—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Janine Stevens and Joe Nolan
TEMPERATURE NORMAL
Mother said, “Don’t eat chocolate bars
in summer, they have worms!”
Late August, leaves of myrtle curl
and crisp before they turn red.
This heatwave—cataclysmic,
112 on at deck at 8 p.m.
What we wouldn’t give
for lime scented trade winds,
tossing palms, the fragrance of ginger.
Night is more than dark. I nuzzle in.
A/C set too high spews dripping humidity,
hint of mangrove and sea salt.
Slippery, we could hatch all sorts
of swampy things.
Squeaky birds end their songs.
Cicadas cease their rasp and grind.
Tit mouse at the feeder,
beak open, gasping.
I munch on my Butternut candy bar,
no worms, but a stiff splinter of wood.
Don’t eat chocolate in summer.
Mother said, “Don’t eat chocolate bars
in summer, they have worms!”
Late August, leaves of myrtle curl
and crisp before they turn red.
This heatwave—cataclysmic,
112 on at deck at 8 p.m.
What we wouldn’t give
for lime scented trade winds,
tossing palms, the fragrance of ginger.
Night is more than dark. I nuzzle in.
A/C set too high spews dripping humidity,
hint of mangrove and sea salt.
Slippery, we could hatch all sorts
of swampy things.
Squeaky birds end their songs.
Cicadas cease their rasp and grind.
Tit mouse at the feeder,
beak open, gasping.
I munch on my Butternut candy bar,
no worms, but a stiff splinter of wood.
Don’t eat chocolate in summer.
SEPTEMBER ZEN
The Sierra Nevada Mountains on fire.
Overhead, tankers leave McClellan Air Field,
drop red clouds of moisture,
an early blanket for trees, ponds and cabins.
Hoping to sit for a while,
I carry my mug of Earl Grey to the porch,
inhale fragrance that reminds me
of hot springs, scent of cedar.
I taste oil, spice, something of holiday.
A breeze, sun on my shoulders, I’m ready
for late bird song, the flutter of golden river birch.
In the distance, a city lot smoldering.
School in session, the cross country team,
both boys and girls, jog down my road.
I could have great thoughts but prefer an empty
mind.
I sip, steam clears my head—Bergamot,
pleasant like small fires, the ones set for toasting.
Soon I will bake my autumn bread
studded with black walnuts,
air out quilts, take care of what I have.
The senses are challenged; briar rose curls
and drops. The blue-black sage
still pungent as the hummer bends,
dips so deep he almost disappears,
crimson gorget a flash of neon.
SCIENCE REQUIREMENT
Outside the window, Mock Orange,
white and green (Botany),
stars hidden by smog (Astronomy).
No study of DNA or excitable neurons.
Wood shop more creative with saws,
electricity and colorful clamps.
Not for girls.
Earthworm—all we could handle.
A simple line, stick pins
to pull the skin apart,
view the alimentary canal.
Thinking about digestion—lunch.
After, the study of vertebrates,
good to see spinal columns and bones.
The hominid model
in the science lab marked delicate,
don’t touch. Instructor livid
when someone put a cigar
between the giant jaws of “early man.”
We don’t know if his feet froze
living at the edge of glaciers.
Next class, Art Appreciation, so easy:
Kahlo, Kandinsky and Klee.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda, and Scottie in Paris.
(F. Scott Fitzgerald Papers. Manuscripts Division,
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections.
Princeton University Library)
(F. Scott Fitzgerald Papers. Manuscripts Division,
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections.
Princeton University Library)
AT THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS
Photo: Princeton Library
Smart dressers these Fitzgeralds,
Zelda’s cloche, fur collar and cuffs,
Scott’s tweed overcoat and gloves,
a cane which seems unnecessary for a man
in his twenties. Earlier, a petite déjeuner—
coffee, croissants, jam and cocoa.
Slant shadows, a wintery afternoon.
The family out for a walk, healthy strides,
they pass others sitting in the sun.
It’s Scottie, who looks boldly at the camera,
a six-year-old’s curiosity. She drags
the hoop, clutches the stick but is walking
too fast to play; pom-poms
on her knit hat bobble and bounce.
