Photo by Barbara L. Brands
MY FOR-THE-SUN
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
Back in style, and this time not for rain,
the parasol. The name in Italian means
“sunshield,” but for me, it’s always been
a “for-the-sun,” in my ersatz Spanish.
As butterfly is to moth, so this for-the-sun
is to Rihanna’s “Umbrella (-ella, -ella, eh eh eh).”
Who sparks this revival of ladies’ shade
in Sacramento? Board-and-care assistants
born in Manila, dismounting from RT buses
to unfurl colonial Spanish whispers?
Indian ladies needing more than their saris
to screen out the Valley heat hotter
than Mumbai in July? Women
of dignity, women of poverty shoulder
the literal umbrella, personal awnings
black as bankers’ bowlers on Blackfriars
Bridge. Others, perhaps richer, twirl
plum-color marvels quite
surrey-with-the-fringe, meringue
edges goffered and gussied up
for Gertie’s birthday. And you
—yes, you, good lady: I remember
you taking our class at Folsom Lake,
walking the few warm blocks to school
each June day under your fine paisley
sunblock. Give me my for-the-sun,
I’m tripping along with you all,
whirling my stretched-open silks
over a skeleton of springy sticks.
We’ll be singin’ and dancin’
just like Gene Kelly but without
the least little raindrop
that isn’t sweat.
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
Back in style, and this time not for rain,
the parasol. The name in Italian means
“sunshield,” but for me, it’s always been
a “for-the-sun,” in my ersatz Spanish.
As butterfly is to moth, so this for-the-sun
is to Rihanna’s “Umbrella (-ella, -ella, eh eh eh).”
Who sparks this revival of ladies’ shade
in Sacramento? Board-and-care assistants
born in Manila, dismounting from RT buses
to unfurl colonial Spanish whispers?
Indian ladies needing more than their saris
to screen out the Valley heat hotter
than Mumbai in July? Women
of dignity, women of poverty shoulder
the literal umbrella, personal awnings
black as bankers’ bowlers on Blackfriars
Bridge. Others, perhaps richer, twirl
plum-color marvels quite
surrey-with-the-fringe, meringue
edges goffered and gussied up
for Gertie’s birthday. And you
—yes, you, good lady: I remember
you taking our class at Folsom Lake,
walking the few warm blocks to school
each June day under your fine paisley
sunblock. Give me my for-the-sun,
I’m tripping along with you all,
whirling my stretched-open silks
over a skeleton of springy sticks.
We’ll be singin’ and dancin’
just like Gene Kelly but without
the least little raindrop
that isn’t sweat.
Thanks, Tom!
The rumors are true, all true! As you may've heard:
The Snake will awaken from his summer snooze tonight (Weds., 9/12), as Rattlesnake Press presents Sacramento Poet Susan Kelly-DeWitt at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, celebrating the release of her new chapbook, Cassiopeia Above the Banyan Tree. Also released tonight will be a littlesnake broadside, Blush, from Sacramento Poet Dawn DiBartolo, plus #4 in the new Rattlesnake Interview Series by B.L. Kennedy, this one featuring frank andrick, and a brand-new issue of Rattlesnake Review (#15)! Refreshments and a read-around will follow; bring your own poems or somebody else's. More info: kathykieth@hotmail.com/.
______________________
CARNATIONS
—Theodore Roethke
Pale blossoms, each balanced on a single jointed stem,
And leaves curled back in elaborate Corinthian scrolls,
And the air cool, as if drifting down from wet hemlocks.
Or rising out of ferns not far from water.
A crisp hyacinthine coolness,
Like that clear autumnal weather of eternity.
The windless perpetual morning above a September cloud.
____________________
MOSS GATHERING
—Theodore Roethke
To loosen with all ten fingers held wide and limber
And lift up a patch, dark green, the kind for lining cemetery baskets,
Thick and cushiony, like an old-fashioned doormat,
The crumbling small hollow sticks on the underside mixed with roots,
And wintergreen berries and leaves still stuck to the top,—
That was moss gathering.
But something always went out of me when I dug loose those carpets
Of green, or plunged to my elbow in the spongy yellowish moss of the marshes:
And afterwards I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland,
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.
_____________________
—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.) For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com).