Like Drunken Wildfire

WINTER DAWN
—Tu Fu

The men and beasts of the zodiac
Have marched over us once more.
Green wine bottles and red lobster shells,
Both emptied, litter the table.
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot?" Each
Sits listening to his own thoughts,
And the sound of cars starting outside.
The birds in the eaves are restless,
Because of the noise and light. Soon now
In the winter dawn I will face
My fortieth year. Borne headlong
Towards the long shadows of sunset
By the headstrong, stubborn moments,
Life whirls past like drunken wildfire.


(Translated from the Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth)

__________________

Turns out that "once in a blue moon" is not so rare, after all; a blue moon (two full moons in one month) actually happens about once every 2-1/2 years. Tonight is one of them, in fact, at 7-11—7:11 PM, that is.

We're still having the lira give-away; see yesterday's post for details. Deadline is midnight on Sunday. Thanks to Taylor Graham for a couple more of them, "Taylor-made". (It's not every day one can work "rutabaga" into a poem.) And to Shawn Aveningo and Katy Brown for contribs, plus Donald Anderson and Marie Ross for their joint poem. Happy New Year's Eve!

__________________

REMEMBERING THE OLD
—Taylor Graham

Blackberries sweet with August,
dark-succulent as everlasting summers.
January’s meager crust:
ice-crystal stars in road-dust;
echoes of brambles loud with bees and hummers.

__________________

HOW MANY WORLDS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

She walks below castle walls—
a new-year’s feast to comfort against the cold—
tapestries in chilly halls,
silken ladies, sequined balls.
What secrets those moats and battlements must hold.

She walks the green wall of trees—
a monastery, its garden hidden there,
rutabaga, spinach, peas—
penniless prayers to appease
an old year’s sorrow; hopes for peace; quiet air.

Those wildwood privacies, those
stone sanctums and closets of a lone desire—
what might the new year disclose?
Petals of the gypsy’s rose,
night’s wild communal music around a fire.

___________________

FROM AUGHTS TO OTS…we oughta know by now
—Shawn Aveningo, Rescue

The year, 1999.
The date, December 31st.
It was THE party of the century,
even wilder than Prince could imagine.
Which, let’s face it,
is saying A LOT!
She wore her body-hugging
dress in black,
sexy,
yet apropos,
paying her last respects
for a century passed.

Less than five minutes
remained,
frantic wait staff
filled champagne flutes
to the rim.
Just as Dick Clark
cued the ball’s descent,
the room went pitch black.
She felt a soft tap.
Then another.
And another.
From lips, to hips,
from tips to toes.

Auld Lang Syne
blasted from the Bose.
Room now illuminated by
a mysterious purple glow.
All she could see were
glowing white circular stickers,
adorning each tit,
freckling her ass,
sparkling on her body
like cosmic beacons
on a crisp winter’s night.

The man next to her
playfully inquired,
“What do polka dots taste like?”
She simply smiled.

……And that, my friends,
is how this decade
became nicknamed the “ots”,
short for polka dots
of course.

__________________

DIZZY
—Donald R. Anderson and Marie J. Ross, Stockton

The trees grew at a slant from such force of wind,
the windows recessed so far within.
A year’s end celebration...
Snow dressed the landscape with the power of white,
its overcoat blown open as the blusterous gale echoed.
And in the marsh the trees ruled with the power of black—
critters rummaging to warm hollow places, fiesta of night.
The cork popped, giggling voices capturing the air, music
no one heard because dizziness colored the whirling room
as one stepped out into the cold.
A bird was calling, like an angel’s voice crying,
sweetly collecting what bugs it could from the bark;
she held back her hair scattering into her face in a gust.
She walked toward the barn, watching her footsteps sink
into icy turf, just like the time his walked the other way.
Flurry, the chestnut-colored mare, was restless because of the noise.
She calmly stroked the mare’s neck, “Shh-shh-shh-shh.”
“I’ll be here with you,” she said, “the silence will enfold the night,
the snow storm will ease, let’s pretend the noise makers are sounds
of nature meant especially for us.” What was Flurry without the wind,
and what was she without...
she led Flurry out of the barn, mounted her, feeling the need to run
as much as Flurry did,
and they raced with the wind at their back
till they were dizzy.

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

________________

Today's LittleNip:

Finishing a day of begging,
I return home through the green mountains.
The setting sun is hidden behind the western cliffs
And the moon shines weakly on the stream below.
I stop by a rock and wash my feet.
Lighting some incense, I sit peacefully in zazen.
Again a one-man brotherhood of monks;
Ah...how quickly the stream of time sweeps by.

—Ryokan
(Translated from the Japanese by John Stevens)

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: A New Year with Rattlesnake Press:

RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one.
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail this week and next.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—
but not Medusa's Kitchen, WTF (see below)
or our 2nd Weds. reading series (except for no reading in January).
Watch Medusa's Kitchen for further developments,
and sign up for our monthly e-newsletter, Snakebytes,
by writing to me at kathykieth@hotmail.com/.


