Robert and the Mews
Photo of her significant others by Katy Brown, Davis
SEVERE FROST WARNINGS
—Katy Brown, Davis
Ice creeps inward on the rim
of puddles in islands of light
under orange street lamps.
Feral cats curl, sheltered in the
frigid night — safe from exposure.
A lone jogger interrupts
the stillness of ice crystals growing;
his footfalls regular as heartbeats;
his breath, a rasping trail
of misty snakes, hanging in the air.
The haze from smudge pots
drifts in the distance — an inky fog
blanketing the orchards
just outside of town.
Under a dazzle of stars,
winter threatens a lemonade tree:
its freeze-dried fruit hangs
in defiance of the struggle
for survival going on
in the bursting cells of the Meyer.
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Thanks, Katy! Katy Brown is Marketeer-in-Residence for Rattlesnake Review; watch for her Poetry Bazaar column in each issue, including the upcoming one which will roll off the presses this week—maybe even today! Katy is also a fine poet, as you can see, and Medusa will feature her one of these days—as soon as we can get a photo of her. :-)
Tonight:
Wednesday (3/14), 7:30 PM: March's rattlechap release from Rattlesnake Press will be Skin Stretched Around the Hollow by ex-Sacramentan-turned-Portlander Steve Williams at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac. Rumor has it that there will be some other Oregonians present, as well. Refreshments and a read-around will follow; bring your own poems or somebody else’s. Also released tonight will be Ultrasound, a littlesnake broadside by Brad Buchanan, and the latest issue of Rattlesnake Review (Lucky 13!). (Maybe. If I get it done; the jury's still out on that...)
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THE USEFUL
—Jean Follain
In the colors of the useful
that of gray and black material
of steel blue
of rusty flecks
some take shelter in order to live.
Sometimes one hears their words
their appeals to the rain
to the sun, to the green leaves
and the things around them unite
to be reflected in their eyes.
_______________________
SPEECH ALONE
—Jean Follaine
It happens that one pronounces
a few words just for oneself
alone on this strange earth
then the small white flower
the pebble like all those that went before
the spring of stubble
find themselves reunited
at the foot of the gate
which one opens slowly
to enter the house of clay
while chairs, table, cupboard,
blaze in a sun of glory.
(Today's Follaine was translated from the French by W.S. Merwin.)
_______________________
THE LAST POEM IN THE WORLD
—Hayden Carruth
Would I write it if I could?
Bet your glitzy ass I would.
_______________________
—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 (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) 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.)