The drained pond holds a smattering
of dark leaves, but in summer,
boys in short pants and sailor suits
spend an entire day casting great ships.
See the reflection of the balloon man,
his rounds and oblongs in jellybean colors?
Time seems short: Scott anxious
to finish the last page, Zelda
remembers how well she danced;
Scottie just wants to play.
The Fitzgeralds hurry along, the day darker,
gas lamps soon lit,
time for cocktails at Les Deux Magots.
SKYLIGHT
February: Snow Moon.
In our all-white kitchen I hesitate,
no hurry to go back to bed.
Beams from the skylight, glacial,
tile countertop arctic. Pewter knobs shine
silver. Candy pink camellias float
in their shallow bowl, prima ballerinas.
So much light I could rearrange my spice shelf,
even bake bread. Here a valentine
with alabaster dove and crimson heart.
The floor a frozen pond.
Snow covers the porch.
When there is no moon, only whispers,
this room becomes a cavern.
I follow walls, grope my way
through dark loam where brown tulips
reach from the Persian rug, look for life.
The beady eye glints on the microwave.
So little sound in all this quiet.
I envision a skylark hovering, words
of Hoagy Carmichael, my heart
riding on her wings: some would say
she sings a gypsy tune serenading the moon.
This scene won’t last—
next month, March: Storm Moon:
cloud cover, different angles, haze,
Skylight a spirit shaft, viewed this way
only once, this bright, only tonight.
Mornings, the kitchen sparkles marigold,
but if fire burns the hills:
tint of old linen.
The hawk high in the redwood,
normally a fluff of grey: a far-off cinder.
NOWHERE TO PUT THE SNOW
I wash crystal goblets,
a wedding gift. Setting the table
for Easter dinner, I place each
on the linen cloth from Nova Scotia.
Frost dazzles the ground.
Out the window, a pear tree blooms
shocks of white. Just last week,
tiny fists of green. A photo flashes
on the screen, biggest Sierra snowpack
in seventy years. Roads cleared,
driveways still blocked.
I read plans to store the run-off
are totally inadequate, and another
news item about plastic
in drinking water.
I fill goblets from the tap.
Hard to fathom so much beauty
holds the invisible.
Roast lamb, carrots, greens,
Chantilly cake and Korbel Rosé.
Even though we know,
even so, it will taste good to us.
SAD DICTIONARY
We all need a shore leave off this boat
going nowhere with its forbidden
floor show and grand buffets of wax fruit.
Looking down, yellow green algae
in a super bloom obscures chlorophyll.
What will happen to the food fish below?
Other gaudy phenomena: fluorescent crust
on animal, vegetable; insects changing color
confusing their mates.
I no longer believe in those who
use magic to their own advantage.
“Glum you say,” of course—haze,
smoke all summer, season of gloom.
August, broken and faded: sagging
easy chair, spilled bleach on a favorite shirt.
EMPTY CAFÉ
Among debris left by the refuse truck—
a note resting on a stone.
Written in red ink, old country dialects
speak of wide avenues, palm trees,
damaged fountains. Around the edge,
other phrases in calligraphy: an unpaid debt,
a lost urn overflowing with ashes
like faded confetti.
I put the note in my pocket.
Now rain, the day too cool
for a sidewalk café.
On a porch, a man, shirtless,
looking like Gandhi,
sits at his spinning wheel.
Short cut through a deserted orchard,
thick leaves, just a few steps—
I’m hydroplaning over rotting apples.
Nearing my B & B, I realize I left
my camera on that stone.
Still wearing my coat, the fine wool
gives a sense of luxury as I climb the stairs
in the acrid scent of yesterday’s tallow.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I long for my garden to be complete. Working in it is one of my joys, but it will never be finished because it’s forever changing with the seasons.
—Mary Quant
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to long-time SnakePal Jeanine Stevens for today’s fine poetry! Watch for a new book from Jeanine coming later this Fall, No Lunch Among the Daystars, from Cold River Press at https://coldriverpress.com/.../AUT.../stevens/no%20lunch.htm/.
Coming soon!
A reminder that
Lara Gularte’s Ekphrastic workshop
takes place in Placerville
today, 5:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
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(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
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