WTF!!

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
WTF is the only Rattlesnake print publication
that will keep going during our break;
next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 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 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)


WORKING WITH MEDUSA:

During our hiatus from most print publications (except WTF),
Medusa will keep cooking in the Kitchen every day.
Only a few of our poets have picked up on the fact, though,
that Medusa's Kitchen is a great way to get your work out there
on a very frequent basis; the snakes of Medusa are always hungry.
Plus, we accept previously-published work—such a deal!—
(please cite publication and be sure you own the rights)
and, like our other journals,
no bios or cover letters are required; just mark it for Medusa.
Send it all to kathykieth@hotmail.com or
P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.
(No simultaneous submissions, though, please.)

I'm convinced that the 'Net
is the future of poetry; print may continue,
and of course has its benefits,
but where else can your work be seen by
an almost unlimited number of people (including your relatives)
with this kind of speed and frequency??
Where else can you connect with Duluth or Greece or Zimbabwe
for free, day by day, liberated from
the vicissitudes of the postal service???

So keep sending poetry, photos, art, cartoons, events,
reviews of poetry and books about poetry,
other handy resources such as books, websites
and submissions opportunities—
whatever poetry goings-on that can be posted.
Watch line lengths on poetry, though; they are limited on the blog.
Blogspot does refuse to indent, too; work must be justified left.

Need to find a poet who posted in the past, including yourself?
Go to the search bar at the upper left of the blog and
type in the name.
Voila!
Or, if you know the date, go to the archives column at the right,
click on the month and scroll down to the day.
Plus, be sure to check out the links in the right-hand column
for more poetry and poetry news, local and otherwise.
(Did you know that, if you click on the pictures
we post, they'll enlarge for you?)

So watch for an expansion of offerings and opportunities
as the Kitchen gets remodeled along with everything else ophidian—
2010 is going to be a
Big Year for the Snake!


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
in print and otherwise.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!
See rattlesnakepress.com for a complete listing of all our other
publications, free and otherwise. There's a link to the right.

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as REVIEWS, RESOURCES and 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.

Prisoners of the Air

VINCENT'S MEMORY OF A BUTTERFLY
—Tom Kryss, Ravenna, OH

A butterfly visited me at St. Remy,
I couldn’t believe my luck, I had torn
up some linens and was stretching
them to the back of the frame, looked
up, and noticed that it was paying
attention to my every move It also
sat on the stone sill during a rain
storm, once, and even came close,
swimming through the grate, one evening
when I had rigged up a candle to paint
past the commanded hour, it stood, if
that’s what a butterfly does, at the
top of the chair near my hand as I
extended a bit of ochre with turpentine,
it was definitely interested, I could
have given it lessons, but believe
it had more to teach me than I could
have imparted to it, no, you couldn’t
depend on it but, by the same token,
it seemed to show up at the optimum
unexpected moment, I began to look
forward to my little pretense of giving
it lessons, I was sick and it visited
me, mad with life and it told me that
it was alright to have that kind of
madness, blue is yellow and yellow is
red, and when I saw it for the last time
I didn’t know that the time of a butterfly
on earth is not as great as the number
of stars and I may have not paid quite
as much attention to it as it was in the
habit of giving to me, they say it
was unreasonable to expect it to stay,
that my canvasses have regressed, I don’t
care what they say, it was my friend
and there are certain friends you just
don’t ask to sit still for a portrait

___________________

Thanks to Tom Kryss for "Vincent's" butterfly, to D.R. Wagner for his mill and his prisoners of the air, and to Taylor Graham and Richard Zimmer for tackling the Portuguese lira head-on.


Seed of the Week: Give-away: Lira for the New Year!

Send us a lira about the New Year and I'll send you a copy of Dawn DiBartolo's recent rattlechap, Secrets of a Violet Sky (or any other rattlechap of your choosing). There's a deadline on this: midnight on Sunday, Jan. 3. Send 'em to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.

What's a lira?

a. stanzaic: popularly written in one or a short number of quintains (5-line stanzas). The form is occasionally found in sixains and on rare occasions, quatrains. (In other words, 4-6 lines, but let's go with five. Can be just one stanza or several.)

b. syllabic: the lines are usually in a fixed pattern of 7 and 11 syllables: 7, 11, 7, 7, 11. The last line of the stanza is always 11 syllables. If more than one stanza, the first stanza establishes the fixed pattern.

c. often written with Line 2 repeated as Line 5. (Ooo, goody! Repeated lines!)

d. rhymed: several possibilities, but let's go with 7a, 11b, 7a, 7a, 11b—or last line can repeat line 2.

Here's an example from Sacramento's Elsie Feliz, who was kind enough to give us this background information:

THE EDGE OF WINTER
—Elsie Whitlow Feliz

I yearn for blossoming spring:
those pastels, and pink, softening the season.
I want to follow the string
through life's labyrinth, and sing
a heavenly hymn for no earthly reason.

