THE BEST ROOM, or INTERPRETATION OF A POEM
—Miroslav Holub
And now tell it to me
in other words,
says the stuffed owl
to the fly
which, with a buzz,
is trying with its head
to break through the window-pane.
______________________
THE AUTUMN ORCHARD
—Miroslav Holub
Some pawky,
black apple
executed on a naked twig.
Two pigeons
on a rundown fence
tearing white feathers from themselves
because there's nothing else
worth sorting.
Cinderella has smeared herself
with ashes, trying
to discourage
her father's incest.
Through an open window
a bunch of poets
are cursing violently.
Although, in fact, everything's
just the way they like it.
______________________
Tonight:
•••Weds. (12/13), 7:30 PM: The Finklemans will be premiering their new SnakeRings SpiralChap, Poems in Two Voices, a collection of their two-voice poems and Joe's art, at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. The readers will also be accompanied by flute and percussion! Also premiering that evening will be Grace Notes, a littlesnake broadside by Bob Stanley, and Bob will be on hand to read from that, too; plus, new issues of Rattlesnake Review and the teen journal, VYPER, will be there in a free for all free-for-all! Refreshments and a read-around will follow; bring your own poems or somebody else's and join us for the Rattlesnake Press Holiday Extravaganza.
•••Then, later tonight (10 PM-midnight): Mics and Moods features New York Slam Poet Jamie Kilstein at Capitol Garage, 1500 K St., Sac. Open mic.
_______________________
LITERARY BASH
—Miroslav Holub
Like eggs of hail
from the blue sky,
the buzz of greasy bluebottles,
the twitter of eggheads.
Interior sounds
of matter fatigue.
Never stopping.
But even Orpheus
when things got togher
and he was leading Eurydice
out of the underworld
was quiet as a grave,
the only sound
his crunching step
on the bodies of snails
shedding indigo blood.
In those days, of course,
there were no
literary bashes.
_______________________
THE RAIN AT NIGHT
—Miroslav Holub
With mouse-like teeth
the rain gnaws at stone.
The trees parade through the town
like prophets.
Perhaps it's the sobbing
of the monstrous angels of darkness,
perhaps the suppressed laughter
of the flowers out there in the garden,
trying to cure consumption
by rustling.
Perhaps the purring
of the holy drought
under any kind of cover.
An unspeakable time,
when the voice of loudspeakers cracks
and poems
are made not of words
but of drops.
_______________________
—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.)