Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento
AWAKENING SONGS
—Allegra Jostad Silberstein, Davis
A crow calls
then others join
the caw-caw
cacophony.
A scrub jay
yaps its presence.
Chickadees chirp
chi-chi-chi.
Traffic
from 80
makes a constant
basso continuo.
A pale quarter moon
is poised like a fermata
at the end-line
of the pine tree
where a crow alights
and with a castanet-
flick of his beak,
checks for food.
Wakening
to the day
I play
my song-flute.
_________________
Thanks, Allegra, for the aubade! Join Allegra Silbertstein and James Lee Jobe at the Unitarian-Universalist Church of Sacramento tomorrow at 1:15 PM for a forum on "What is the Point of Poetry?" [See yesterday's Medusa for details.] The forum will be hosted by Poem Spirits Tom Goff, Nora Staklis, and JoAnn Anglin. Below is a poem by Tom. As for the rest of today's poems, well, looks like the season has Medusa feeling frisky...
BRAIN SKIN
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
(on the finding that depression may be related to a thinner
than normal outer layer of the brain)
The axiom “to have a skin too few”:
what does it mean? Have we been peeled like onion?
What durable defensive layer is gone,
what inward quivering-livid nerves laid bare?
Onionskins: they weep when separated;
their parting is the reason others weep.
But in the compact center, tougher wafers,
stronger, more pressed-together fabrications.
And yet we learn that the brain relies on skin,
that hope and rallying force and optimism
don’t just shine through some glassy mental prism;
these generate from, originate in, mind skin
several plies deep, just as a stronger liquor
comes once the distillable substances are thicker.
Let Whitman claim that souls are like quahogs,
quiverable skins, electrical conductors
imbedded in, surging through, thin shells of us.
We touch, but are we transcendentalist?
Or are the hardest hats the happy caps?
If domains as isolated as roadkill possum
more mutually quicken the thicker the corpus callosum,
now, sensitives, let’s firm up our cerebral callus,
the radiant outworks to our spirit-palace.
—Allegra Jostad Silberstein, Davis
A crow calls
then others join
the caw-caw
cacophony.
A scrub jay
yaps its presence.
Chickadees chirp
chi-chi-chi.
Traffic
from 80
makes a constant
basso continuo.
A pale quarter moon
is poised like a fermata
at the end-line
of the pine tree
where a crow alights
and with a castanet-
flick of his beak,
checks for food.
Wakening
to the day
I play
my song-flute.
_________________
Thanks, Allegra, for the aubade! Join Allegra Silbertstein and James Lee Jobe at the Unitarian-Universalist Church of Sacramento tomorrow at 1:15 PM for a forum on "What is the Point of Poetry?" [See yesterday's Medusa for details.] The forum will be hosted by Poem Spirits Tom Goff, Nora Staklis, and JoAnn Anglin. Below is a poem by Tom. As for the rest of today's poems, well, looks like the season has Medusa feeling frisky...
BRAIN SKIN
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
(on the finding that depression may be related to a thinner
than normal outer layer of the brain)
The axiom “to have a skin too few”:
what does it mean? Have we been peeled like onion?
What durable defensive layer is gone,
what inward quivering-livid nerves laid bare?
Onionskins: they weep when separated;
their parting is the reason others weep.
But in the compact center, tougher wafers,
stronger, more pressed-together fabrications.
And yet we learn that the brain relies on skin,
that hope and rallying force and optimism
don’t just shine through some glassy mental prism;
these generate from, originate in, mind skin
several plies deep, just as a stronger liquor
comes once the distillable substances are thicker.
Let Whitman claim that souls are like quahogs,
quiverable skins, electrical conductors
imbedded in, surging through, thin shells of us.
We touch, but are we transcendentalist?
Or are the hardest hats the happy caps?
If domains as isolated as roadkill possum
more mutually quicken the thicker the corpus callosum,
now, sensitives, let’s firm up our cerebral callus,
the radiant outworks to our spirit-palace.
THE CUSTOM OF THE WORLD
—Louis Simpson
O, we loved long and happily, God knows!
The ocean danced, the green leaves tossed, the air
Was filled with petals, and pale Venus rose
When we began to kiss. Kisses brought care,
And closeness caused the taking off of clothes.
O, we loved long and happily, God knows!
'The watchdogs are asleep, the doormen doze...'
We huddled in the corners of the stair,
And then we climbed it. What had we to lose?
What would we gain? The best way to compare
And quickest, was by taking off our clothes.
O, we loved long and happily, God knows!
Between us two a silent treason grows,
Our pleasures have been changed into despair.
Wild is the wind, from a cold country blows,
In which these tender blossoms disappear.
