Anatomy of January

ANATOMY OF JANUARY
—Miroslav Holub

On the carpal bones
metacarpal bones with vanishing cartilege,
the ulnar
like a ruler for parakeets.

A string is attached to the joint,
a string that goes over the horizon,
southwest.

Rooks are falling from the sky,
under oath.

(translated from the Czech by David Young and Miroslav Holub)

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January Boot Camp:

Molly Fisk of Nevada City writes: January's Boot Camp begins on Sunday 1/21 and
runs through Friday 1/26. Remember, you can join the regular camp and write new poems, or you can join me to work on revisions by yourself (same format, same price). This is a great time of year to look at older poems and see what they might need to be presentable. If you don't know about Poetry Boot Camp, here's where you can find out: http://www.poetrybootcamp.com. It's a six-day workshop conducted via e-mail—enormously productive, and tons of fun.

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LIVING OUT OF BOXES
—Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos

I look at my list:

milk
bread
prunes
companion

at least a new book

library closed
nothing on TV
refrigerator drones

solitaire's good

no cards
put cards on list

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Thanks, Steph!

Time for a little Russell Edson, just to put some balance into things:

THE TURKEY HAPPENING
—Russell Edson

There were feathers growing on his wall. Thickly. And with pink turkey flesh beneath.

The feathers were spreading across the ceiling. And the floor was beginning to protrude in scaly bird toes like the roots of trees.



He could not tell if he had not now become himself feathers and turkey flesh.

He wondered if he was not now feathers and turkey flesh.

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A JOURNEY THROUGH THE MOONLIGHT
—Russell Edson

In sleep when an old man's body is no longer aware of its boundaries and lies flattened by gravity like a mere of wax in its bed . . . It drips down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a cheek . . . Under the back door into the silver meadow, like a pool of sperm, frosty under the moon, as if in his first nature, boneless and absurd.


The moon lifts him up into its white field, a cloud shaped like an old man, porous with stars.

He floats through high dark branches, a corpse tangled in a tree on a river.

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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.)