___________________

RESOLUTION
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

What are those birds? Two, no, three—
the winter morning’s a-light with flights of wings
from lawn to brush-pile to tree.
This new year, I’ll learn to see
the winter morning’s a-light with flights of wings.

___________________

A PASSING FANCY
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

New Year's Eve, love happened fast.
They met by chance, he thought she was alluring.
His soul mate was found at last.
Then his passion quickly passed.
Sadly, that new-found love was not enduring.

___________________

CHEERS
—Richard Zimmer

Drink up my friend, have some wine!
Last year passed by as swiftly as a river.
Drink a toast to Auld Lang Syne!
Drink, and leave your cares behind!
May our friendship last longer than my liver.

__________________

PRISONERS OF THE AIR
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The stands of trees engage
The evening birds like tongues
Of fire. They revel in an electricity
Made of feathers and nervous squalling.

How thick is the atmosphere?
Thin as a dream, swirling blue
One could cover with a thumb
When seen from cold space.

All of life can rise to this ceiling
And no further, prisoners of the air.
Dancing in the colors made from light,
Made from the longing of light
To bend around all things and pleading
For a naming. How can we explain this
To our children? Light upon the oceans?

We walk along the edge of the great seas
Unwilling to drive the required knowledge
Deep into our lungs. Our mouths opening
And closing like fish. We forget how to drown.

The sky breaks open and allows
Us to see the moon and its
Stars through a million clouds
And once again we do not know
Where we are. All of life depending.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

You can throw yourself flat on the ground, stretched out upon Mother Earth, with the certain conviction that you are one with her and she with you... As surely as she will engulf you tomorrow, so surely will she bring you forth anew.

—Erwin Schrödinger

Mill at Alta, California
Photo by D.R. Wagner

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one.
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail this week and next.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 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 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

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.

Mr. Death and Other Secrets

Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Yep, in Sacramento it's the week following the 25th of December
The kids out of school don't know what to do—
maybe get into a fight or decide to break a light display
if not attempt to break into cars left in a parking lot
The shopping mall stores just have well-picked-over leftovers
that aren't any better for even half the price they were before
(also likely being made by sweatshop slaves)
Clothing made of thin materials that could even fall apart in the wash
I was interested in a plain black summer T-shirt at a Marshalls
because it had a carnitured skull and read "Dead Poets Society"
but, being a "designer", they wouldn't let it go for less than $10
I left it behind like the piles of Chinese-made berets at Macy's
(even though usually I like wearing hats a lot)
and the digital cameras on sale for $69 at Best Buy
which were not Macintosh compatible
I think I'd be better just sticking with second-hand stores
and not waste the little money I was gifted

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

__________________

Thanks to all our artists and poets today; a potpourri of the poetically-inclined!


Whee-haw!

My Big Printer has roared back to life! Like Rumpelstiltskin, it seems like it was asleep for 100 years. The death of my computer caused a total reconfiguration of the house system, and we ended up having to move not only me and all my almost-lost files (to Sam's computer), but both printers and my scanner into one of his work rooms, as well. But now all is moved, all is solved, and all of this vagabond equipment actually consented to work with the new computer! In short, the last of the current issue of Rattlesnake Review will go into the mail this week and next.


Poetry Doings of Note:

•••The 84th Annual Berkeley Poets’ Dinner/Contest will be held in Oakland on March 20, 2010. This is a long-standing (well, 84 years!) event that some of our Sacramento/environs poets attend—and our area poets usually win quite a few of the prizes. The deadline is January 10 to enter the contest, and then you must be present at the lunch on March 20 to claim your prize. Write to me if you’d like a copy of the information sheet (and registration for the lunch).

•••CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Canuckifornia, an anthology of Canadian writings about California, seeks short stories, essays (personal or academic) and/or poems (or groups of up to 10 poems). Contributors should be natives of Canada, former or current Canadian citizens, or former or current permanent residents of Canada. The purpose of this collection is to display a range of Canadian reactions to (and appropriations of) the myths and realities of California, a state where many expatriates have gathered. Canadians have migrated to the Golden State to pursue careers in the entertainment industry, Silicon Valley, academia and many other fields, and they have brought their own sensibilities to bear on the so-called “Golden State.” At the same time, California’s laid-back image, individualistic ethos and new mixture of ethnic influences have forced many Canadians to confront and question their own approach to life, both on the professional and the personal levels. Yet California’s high cultural profile in North America means that no Canadian with any degree of interest in life abroad can have failed to form a vivid impression of its influence. Thus contributors need not have resided in (or even visited) California to be considered. Submissions or questions may be sent via regular mail to Roan Press, P.O. Box 160406, Sacramento, CA 95816 (USA) or via email to roanpress@gmail.com/. Submissions received by Jan. 1, 2010, will be considered for inclusion. The collection will be edited by Dr. Bradley Buchanan, Associate Professor of English at California State University Sacramento. Professor Buchanan is a native of Windsor, Ontario.

