LAST BEFORE WINTER
—Wayne Robinson, Lodi
The huge harvest moon rises orange over dead grass
The tangy smell of tar weed in the morning wetness.
Dove hunting the first week of September, wasting shot
On helpless flyers. Missing many more than I got.
Winter is coming, I can smell it, feel the mornings changing
Waking to the grape harvesters outside, too early in the morning.
Hoping to get in more bicycle miles before the rains fall
And the wife puts the horses away in their stall.
Now the leaves are just turning, still some green
The birds are flocking but they will not sing.
The weather is between a cooler and a heater
Maybe the power bill will drop at the meter.
Wouldn't that be nice? Save a few cents for now.
I missed summer, worked right through it anyhow.
I only remember a few hot days and smelly tee shirts
From sweat falling off me while I shoveled the dirt.
This fall will come and go too, but I will remember Christmas
Kids laughing, complaining because this year they got less.
But now the dusty sunset is as pretty as in a romantic movie
Mom and kids on horseback, me on the bike, everyone is happy.
_______________________
Thanks, Wayne! Wayne Robinson says he's putting together his poems to send to Rattlesnake Review; he promises to make the November 15 (that's next Wednesday!) deadline. Send 3-5 poems (no cover letter/bio/simultaneous submissions or previously-published poems) to P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662 or kathykieth@hotmail.com. Send photos, art, droodles too (remember droodles?). Feasts for the eye and ear. And hey—a couple of requests: please include a snail address somewhere on your submission, and please don't send just one poem unless that's REALLY REALLY REALLY all you have. Editors like choices.
Also new from Rattlesnake Press:
•••Turf Daisies and Dandelions, a rattlechap from Jane Blue;
•••Connections, the latest littlesnake broadside, from Cleo Fellers Kocol;
•••The latest Snakelets, a journal of poetry from kids 0-12.
All of these new publications are available today at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Or contact me and I'll arrange for you to get them into your hot little hands one way or another.
Time for another give-away:
Every place I look right now I see change: the season is changing, the political climate is changing, and as I've tediously mentioned over and over in the past, the Kieths are moving—which is mucho change. Send me a poem about change (seasons, moving, or otherwise) and I'll send you Jane Blue's wonderful new chapbook, Turf Daisies and Dandelions. Or Sharyn Stever's equally-wonderful chap, Heron's Run. Or something else, if you have those two. Send your change poem to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 1647, Orangevale, CA 95662 by midnight next Tuesday, November 14. Or send it in a bunch with your submission for Rattlesnake Review; just mark which is which. All "change" poems you send will be posted on Medusa.
Tonight:
•••Thursday (11/9), 8 PM: Vibe Sessions at Cobbler Inn, 3520 Stockton Blvd., Sac. (next to Colonial Theater). Hosted by Flo Real, $5.
•••Also tonight, 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged presents Andy Jones and special guests. Open mic before/after. Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac. Free. Info: 916-441-3931.
_______________________
THE DOUBLE IMAGE
—Anne Sexton
I am thirty this November.
You are still small, in your fourth year.
We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer,
flapping in the winter rain,
falling flat and washed. And I remember
mostly the three autumns you did not live here.
They said I'd never get you back again.
I tell you what you'll never really know:
all the medical hypothesis
that explained my brain will never be as true as these
struck leaves letting go.
I, who chose two times
to kill myself, had said your nickname
the mewling mouths when you first came;
until a fever rattled
in your throat and I moved like a pantomime
above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame,
I heard them say, was mine. They tattled
like green witches in my head, letting doom
leak like a broken faucet;
as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet,
an old debt I must assume...
_______________________
Anne Sexton would've been 78 years old today.
2. THE DY-DEE DOLL
—Anne Sexton
My Dy-dee doll
died twice.
Once when I snapped
her head off
and let it float in the toilet
and once under the sun lamp
trying to get warm
she melted.
She was a gloom,
her face embracing
her little bent arms.
She died in all her rubber wisdom.
________________________
HER KIND
—Anne Sexton
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
_______________________
—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.)