—Photo by Jeanine Stevens
—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Jeanine Stevens
and Public Domain
SANCTUARY
The linden’s branches form a dense canopy.
Low sun illuminates the small Buddha,
once bright verdigris, now peeling from frost
and rain. Patches of amber light shimmer,
outline a young face. The blotchy surface,
like a relic from a forgotten Cambodian temple,
a camouflage in this miniature jungle of dark
mint, wild garlic and variegated ivy. Mottled,
he remains slim, serene with plaited hair, no
pot belly, not bald but much as he first appeared
on a tidal wave with no wind. I recognize my
own wiry hair, thinner bones. Sitting on the deck,
a sprig of sweet woodruff floats in May wine,
sun edges toward solstice and summer thunder.
A terra cotta St. Francis holds a flimsy dove’s nest.
A peaceful sanctuary: one tree, one god, one saint.
(prev. pub. in Evening Street Review, 2022)
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
CHANT
Sutra Scroll. Itsukushima Shrine
(1118-1181) Hiroshima Prefecture
A wood platform cantilevers over
a lush juniper forest resembling overlarge bonsai—
ornate embroidery, fanciful shrubbery.
The priest rests bony elbows; his veiny hand
supports a wrinkled head tilted toward heaven.
Not a relaxed monotone but with lips curled,
mouth opens like a baby bird. White fungi
quiver at the vibrations.
The heavy scroll flops apart—pages flounce
like colossal petals of creamy magnolia.
Only halfway through, how can he go on?
Who is he talking to: blue flycatcher, wood pigeon?
Perhaps rehearsing for some grander event?
No pasturage at this high elevation.
Such ancient vegetation, one can
only think of deep green.
On a jagged ledge, wet maple leaves
plaster earth with black stars.
To the side, walking stick for vertigo,
clay jug for thirst,
wood sandals for tender feet.
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
POET ON A MOUNTAIN TOP
Shen Chou
Ink and color on handscroll
A long trek to the splintered edge.
Green foam crests off shore, vast distance
to other continents
yet he locates the vanishing point,
what converges, the first line and the last.
Retreating from the precipice, his walking stick
angles with the mountain,
sandals slapping
on the old footbridge.
He pauses on a stone bench, considers
writing about trees, remembers
that young sapling,
blazing phoenix perched on tender limbs.
With clear eyes, he even scribbled words
by galactic light.
Now in opaque sun,
its gnarled trunk, lichen splotched,
low branches clogging with debris.
Our poet squints.
This was his tree!
At the shoreline, generous stands
of new pines, hook fast in boulders
—spring green and dew wet.
Today, not the last poem, but another, today.
Back bent, walking stick straight,
he moves down the path swept clean.
he moves down the path swept clean.
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
DORM ROOM IN SUMMER
University of the Pacific
Folk Dance Camp.
I’ve spent all day in my room’s silence
its thick texts, jittery scatter rugs.
Next door a saxophone catches
a riff of neon, mercurial. Windows
stuck shut with old paint crack open.
Memory pulses like a low wattage bulb,
just a snippet carried by a lost spider
climbing the casement,
the scaly earwig flattened in crevices
looking for shelter from valley heat.
As I walk around campus, what is more lilting
than a practice piano from a fourth-floor window,
curtains flowing outward
to catch the greenest delta breeze?
What is remembered hovers,
deep breathing keeps me
awake in the anonymous hours
before twilight.
—Photo by Jeanine Stevens
CLEARING
After Tu Fu
Milkweed’s gossamer fluff catches
the brass dragonfly.
Many decades gone, yet I’m hopeful,
keep company with the locals:
squirrel, jay, hawk, raccoon.
Dew clears from velvet morning glories,
tough vines in a frenzy
climb the last sunflower.
Crystal goblet on the silver tray.
Domaine Carneros bubbly unopened.
Early crickets speak in whispers.
The first buttery birch leaf
falls, the vast crescendo of autumn.
Thank you for your colorful postcard.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
“Sometimes, my head is just like this storm", said the Tiny Dragon. "If you listen carefully", said the Great Panda, "you will hear the raindrops hitting the rock. Even in a storm it is possible to find a little peace.”
― James Norbury, Big Panda & Tiny Dragon - Special Edition
____________________
Jeanine Stevens’ poems have brought us to stillness this Sunday, and we thank her very much for that in this topsy-turvy world. Much to be thankful for…
____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
