THE GARDEN OF LOVE
—William Blake
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys & desires.
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Yikes. Been there! Today William Blake would've been 249 years old.
The crush of a busy Tuesday:
•••As usual, the Davis folks have been shy in advertising their readers. Tonight (11/28), 8:30 PM: Joshua McKinney, distinguished poet and Sac State English professor, will read from his work as part of Bistro 33's on-going "Literature Night" series. Bistro 33, 3rd and F Sts., Davis. Open mic to follow.
•••Members of The Great American Pinup web journal (greatamericanpinup.blogspot.com) will be reading at The Sacramento Poetry Center TONIGHT at 7:30 PM, HQ for the Arts, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. Those reading will include David Koehn, Shawn Pittard, Victor Schnickelfritz, and Geraldine Kim (winner of the 2005 Fence Books Award). Plus recordings of Matthew Schmeer [Kansas City] and Richard Jeffrey Newman [New York].
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GACELA OF THE DARK DEATH
—Federico Garcia Lorca
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries,
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth
that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that I am the small friend of the West wind;
that I am the immense shadow of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me of the earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
(translated from the Spanish by Stephen Spender and J.L. Gili)
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GACELA OF THE FLIGHT
—Federico Garcia Lorca
I have lost myself in the sea many times
with my ear full of freshly cut flowers,
with my tongue full of love and agony.
I have lost myself in the sea many times
as I lost myself in the heart of certain children.
There is no one who in giving a kiss
does not feel the smile of faceless people,
and no one who in touching a newborn child
forgets the motionless skulls of horses.
Because the roses seach in the forehead
for a hard landscape of bone
and the hands of man have no other purpose
than to imitate the roots below the earth.
As I lose myself in the heart of certain children,
I have lost myself in the sea many times.
Ignorant of the water I go seeking
a death full of light to consume me.
(translated by Stephen Spender and J.L. Gili)
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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.)