•••Sun. (1/17), 2-4 PM: Getting Your Poetry Published Workshop by Connie Post at Towne Center Books, 555 Main St., Pleasanton. So you've written some poems. Ready for some for some common sense advice and strategies on how to navigate the path to publication? Connie Post, the first City of Livermore Poet Laureate (2005-2009), has been published in over 30 national print journals in the past four years. Learn how to navigate editors, submissions guidelines—and rejection—and get your poems published! Cost: $10.00. Reservations recommended; info@townecenterbooks.com or (925) 846-8826.


Seed of the Week: Give-away: Lira for the New Year!

Send us a lira about the New Year and I'll send you a copy of Dawn DiBartolo's recent rattlechap, Secrets of a Violet Sky (or any other rattlechap of your choosing). There's a deadline on this: midnight on Sunday, Jan. 3. Send 'em to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.

What's a lira?

a. stanzaic: popularly written in one or a short number of quintains (5-line stanzas). The form is occasionally found in sixains and on rare occasions, quatrains. (In other words, 4-6 lines, but let's go with five. Can be just one stanza or several.)

b. syllabic: the lines are usually in a fixed pattern of 7 and 11 syllables: 7, 11, 7, 7, 11. The last line of the stanza is always 11 syllables. If more than one stanza, the first stanza establishes the fixed pattern.

c. often written with Line 2 repeated as Line 5. (Ooo, goody! Repeated lines!)

d. rhymed: several possibilities, but let's go with 7a, 11b, 7a, 7a, 11b—or last line can repeat line 2.

Here's an example [note: this one has an alternate rhyme scheme]:

COMPUTER CONNECTION
—Judi Van Gorder

Fingertips rapidly tap,
chosen letters appear in black on the screen.
Words are formed to fill the gap
between thoughts and sounds unseen.
Chosen letters appear in black on the screen.

And here's another one from Sacramento's Elsie Feliz, who was kind enough to give us this background information:

THE EDGE OF WINTER
—Elsie Whitlow Feliz

I yearn for blossoming spring:
those pastels, and pink, softening the season.
I want to follow the string
through life's labyrinth, and sing
a heavenly hymn for no earthly reason.

___________________

THEN...AND NOW
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

I blurred miserably
in Zoology a million
years ago. But now

I'd like to place
under a microscope
spider silk, my soul.

__________________

THE WINTER CANDLE
—Claire J. Baker

The fragile woman I take to church
gives me a tall stout candle—
a golden wick & wax.

I support her up to my truck,
take her big purse, tuck her in,
fasten her seat belt,

then she reminds me of my belt:
we're like a long-married couple
with a set boarding pattern...

And now a monstrous candle
between us to cast cheer
over English tea & crumpets.

__________________

DEATH WEARS A WHITE DRESS
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Bought at a garage sale…he sits on the
front room table. Tall and sleek, with
a tubular shape…hips no wider than
his shoulders. A dark gray ceramic cat.

Large eared with pointed face…delicate
Asian features. The royal cat of Siam.
favorite of kings and priests…thought
to bring good luck to its owners.

Carefully rubbing the head of his ceramic cat,
Fred smiles. Fred is wrapped in the fabric of
superstition, the religion of weak minds. He
believes the ceramic cat brings good luck.

Feeling old age, and pain sneaking up on him,
he fears death as a child fears the dark. A fear
that is naturally increased by his superstitions.
Fred thinks Mr. Death is waiting nearby.

He knows that Mr. Death wears black. When
there’s a knock on his door, he goes and rubs
the ceramic cat and peeks out the window…
if he sees a man in black, he won’t answer.

On Sunday, Fred is rushed to the hospital,
unconscious. Next day, when his eyes open,
the puzzled Fred sees, standing over his bed,
a priest in black, and a nurse in a white dress.

____________________

THE SECRETS OF MY NEIGHBORHOOD
—Joanna Rosinska, Corvallis, OR

It’s nearly midnight,
my anxiety raises in the waxing moon penumbra
(too much coffee with dinner).
Lots of lonely, overwhelming feelings
brew rebellious curiosity in my mailbox
of self-serving philosophy,
beckoning me to the possibility of rare finds in neighbor’s trash.

My neighborhood is a crime watch area;
police patrol cars frequent our streets.
My friends say it’s a matter of time
before I get busted for trash sniffing.
Again.

But the challenge of practicing safely my misdemeanor
sustains me in my boring weekends.
It’s only thirty yards to the nearest garbage can
and I only need a moment with it.

Last summer, I spent a night in the county jail
on the suspicion of theft.
Set free, now I’m smarter
about my misunderstood adventures.
And…I have brand new neighbors to the north!

