Theresa McCourt
FRIENDSHIP
—Theresa McCourt, Sacramento
From across the ocean,
the one who knew my dead,
who walked beside me
through wet fields
on those Sundays
we had to escape,
writes
. . . it is comfortably warm here
when it looks so cold
and inhospitable outside . . .
Beyond my own window,
the sky is now white and flat,
but in this weathered cottage,
my small heater hums.
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ALCHEMY
—Theresa McCourt
From the beginnings of the world
his arrival and her welcome
have been prepared. They have always
known each other.
(From "Her First Calf," Wendell Berry)
It's the time after reading, cosy on the couch,
when our son asks me to carry him, belly-to-belly.
For months we've played this game,
yet the words I recite still give life:
My tummy's so heavy . . . .
The baby's moving so much tonight!
He giggles, shifts some more, as I bear his 40 pounds to bed,
shelter him completely under his thick, Spider-Man quilt.
He wiggles within his makeshift womb,
thrusts a hand—fingers splayed—into the room's half-light.
Then his eyes peek over the rim, deepen with all he wants.
At last, I say. Our beautiful baby!
He re-enacts his cries in the night, while I hold him to my heart,
pour forth all the welcome his first arrival did not have.
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Thanks, Theresa! This coming Monday, 2/5, Theresa McCourt and Judy Halebsky will be reading for the Sacramento Poetry Center at HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento, 7:30 PM. Free; open mic.
Unfortunately, I couldn't get Judy's lovely face to download for me, so you'll have to come to the reading to find out what she looks like. Meanwhile, here is a poem from her. Judy also has a littlesnake broadside available (Almost Turning Over); send me an SASE and I'll mail you one.
FOLKSONG (TRANSLATION)
—Judy Halebsky, Sacramento
In Portuguese they have a specific verb
for throwing something out the window
That was after, right now I’m making your shadow
tracing your movements
catching the sharp edges
the consonants, cross outs, catch phrases, latchkey, house key
wearing its shape into the change purse of my wallet
I’m keeping it there in case I need to go back
unlock those four summers, the piles of stones, pass my fingers over the Braille of incomplete sentences
the fields near your house in Connemara
are this lush misty green with mazes of stone walls
four feet high like an outline of city windows
not walls to make rooms or to mark off space
just walls as a place to pile the stones
in Japanese there is one character
that means searching for something
and a different character
that means searching for something that you lost
I try to imagine farming in those little boxes
with no openings for a plow
no doorways, no spaces for coming or going
he’s writing us in 500 word news clips
he’s typing us in squares across the field
incredible is the same word in French and English
when you say it in San Francisco it means unbelievably wonderful
when you say it in Quebec City it means unbelievably wicked
letters for me still come to your house
they won’t bring me back or let you go
they write out the words: ice floe, glacier, granite
drainpipe, folksong, doorway
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Thanks, Judy! For more info about both of these gals, check on the SPC link to the right of this.
The Sacramento Bee celebrates its 150th anniversary today by re-printing its very first issue, Vol. 1, No. 1, which appeared on Feb. 3, 1857. Things have changed—lay-out, for one thing, font size (yikes!), a disgusting article on the back about the high price of Negroes (welcome to Black History Month). Another thing that has changed is that this first issue published a poem in the first column of the front page, "Agatha" by one "Mrs. J. Walworth Smith". First column, first page... Poetry for the People.
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Today, Gertrude Stein would have been 133 years old. This is from Rooms:
A light in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even notwithstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.
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—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as 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.)