—Anonymous Photo
MY CHIHUAHUA KNOWS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
She knows when I am sleeping
She knows when I’m awake
She smells the warm velvet cake
Chemical changes inside of me
That will eventually trigger
The keen sensation of hunger
Long before my own mind
Has become aware of the need
She is begging me to heed
Licking my sleepy face
Or climbing up my leg with force
Marching with her Tiki torch
It is time for the pack to
Invade the kitchen, make a meal
Share it together, enjoy the feel
STEW SKIN
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
Oatmeal grows no skin
quite like the sheath I grow
when left alone to stand.
Not even my stove would know.
You stirred me like a soft hand
that, fever-warm, leaves snow
where it’s touched. Simmer drew sin
from boiling down below
to foam atop like beer.
What bubbled, spotted, mottled,
spread membrane over a fear
I wanted corked, not bottled.
Faults sank down in the ferment,
the mash, all toxic stain.
The boil this film restrains
a sterner heat surmounts.
The cooling, scarcely hard
skim layers itself in the pan,
pops jabbed by the lancing spoon
yet forms like scum or lard.
DILATION DROPS
—Tom Goff
Eyes were built to dilate,
says humankind’s ambition.
Expand the gaze in size and rate
of speed, demands volition.
Eyes once dilated, though,
find strange blur and distortion
creep in and, where we go,
irises prohibition
swears ought not flaw white light.
We tread more wary, keen
to scan for foes. Raw fright
spun by reflective sheen
scares us from end to end.
We who expanded grand
as lords our eyes’ best bend,
find glare’s broad upthrust hand
rude as a stop sign there
bar every slice of air.
WALSINGHAME*
(Arnold Bax and Harriet Cohen, 1926)
—Tom Goff
My pilgrim girl came home
from holy Walsinghame.
Again she’s on the roam
to places without name.
…What thinness shows in her?
What music in her hands,
hands delicate and sure.
Where take her for a cure?…
Where will she go without
a guide to sway her straight?
Her path is stony; doubt,
drought, famine, burden’s weight,
What happened to our love?
No end, one long caress,
all sweetness in one grove
of soul and sex we’d rove…
these agents dog her tread:
I fear for her young years.
Would I could share her dread,
beside her, mud and tears,
Her lungs are delicate,
blood spots her handkerchief.
All’s gloom that was elate;
must we now bow to Fate?…
trudge to her pace, her hand
squeezing to a sweet crush
the fingers of my hand.
She left me in a rush,
I like these doctors not,
nor all of Switzerland.
She’s idled, talent for nought;
here’s Lethe-wharf and rot…
so scarcely come back home
from holy Walsinghame,
so swift once more to roam
to places with no name.
* Also a setting by Bax of a Sir Walter Raleigh poem for solo tenor, chorus, and orchestra.
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Today’s LittleNip:
RUSSIAN POETRY
—Caschwa
Stroll down to the red column (in the white house at the far right) for info about this and other upcoming bald-faced lies in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
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Our thanks to today’s poets for laboring on this Labor Day, 2017! A poet’s work is never done…
And poets will be reading tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, and they’ll be reading earlier than usual, from 6-8pm. Patricia L. Nichol and Jennifer O’Neill Pickering will present A Labor of Love for Labor Day; bring labor of love poems for open mic, and wear Rosie the Riveter or union shirts or hats, etc. Watermelon & hot dogs! and Todd Boyd will create a podcast.
Poetry Off-the-Shelf, a poetry read-around, meets on Tuesday in El Dorado Hills at the library, 5-7pm. And please note that the on-going Tuesday at Two poetry workshop, which meets in Placerville every Tuesday from 2-3pm, will move as of this week to the large crafts room at Placerville Senior Center, 937 Spring St, Placerville.
On Thursday, Poetry Unplugged meets at Luna’s Cafe, 8pm, featuring featured readers and open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
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—Medusa
—Anonymous
Celebrate Poetry!
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