It is chilly outside,
I’m delighted with the brightness of my new headlamp
(an early Christmas present to myself).
The plastic lid of the can squeaks softly,
the delicate smell teases my nostrils.
A closer look reveals some ancient half-ripped box of baking soda,
packaging peanuts and a bundle of spoiled green beans.
What a shame, they don’t have a compost pile.
Below, some envelopes with a bank stamp in a bag with kitty litter
that smells of petroleum.
Of course! They have an old, incontinent truck in their driveway.
A wrinkled plastic and Styrofoam tray slimed with old fat
speaks gingerly of its past as prepackaged bacon wrap.
Apparently, the neighbors don’t have high cholesterol,
and they are not vegetarians.
A familiar, pleasant feeling enters my chest, a satisfaction of a task completed,
and a need for some fresh air at last.

So quiet around.
A shadow moves by the adjacent tree.
A grunt.
A deer in rut? A person?
Another grunt.
Aha! Moonlight reflects the differential
of my neighbor parked on the other side of my house.
I guess his toilet is on the fritz again.
When nature calls he goes to nature.
We’ll keep each other’s secrets safe.

___________________

Cartoon by Joanna Rosinska

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

"A planet doesn't explode of itself," said drily
The Martian astronomer, gazing off into the air—
"That they were able to do it is proof that highly
Intelligent beings must have been living there."

—John Hall Wheelock

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail this week and next.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 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 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

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.

Flooded in Language

Electronic Artwork by D.R. Wagner

VISITING YEATS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

(For N.E. Gotthart, after Yeats’ "The Lake Isle at Innisfree")

Aye, down and further down
I went to where the air
Was fearful loud upon my ear
And still my eye would not give way
To move the night from her starry
Climb. In vain I searched the
Edge of the sea, till late I too
Could hear the water lapping
At my thighs and hiss upon my knees.
And still I did not see him
Though made of clay be he.
“He must have gone,” I thought,
But knew that couldn’t be,
For deep I was beyond the glade
And though far from noon, be sure
I still could hear a tone
Deaf voice that shook me to the core.
“There is no way beyond here,” I told myself
And pulled hard to the bank to free
Myself from this dark lake and then
And only then I saw him move between
The trees as thin as linnet’s wings.

___________________

Thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's poetry and art. I'm not going to post any readings for this week; I know Sacramento Poetry Center won't be having one tonight, and I'm guessing most others are closed down. Still, you should check... And let me know if you hear differently.

Meanwhile, time to start thinking about the new year. Rae Gouirand writes with news of Cache Creek. She says:

As you know, I’ve served as Writer-in-Residence for the Cache Creek Conservancy for the last five years, and owing to grant funding from the Teichert Foundation, have been afforded the opportunity to design and teach an annual series of poetry workshops offered free of charge to the public in an outstanding outdoor classroom at the Cache Creek Nature Preserve site in rural northwest Woodland. This program has been absolutely one-of-a-kind among community arts programs, and has solidified an incredible community of Sacramento-area writers. I’m sad to announce that the WIR program has lost its grant funding for the 2010 season. The executive committee of Cache Creek Nature Preserve has decided that they would like to continue supporting the WIR program, however, and will be presenting a proposal to the CCC board in January that would allocate funding for the program this year. This would make the WIR program the only public arts program in the country funded by a nature conservancy. I am personally humbled that the Preserve sees the work of its artists as so fundamental to their mission of promoting environmental stewardship. Barring any complications in getting that proposal approved, the WIR program should resume this January as planned. I am therefore opening registration for this year’s first workshop:

FLUID WORLDS: Poetry and the Water Cycle (Thursdays, January 14 – March 18, 2010, 9-11 AM)

It is said that water seeks its level. So does the poem. How can we better open our poems to swim with the messages they want to deliver? What can the tensions and cycles of water–its individual drops as well as its greater bodies and forces–teach us about our the instincts of poetry and its version of truth? As a group, we’ll study poems that dissolve, float, and behave in other ways that inspire fluidity in our work, as well as new reverence for our most vital, fundamental resource.

This ten-week workshop will be offered by sliding-scale donation to the public thanks to the support of Cache Creek Nature Preserve. Donations will be accepted by the Executive Director beginning at the first workshop meeting on January 14: Participants are asked to donate according to their own ability in honor of what the time they spend at this natural oasis offers them. Please register only if you can make a personal commitment to attending regularly and using this time to support your own creative development. Writers of all levels of experience are welcome. Meets in Woodland, on site at Cache Creek Nature Preserve.

To register: Email rgouirand@gmail.com with your name, contact email, and contact phone number. Practical details will be sent to registrants in the week preceding the beginning the first meeting.

__________________

YOUR WINGS OF HIGH, GONE GLITTER
Sweet roads to afternoon.
—D.R. Wagner

I sat on the edge of the stair
And watched you come down
The fields. Long lines of you
Caught in the edges of trees.

A small hand was walking across
The top of the roses, sorting
And fumbling, like spiders when
The rain has ripped into their webs
And all the world’s gone wrong
With invisible falling.

