HOLY SATURDAY IN PARIS
—Adam Zagajewski
But maybe it's just
the feast day of spring rain:
boats cruises the gutters
with sails made of yesterday's paper,
otherwise known as Le Monde.
The butchers are about to rub their eyes,
and the city will awaken, sad and sated.
Someone once saw the earth split open
and swallow up a bit of future.
Luckily the rip was insignificant
and may still be stitched.
Some birds began to stammer.
Let's go someplace else, you say,
where monks sing
their songs poured from lead.
Alas, in the Arab quarter
a cloud, two-headed like the tsarist eagle,
bars the road.
And two-headed doubts,
slim as antelopes,
barricade the damp street.
Lord, why did you die?
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Easter again
We never forget our first big chocolate bunny
taking a bite of its laughing head expecting a delicious, chewy mouthful
only to disappointingly find out it was hollow instead of solid
A warning perhaps of the kind of stuff the world would give you later
You also wanted hard-boiled eggs to color
but remembered not get to carried away with your artistry
‘Cause then you’d have to eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
Mom made you take your eggs to school
The factory farm-produced eggs didn't have much flavor
once you had to crack into pieces your work on the shells
inside it tasted like plastic or rubber
making it difficult to trade for other food in the cafeteria
You also savored those marshmallow Peeps
sugar-coated goo that probably could glue up your insides
though your dentist said no binges on such sticky creations
as well as the jelly beans that you got in your baskets
but oh it made them seem more like forbidden fruit
after all, they didn't seem as fatty as many of the chocolate treats
(I managed to quit them at age sixteen when finding out they weren't
"vegan" but made with gelatin of boiled animal bones )
I also learned young that, instead of Easter, we had "Passover"
just like Jesus did, even on the evening he was betrayed
Our dinner tables probably wouldn't have anything much more than matzo
So grace would thank Jesus, not just for his sacrifice,
but feeding our hungry souls with sweet rolls, mashed potatoes and yams
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
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Ginosko
The literary journal, Ginosko, is accepting short fiction and poetry at GinoskoLiteraryJournal.com or P.O. Box 246, Fairfax, CA 94978.
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Thanks to Katy Brown for finding us today's pictures, part of a series called "Beware of Identity Theft on Easter", and to Michelle Kunert for her take on Easter. And thanks to Mitz Sackman for working on our recent Seeds of the Week (see below!). Mitz says, One thing I like about the forms and triggers is that they bring material out that has just been sitting there in pregnant pause mode…
FOR MY FATHER
—Mitz Sackman
Taps
Over
The graveyard
Sounds mournfully
Flag on casket lies
Beside the open grave
An old sailor gone ahead
Ready to be lowered down
To oceans never sailed by him before
Adventures in the post-life await him now
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NEW DRUM
—Mitz Sackman
My drum
Built by my hands
From a kit, sits drying
In my studio for four days
Bang, bang!
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NATURE INTO NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at the close of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
—Dylan Thomas
The daffodils fade, papery flags of wispy yellow
First inkling of life’s transience
Spring and life cycle, yet again
We cry for loss, pray for return
Do not go gentle into that good night
Spring filled with youth, vision
Energy abounds, nature is alive with growth
Summer brings us fullness, heat
The ponderousness of maturity to spring’s youth
Fall’s harvest tells us light is ending
Old age should burn and rave at the close of day
Winter ushers in the dying of the day
Night reigns full in the silence of the snowfall
Nature dying or sleeping against the turning of the wheel
We wait in the stillness of the darkness
Which swallows sight and sound, praying for the return of day
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
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AH MOTHER
—Mitz Sackman
Sweet, I winced, who wrote it
Mother, she said
—Alice Walker
I sat drifting, musing, typical spring day
Weather rushing from rain to blossoms in the sunshine
Thankful that the wind had settled, no need to bother in the garden
In my chair reading an old schmaltzy poem
Sweet, I winced, who wrote it
In my need to do something, I picked up the phone
Called the older daughter to chat about her day
Surely much more dynamic than mine
She was racing to her human physiology class, no time
Mother, she said
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AT GALLIPOLI, ANZAC Day, 2005
—Mitz Sackman
Rest in peace
In me, the meaning of your lives is still unfolding
—Alice Walker
Walking this spit of land in Turkey
Wandering in the April sunlight filled with hope
Among the stones clustered thickly here
Each a remembrance of one long gone
A carved stone all that is left behind
The ground cries with your tears 90 years later
A war took your young life
No peace in that time
Rest in peace
Yours was the fight, the war to end all wars
Your politicians told you so
They lied like politicians everywhere
Wasted your young hopes and bodies in a rain of fire
All of us here remembering your fight, your sacrifice
In me, the meaning of your lives is still unfolding
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Today's LittleNip:
For the poem is not a statement but a performance of forces, not an essay on life but a reenactment, and just as men must search their lives over and over again for the meaning of their deepest experiences, so the performance of a true poem is endless in being not a meaning but an act of existence.
—John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean?
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—Medusa
SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:
Rattlesnake Review: The latest Snake (RR21) is now available (free) at The Book Collector, 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, and please—only one submission per issue.
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 APRIL: A SpiralChap of poetry and photos from Laverne Frith (Celebrations: Images and Texts); a (free!) 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. Now available from the authors, or The Book Collector, or (soon) rattlesnakepress.com/.
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.......!
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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.
