THE MOON RISING
—Federico Garcia Lorca
When the moon rises,
the bells hang silent,
and impenetrable footpaths
appear.
When the moon rises,
the sea covers the land,
and the heart feels
like an island in infinity.
Nobody eats oranges
under the full moon.
One must eat fruit
that is green and cold.
When the moon rises,
moon of a hundred equal faces,
the silver coinage
sobs in the pocket.
(translated by Lysander Kemp)
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Poetry Today:
•••Wed. (10/4), 10-midnight: Mahogany Poets presents Mics and Moods at Capitol Garage, 1500 K St., Sac. Features and Open Mic; 21 and older. $5. Info: 916-492-9336 or www.malikspeaks.com.
And Next Week:
Rattlesnake Press presents Sharyn Stever at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, on Wednesday, October 11 from 7:30-9 PM, celebrating the release of her new chapbook, Heron’s Run. Sharyn Stever was born in Lodi, California and grew up roaming the riverbanks and wetlands of the Central Valley. She lives in the small farming community of Dixon and teaches writing and literature at Solano Community College.
Also emerging that night will be Mysterious Rebus, littlesnake broadside #28 from Sacramento Poet and SPC Board Member Tim Kahl. Come hear Tim read a poem or two from his latest creation. Refreshments and a read-around will follow Sharyn and Tim's readings; bring your own poems or somebody else's. That's next Wednesday at The Book Collector. Be there. (More info: kathykieth@hotmail.com)
Medusa Screams:
Right now, my laptop is crowded onto a TV tray, mouse and all, in the middle of a sea of boxes. Well, not enough boxes—it's 6:45 AM and I need to get all this loose paper boxed up before the carpet people (carpeters? ruggers?) get here at 8. As you may've heard, we're putting our house on the market, with all the fixes and boxes and Prozac that entails.
But enough about me, lest I turn into a blahger (see today's Sacramento Bee). My point is: hopefully Medusa will be plugged in again by tomorrow and will be able to continue her daily snarkiness. If she doesn't, though, now you'll know why.
_______________________
THE LITTLE MUTE BOY
—Federico Garcia Lorca
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger.
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket's clothes.)
(translated by W.S. Merwin)
_______________________
THE LITTLE MAD BOY
—Federico Garcia Lorca
I said, "Afternoon."
But it was not so.
The afternoon was something else
which had already gone away.
(And the light shrugged
its shoulders like a girl.)
"Afternoon." But it is useless!
This is false, this has
a half-moon made of lead.
The other will never come.
(And the light as everyone sees it
played at being a statue, with the mad boy.)
That other: she was little
and ate pomegranates.
This one is huge and green, I cannot
take her in my arms, nor dress her.
Won't she come? What was she like?
(And the light as it went, for a joke,
parted the mad boy from his shadow.)
(trans. by W.S. Merwin)
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IN ANOTHER MODE
—Federico Garcia Lorca
The bonfire places on the field of afternoon
the horns of a maddened deer.
All the valley stretches out. The little wind
is prancing on its ridges.
The air turns crystal under the smoke.
—A cat's eye, sad and yellow—.
I, in my eyes, walk through the boughs.
The boughs walk through the river.
They come to me, my essential things.
They are refrains of refrains.
Here in the reeds in the late afternoon,
how strange to be named Federico!
(trans. by Lysander Kemp)
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—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.)