I could feel my hands moving out from my body
And go around you. I was holding you very tight.
I raised my eyes to see what to say and a star
Had somehow found its way through a space in the trees
And was sitting there watching. Sometimes it
Works like that. Sometimes I think I think it’s real
And I have to stop and quiet myself, rub my eyes
To believe. It is like praying to the flowers,
Or sitting alone in the sweet roads of the afternoon
Touching your wings, gone glitter around me, listening
To the signals from the rose bushes, waiting for
Pictures to tell me how to end, quietly.

__________________

MAKING MANTRA
—D.R. Wagner

Mantra has no concrete meaning, it cannot be made to subserve utilitarian ends. It calls forth and unveils something real…it concentrates already existing forces like a magnifying glass. —Lama Govinda

Oh baby, I love you.
Mother, I love you.
Father, I love you.
Oh family, I love you.
Oh world, I love you.
Alphabet of sounds, I love you.
Seed syllables of breath about to
Catch fire, I love you.
Oh, calling forth into a state
Of immediate reality, I love you.
Oh word at the hour of its birth,
Center of force and reality, I love you.
Oh language balanced in us,
In its pure essence, I love you.
Oh image that is power of
That which is, I love you.
Oh truth of being, beyond right
And wrong, beyond thinking and
Reflecting, I love you.
Oh focus of energies that is the
Creation of consciousness in
This entire life, I love you.
Oh only and last remnant of
That which makes us poets,
Makes us seekers of the word
As it gathers power, I love you.

We are still an ancient civilization
Flooded in language. It is I love you
Here, talking to you, baby. It is bigger than
Both of us. It is I love you saying there are
Things bigger than man, bigger than theory
And argument, bigger than Marxists and
Deconstructionists.
It is I love you trembling
On the brink, a sound
Described by the sublime only.
Oh baby I love you.
Come here. Fearless.
Mystery of Body, Speech and Mind.
We traveling, darling.
We spinning in our deepest seat.
We still trying on clothes when we flying through
Each other like so many bells.
Oh baby, I love you.
Ding!

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Thought itself is a wave phenomenon. Wave motion dominates the world of sub-atomic particles, so why not our human lives? Or our human histories through time? Could this, I wonder, could this be the source of all our hauntings?

—William Boyd, Fascination

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will most likely be mailed by January 1.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 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 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

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.

Drunk on Peach Fuzz

OKAY, I'LL DO IT
—Rumi

Okay, I will do it:
sing longer songs tonight because sometimes
you're just so damn hard to please, and I guess I am
still courting you, trying to get into
your soul's knickers.

What makes you like that—grouchy around the edges?
What classrooms have you lounged in;
what nonsense have you traded
your gold
for?

How can you look so needy—
God is growing in fields you own.

He hangs from trees you pass every day. He is disguised as that
peach and pine cone.

Every sound I hear—He made it.

I have been walking with two canes these days—
guess why?

It is because of His beauty and that blond peach fuzz floating
everywhere like dust—

it has made me
so drunk.

___________________

—Medusa

In a Unity of Metals

Lights
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE POET
—Pablo Neruda

I used to wander through life amid
an ill-starred love: I used to keep
a little page of quartz
to rivet my eyes to life.
I bought kindness, I was in the market
of greed, I inhaled envy's
most sordid waters, the inhuman
hostility of masks and beings,
I lived a sea-swamp world
in which the flower, the lily, suddenly
consumed me in their foamy tremor,
and wherever I stepped my soul slid
toward the teeth of the abyss.
That's how my poetry was born, barely
freed from the nettles, clutched
above solitude like a punishment,
or its most secret flower sequestered
in the garden of immodesty until it was buried.
And so isolated like the dark water
that inhabits its deep corridors,
I fled from hand to hand, to each
being's alienation, to daily hatred.
I knew that was how they lived, hiding
half of their beings, like fish
from the strangest sea, and in the murky
immensities I encountered death.
Death opening doors and roads.
Death gliding along the walls.

__________________

DEATH IN THE WORLD
—Pablo Neruda

Death kept dispatching and reaping
its tribute in sites and tombs:
man with dagger or with pocket,
at noon or in the nocturnal light,
hoped to kill, keep killing,
kept burying beings and branches,
murdering and devouring corpses.
He prepared his nets, wrung dry,
bled white, departed in the morning
smelling blood from the hunt,
and upon returning from his triumph he was shrouded
by fragments of death and abandonment,
and killing himself, he then buried
his tracks with sepulchral ceremony.

The homes of the living were dead.
Slag, broken roofs, urinals,
wormy alleyways, hovels
awash with human tears.
"You must live like this," said the decree.
"Rot in your substance," said the Foreman.
"You're filthy," reasoned the Church.
"Sleep in the mud," they told you.
And some of them armed the ash
to govern and decide,
while the flower of mankind beat
against the walls built for them.

The Cemetery possessed pomp and stone.
Silence for all the stature
of lofty tapered vegetation.