And did this come of taking off our clothes?
O, we loved long and happily, God knows!
Mistress, my song is drawing to a close.
Put on your rumpled skirt and comb your hair,
And when we meet again let us suppose
We never loved or ever naked were.
For though this nakedness was good, God knows,
The custom of the world is wearing clothes.
__________________
WE DID IT
—Yehuda Amichai
We did it in front of the mirror
And in the light. We did it in darkness,
In water, and in the high grass.
We did it in honour of man
And in honour of beast and in honour of God.
But they didn't want to know about us,
They'd already seen our sort.
We did it with imigination and colours,
With confusion of reddish hair and brown
And with difficult gladdening
Exercises. We did it
Like wheels and holy creatures
And with chariot-feats of prophets.
We did it six wings
And six legs
But the heavens
Were hard above usLike the earth of the summer beneath.
(Translated from the Hebrew by Harold Schimmel)
_________________
A THUNDERSTORM IN TOWN
—Thomas Hardy
(A Reminiscence: 1893)
She wore a new 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.
___________________
STRAWBERRIES
—Edwin Morgan
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent toward you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
_________________
Today's LittleNip:
Cat sits in the sun.
Dog sits in the grass.
Turtle sits on the rock.
Frog sits on the lily pad.
Why aren't people so smart?
—Deng Ming-Dao
_________________
—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:
Rattlesnake Review: The new Snake (RR21) is out! The issue is now available at The Book Collector, and contributor and subscription copies will go into the mail this week and next—or send me four bux and I'll mail you one. Next deadline is May 15 for RR22: send 3-5 poems, smallish art pieces and/or photos (no bio, no cover letter, no simultaneous submissions or previously-published poems) to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. E-mail attachments are preferred, but be sure to include all contact info, including snail address. Meanwhile, the snakes of Medusa are always hungry; let us know if your submission is for the Review or for Medusa, or for either one.
Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46: Snake Secrets: Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press (and lots of other places, besides!): A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process so as to make editors everywhere more happy, thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published. Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or write to me and I'll send you one. Free!
NEW FOR MARCH: Rattlesnake Press is proud to present a new chapbook from Norma Kohout (All Aboard!!!); a littlesnake broadside from Patricia Hickerson (At Grail Castle Hotel); and a new issue of Rattlesnake Review (the Snake turns 21)!
COMING IN APRIL: Wednesday, April 8 will be our FIFTH ANNUAL BIRTHDAY PARTY/BUFFET at The Book Collector, featuring a SpiralChap of poetry and photos from Laverne Frith (Celebrations: Images and Texts), a littlesnake broadside from Taylor Graham (Edge of Wildwood), and Musings3: An English Affair, a new blank journal of photos and writing prompts from Katy Brown. That’s at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30 PM.
And April 15 is the deadline for the second issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick. Submission guidelines are the same as for the Snake, but send your poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces (500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred) or, if you’re snailing, to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be over 18 years of age to submit. Copies of the first issue are at The Book Collector, or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Medusa's Weekly Menu:
(Contributors are welcome to cook up something for any and all of these!)
Monday: Weekly NorCal poetry calendar
Tuesday: Seed of the Week: Tuesday is Medusa's day to post poetry triggers such as quotes, forms, photos, memories, jokes—whatever might tickle somebody's muse. Pick up the gauntlet and send in your poetic results; and don't be shy about sending in your own triggers, too! All poems will be posted and a few of them will go into Medusa's Corner of each Rattlesnake Review. Send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline for SOWs; respond today, tomorrow, or whenever the muse arrives. (Print 'em out, maybe, save 'em for a dry spell?) When you send us work, though, just let us know which "seed" it was that inspired you.
Wednesday (sometimes, or any other day!): HandyStuff Quickies: Resources for the poet, including whatever helps ease the pain of writing and/or publishing: favorite journals to read and/or submit to; books, etc., about writing; organizational tools—you know—HandyStuff! Tell us about your favorite tools.
Thursday: B.L.'s Drive-Bys: Micro-reviews by our irreverent Reviewer-in-Residence, B.L. Kennedy. Send books, CDs, DVDs, etc. to him for possible review (either as a Drive-By or in future issues of Rattlesnake Review) at P.O. Box 160664, Sacramento, CA 95816.
Friday: NorCal weekend poetry calendar
Daily (except Sunday): LittleNips: SnakeFood for the Poetic Soul: Daily munchables for poetic thought, including short paragraphs, quotes, wonky words, silliness, little-known poetry/poet facts, and other inspiration—yet another way to feed our ravenous poetic souls.
And poetry! Every day, poetry from writers near and far and in-between! The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry.......!
_________________
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.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. 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). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.
