—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
SUMMER OF FIRE
Parched forest—
flames crowning and choke
of ash. Wind
not sighing
but parsing its moves to the
syntax of landscape—
smoke entwines
with air on fire,
tornado
epic as
Homer’s gods inscrutable
and still unappeased.
KANAKA VALLEY
We came to a kink in the road, kind of
a dog-leg kicking east.
Pulled off, parked the car.
Kanaka comes from Hawaiian for human being.
Past a hanging snag that fell hugely in storm
we hiked, our dogs hankering wind.
Kanakans? They’d dive into
the rivers, pick up gold nuggets.
But we came for clouds, a kiss
of keen breeze against the hot hunger
of this valley.
Rivers? Seems they
picked a place parched, lean. Key
to the heart, keeping secrets weightier
than gold in the pan.
Sophie & Coaler
WITHOUT PREJUDICE
The skin of a lamb should be made parchment*
to tell his story. “Charcoal,” our black-
sheep of white parents, nubbin-wooled to warm
him in January storms. Dropped among rocks
by his dam, sheltered under her belly. Look
how he pursues the barren ewes, believing
all the world gives milk, and earth springs with
water in the parch of summer. How he chases
our shepherd-dog Cowboy—does he think
a dark dog could be his father, his best friend?
The dog drops to his elbows, tail in the air,
grinning to play, till mother-ewe stamps her foot,
drives dog away. A world’s prejudice in these
distinctions. Skin innocent as parchment.
*paraphrased from Shakespeare
THE REAL GARDEN
Almost evening, foothills cooling off; sun-wash
on Stone Mountain. The dry canyon’s
filled with gold-motes. I turn on the well to water
my garden. Unprosperous—tomato vines
weighed down by countless small green globes
with no intention of ripening; gigantic
burst of zucchini leaves hiding fingerling
squash with no thought of growing any larger;
cucumber vine in estivation.
But where my hose connection drips,
life hops. Tiny frogs leap to prove this
is no imaginary garden, and it has real frogs.
GARDEN SPIRIT
Hippity-hoppity
Hyla of some sort, our
little masked treefrog so
secret, concealed
creviced in garden till
hydrodynamically
hose brings a rainstorm and
hopper’s revealed.
PARCH
I’m trying to get into her head—
this lady pausing through the gallery
of beautiful landscapes,
where I perch on a borrowed chair,
at my old Royal typewriter
on an upturned apple-crate. I’m typing
to request of strangers.
The lady wants a poem about a hill
burned golden by bludgeoning
August sun. She loves our summers.
The heat. The parch.
She grew up here, her father
ranched this land.
Outside the art gallery, intense
focus of sunlight edges every shard
of shadow. Picture the single
spot of shade under a hilltop oak;
birdsong at dawn parching
to silence. Imagine water
in the stillness of sky and land
waiting for storm. Imagine a poem.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ALL THE FLOWERS GONE
—Taylor Graham
Hummingbird hovers
at hanging wire basket
dry as our parched fields.
Where is the peavine of June,
the purple vetch of April?
_____________________
Thank you, Taylor Graham, for today’s fine poetry and photos!
Poetry readings in our area tonight include Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, 8pm, with featured readers and open mic, plus Reverberation, a reading with poets and instrumentalists sponsored by Sac. Poetry Center and Crocker Art Museum, 6:30-9pm (open mic at 8:30pm) at the Crocker, 216 O St., Sacramento. (Go to www.crockerart.org/event/1731/2018-08-30 to reg.)
Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Late Summer's Bounty
(Celebrate Poetry!)
—Photo by Taylor Graham
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