At last you're here, at last you leave
us a hollow in the heart of the bitter jungle,
at last you lie stiff between walls
that you won't breach. And every day
the flowers, like a river of perfume,
joined the river of the dead.
The flowers untouched by life
fell on the hollow that you left.

__________________

MANKIND
—Pablo Neruda

Here I found love. It was born in the sand,
it grew without voice, touched the flintstones
of hardness, and resisted death.
Here mankind was life that joined
the intact life, the surviving sea,
and attacked and sang and fought
with the same unity of metals.
Here cemeteries were nothing but
turned soil, dissolved sticks
of broken crosses over which
the sandy winds advanced.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

Words are inseparable from poetry and forever ready to release unforeseeable magic into the poetic performance. But no poem is made of words alone. Just as no thought exists in words alone. Feelings, suggestions, images arise out of the words and run free of them.

—John Ciardi, How Does a Poem Mean?

__________________

—Medusa

(Today's poetry was translated from the Spanish by Jack Schmitt.)

Sing, Even So

Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH MUSIC AND NUMBERS
—William Bronk

Who knows better than you know,
Lady, the circumstances of this event
—meanness, the overhanging terror, and the need
for flight soon—hardly reflect the pledge
the angel gave you, the songs you exchanged in joy
with Elizabeth, your cousin? That was then
or that was for later, another time. Now—.

Still, the singing was and is. Song
whether or not we sing. The song is sung.
Are we cozened? The song we hear is like
those numbers we cannot factor whose overplus,
an indeterminate fraction, seems more than the part
we factor out. Lady, if our despair
is to be unable to factor ourselves in song
or factor the world there, what should our joy
be other than this same integer that sings
and mocks at satisfaction? We are not
fulfilled. We cannot hope to be. No,
we are held somewhere in the void of whole despair,
enraptured, and only there does the world endure.

Lady, sing to this Baby, even so.

___________________

Happy holidays from all the hundreds of poets at Rattlesnake Press!



—Medusa

Like Infants

Star
Artwork by Tom Kryss

THE WRECK OF THE CHRISTMAS SHIP
—Tom Kryss

A converted trawler out of the east and bound, as some said,

for the Canaries, foundered on the rocks beyond the shore

outside our village. I was five, you understand, and didn’t want

to leave the tree and the presents my father had made me — he

pulled me away, saying “we’re going down to the sea — a wreck

is tottering on the point.” He dressed me in my warm scarf

and mittens, not bothering to put on something warm for himself,

and away we dashed out the door, him pulling me, scrambling like

some kind of madman. The other villagers had gotten there before

us and were standing in the wind, looking out at the wreck. Little

specks of gold were washing around in the brine, I decided they

were oranges which is, indeed, what they were. Crates and barrels

were smashing apart in the waves, embroidered fabrics and heads

of cheese rolling out everywhere. My father lifted me on his

shoulders to get a good look — Hans, my friend down the lane,

asked me why I should receive such special treatment, ha, Hans,

and leave me alone I have things to see. The ship rocked and

swayed and, to everyone’s amazement, with a deep groan of lumber

and nails worked itself free, its single tattered sail dragged by the

wind out past the rocks and over the horizon as we stood there

and congratulated ourselves on apprehending a phantom. These

were not the words of a child seeing it for the first time —

that child had no such words to make things sensible. The other

night I went up to my father’s bed in the hospital at Reykjavik

to set up the little tree I had brought him. I put my hand on his

stubbly cheek and asked him whether he remembered the wreck

from the years we lived in the village. What wreck, he said,
you must be mistaken.

__________________

THE DRUMMER BOY
—Tom Kryss

This year I put up the tree I once thought
was unnecessary. It’s only us now, and
the tree itself has grown progressively
smaller. I used to help; or linger around
and admire how she brought a cheap version
to life with an effulgence of lights: the room
dark, a potential black hole, before plugging
them in. Yes, this

year: those hands are no longer able
to make the connections or hang so much
as a ball. She sleeps nearby and when she
awakens, the thing is already up: fifteen
minutes, not bad, and this time it’s me
saying, “come look at the tree.”

More than the tree, I locate the manger
at the top of the shelf in the closet, pushed
back against the wall. You think I had
problems with the tree? Jeez, I hope
I got them just right, in the positions
she used to award them — the angel,

clearly not part of the original set,
facing us; although I considered
availing it of perspectives shared
by wisemen, shepherds, walk-ons,
and other members of that extraordinary
extended family. I even unstuck Mylar
snowflakes and arranged them on
the glass door.

I can’t really say what she’s thinking,
yes, no, maybe, as she looks at it all:
me and my drum.

