips
As she gently exhales to the sun.
Hurrying creatures run
Down the labyrinth of the sinister flower.
What is it they shun?
A dark bird falls from the sun.
It curves in a rush to the heart of the vast
Flower: the day has begun.
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•••Tonight (Thursday, 10/12), 8 PM: Vibe Sessions Neo-Soul Lounge with Flo-Real features Random Abiladeze and open mic. The Cobbler Soul Food Restaurant, 3520 Stockton, Blvd., Sac. $5. 916-613-0776.
•••Also tonight (Thursday), 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged, reader TBA. Open mic before/after. Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. Info: 441-3931 or www.lunascafe.com. Free. Congrats to Poetry Unplugged, by the way, for winning Sacramento News & Review's "Best of open mic: Poetry" Award!
Grass Valley Poets on Pomo:
Sunday (10/15), 2-4 PM: The Pomo Literati is part of the KUSF Spotlight Series, a 2-hour literary program that interpolates poetry, soundscapes, and live spoken word performance. This chapter features in-studio readings by Poet/publisher William S. Gainer, Poet and spoken word impressario Chris Olander, and Poet/publisher Todd Cirillo and friends. Classic poetic rarities and contemporary spoken word. KUSF Spotlight 90.3FM San Francisco, or on the internet where we go global at www.live365.com/stations/kusf. The Pomo Literati is hosted by poet/producer frank andrick. Special guest host Jim ‘The Germ’ Smith. Info: frank andrick (209-727-5179) or fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com
________________________
AUTUMN RAIN
—D.H. Lawrence
The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;
the cloud sheaves
in heaven's fields set
droop and are drawn
in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face
falling—I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace
heaven's muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain
of tears, the store
harvested
in the sheaves of pain
caught up aloft,
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain
now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna invisible
of all the pain
here to us given;
finely divisible
falling as rain.
_______________________
PIANO
—D.H. Lawrence
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
________________________
—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.)