__________________

A MAN WITH A LIGHT TOUCH
—Tom Kryss

Dave Ledbetter places holiday lights in position
on a tree on Public Square. The branches of the
tree are silhouetted against the sky, as is Dave
reaching from the top of the platform. In the
distance is a well-known local landmark, no longer
the center of attention, at least not right now.
I think Dave has been doing this for only a few years —
the last guy to attempt it before him up and
retired — but already Dave seems to have mastered
the fine points of leaning forward from the cherry
picker with a strand of lights grasped in his hands;
it almost looks as though he’s trying to tear them
apart — that could be my silly take on it— more
accurately, he’s conducting a form of micro surgery
on the limbs of the tree. Does one volunteer
for this type of work, or is it simply assigned?

From where I stand I can’t see his face, I presume
it’s not smiling — very few would find levity
in this workaday world — but a sense of calmness
obtains, a resignation even, from a job that doesn’t
exactly need to be done. What he does in other
months, after reversing the process and removing
the lights, I haven’t for now the faintest idea. And
he may not even care to return when trees twinkle
with colors like some new kind of leaves they have
grown. Don’t bet on it, it was Dave that put them
in the positions they’re in. This is the way I want
to remember him: not quite Michelangelo, but as
someone dedicated to an unlikely proposition, even
for just the better part of a day so fleeting we have
to keep reminding ourselves it exists.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

Vulnerable we are, like an infant.
We need each other's
care or we will
suffer.

—St. Catherine of Siena

__________________

—Medusa

Snowfall Of Angels

Angel Choir
Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

RE-GIFTING THE FAMILY TREASURE
—Katy Brown, Davis

Granny gave it first to Mom,
who gave it next to Uncle Tom,
back when Ike was then our Prez
(that's what my old Granddad says).

From hand to hand it passed around,
it didn't glow or make a sound.
Someone gave it a shot of brandy
which made it smell pretty dandy,

if you didn't know how old it was
or notice that it grew green fuzz.
Every year it got re-wrapped
and dumped in someone else's lap.

We've all had it—every one—
but its travels are not done.
It's time to go around once more:
to give the gift we all adore.

The family prize, the family gift:
what gives our members all a lift?
What is this thing, for heaven's sake?
our brick-hard, ancient, family fruitcake.

__________________

ROBOT XMAS
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

With what must have been great expense
(heart or guilt?) if not ultimate sense
Mom and Dad bought for all us three boys
the latest in technical toys:
a big walking robot apiece!

I remember our turning big keys
in back that cranked orange and blue gears;
and thanks to clear plastic veneers
you could see the tooth-spins of each cog!

With the whirring and clicking agog
we listened, cocked heads Victor dogs,
to the keenest boy-soul-stirring strains:
we had robot-part-songs for brains.

They strode onward, with lurches and staggers,
in our eyes quite grandiloquent swaggers.
Then robotically, each froze up still;
faint last gear-grindings boded foul ill.

We wailed: The robots are dead!
We want something better instead!
The gearheads junk-dunked in the trash,
now there came a Saint Nicholas flash!

Mom or Dad, I forget who it was,
urged us into each bot-box because,
we were given to know, we could be
the robots ourselves, but more free!
So that afternoon, armholes hacked through

the tough cardboard, we were the few,
the proud twenty-ton automatons
strutting crush-worthy neighboring lawns.
Do such wacky-benevolent cons
gift most children to shift into gear?
The robotics involved, still unclear…

__________________

CHRISTMAS MORNING
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

We woke to a fall of angels
all over the lawn, roof weighted down
with white; tendrils of ivy laced
and everything waiting for light,
for sun to spark icicles bright with cold.
Who will leave his bunk, bundle
to build up the fire and set out mugs
of coffee and frosted cookies?
Who will shovel the drive
and clear a path through
the snowplow-berm? Where
would we want to go? What gift
could we wish?
Dreams of a winter night,
this snowfall of angels.

__________________

GIFT OF CROWS
—Taylor Graham

Eleven crows—a dozen, 15
crows in shifting
numbers animate the parking
lot. Black-feather shine
on asphalt with cars sleeping
in rows. The air is full
of complex patterns, dance-
flight figures I can’t keep
track of. Crows shimmering
in this piece of sun,
that spot of pavement,
a parking lot alive
with crows.

__________________

ALWAYS CHECK THE SKY

for weather. Sunrise blinding off Stone
Mountain; blue filtered through valley oak.

No planes, smoke, or funnel clouds,
asteroids, space debris—not here, not yet.

No rainbows, kites, or UFOs. Birthday balloons
long gone, sailing their brief silver bubbles.

Acorn woodpecker, blue heron luxuriously
flapping overhead; red-shafted flicker.

Bolt out of the blue? angels? Who knows.
No rain, no snow. Scent of distant mountains,

words on the wind.
Always check the sky for gifts.


—Taylor Graham

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Love alone is capable of uniting living beings in such a way as to complete and fulfill them, for it alone takes them and joins them by what is deepest in themselves.

—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

__________________

Thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's photo of angels (one can never have too much evidence of angels!), and to our poets for chiming in on the Seed of the Week: Gifts, Giving and Re-Gifting. Send your SOWs to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs.


—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will most likely be mailed by January 1.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 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 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

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.