—Photos of Peonies
Courtesy of Public Domain
PROGRESSIONS OF JULY
Flowers open. I depend on that.
You rehearse their names: calla, cinquefoil,
rhododendron. The palest milk-glass oleander
blooms along the fence in open sun.
Little griefs, you call its clustered blossoms.
Flowers open; I depend on that.
Progressions of July, you say, and I forget
the scattered glads that bloomed last month,
the rhododendrons bright as glass. Oleanders
bloom past August. Some careful rigor of the genes,
you tell me⎯long decisions in the DNA.
Flowers open, and we depend on that,
each season more or less undamaged, chained
to daylight. You interrupt the light between
us. Pale rhododendrons, you say, and oleanders.
I imagine stock and agapanthus and tell you
cautiously the sky is empty now of clouds.
Flowers open. Remember? I depend on them:
rhododendrons, the palest milk-glass oleanders.
(prev. pub. in The Thread of Dreams chapbook,
Rattlesnake Press, 2009)
Flowers open. I depend on that.
You rehearse their names: calla, cinquefoil,
rhododendron. The palest milk-glass oleander
blooms along the fence in open sun.
Little griefs, you call its clustered blossoms.
Flowers open; I depend on that.
Progressions of July, you say, and I forget
the scattered glads that bloomed last month,
the rhododendrons bright as glass. Oleanders
bloom past August. Some careful rigor of the genes,
you tell me⎯long decisions in the DNA.
Flowers open, and we depend on that,
each season more or less undamaged, chained
to daylight. You interrupt the light between
us. Pale rhododendrons, you say, and oleanders.
I imagine stock and agapanthus and tell you
cautiously the sky is empty now of clouds.
Flowers open. Remember? I depend on them:
rhododendrons, the palest milk-glass oleanders.
(prev. pub. in The Thread of Dreams chapbook,
Rattlesnake Press, 2009)
EMENDATION
We predict each other’s words, and then
again, perhaps we don’t. It’s possible
you’ll read to me: something abstract,
full
of words I’ll truly wish were mine. When
you’re finished, close your eyes. I’ll
count to ten.
Your words are more or less binomial—
divisions and subtractions. Contextual,
you try to tell me, handing me your pen.
I take it and begin to write myself
across the margin, an emendation while
you wait—something you might want
restored.
You put a word or two back on the shelf.
I count the wide-eyed nouns; they make
me smile.
You measure me for verbs because
you’re bored.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2005)
REVELATIONS
(after two canvasses and a rosebush)
Half a sun, a circle, an arrow—
the background a hazy yellow dazzle.
I sacrifice background, the pigment al-
ways
more frightened than I am, a mix of
purples:
sad botany of antique roses, sepia canes,
old bushes that will not leaf this spring,
blues and reds that collect against the
garden wall.
This is how to handle space—with
a kind of rapid alternation.
The sycamore’s in early bud, each
little leaf still upside down—some residue
of winter rain with space enough
for what persists,
the whole spring-colored canvas
filled with assonant ghosts: message
of the slow casement and gate.
I consider separately each fence-wall
brick in the irregular and failing air.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2005)
BLUE PEONIES
It’s late. Our cautious dancing isn’t over, but
the coffee shop is closing down for the night.
Smoky peonies are blooming in the dark.
That’s nonsense. It’s winter; nothing’s
blooming here. You tell me that, and I agree.
It’s late: our cautious dancing isn’t over,
though the sad barrista cannot wait for us
to go. She’s sweeping, and she can’t see
how smoky peonies are blooming in the dark.
I’d like a cigarette. Why is no one smoking
here? Oh yes, I remember. It’s just not done
now, like dancing near these plastic tables.
The coffee girl is turning out the lights: one
low-watt bulb is left burning at the counter.
Blue peonies (like smoke) hang in the air.
You keep leading me through a melancholy
music only you can hear. The barrista coughs,
but our late-night dancing isn’t over yet. Through
the dark air, blue peonies rise like smoke.
(prev. pub. in The Thread of Dreams chapbook,
Rattlesnake Press, 2009)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RONDELET FOR AN EARLY THAW
—Carol Frith
It’s cold enough
to snow. You tell me that. I know
it’s cold enough
for ragged ice to form that’s rough
along the eaves. We’re in a slow
deep freeze. Hold me now, just so—
it’s cold enough…
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2005)
____________________
Last Wednesday I posted a poem by Carol Frith, our Sacramento poet who passed away in 2019, and several readers commented on how good it was to see some of her work and its unique style again. Carol was a highly-published and awarded poet on the national level, working in forms as well as free verse. (I used to call her the Sonnet Queen for her many awards for her sonnets.) So here we are. Enjoy!
The first time the words, “Rattlesnake Press” passed my lips was in 2004. I was riding down to San Francisco for some poetry Do with Carol and Joyce Odam and Carol’s husband, Laverne, and I ventured that I was thinking of putting together a press. “Rattlesnake Press, Poetry with Fangs”, said I. Joyce said, “Well, there ya go!” So RP was born in the back seat of the Friths’ station wagon. And there ya go…
_____________________
—Medusa
It’s late. Our cautious dancing isn’t over, but
the coffee shop is closing down for the night.
Smoky peonies are blooming in the dark.
That’s nonsense. It’s winter; nothing’s
blooming here. You tell me that, and I agree.
It’s late: our cautious dancing isn’t over,
though the sad barrista cannot wait for us
to go. She’s sweeping, and she can’t see
how smoky peonies are blooming in the dark.
I’d like a cigarette. Why is no one smoking
here? Oh yes, I remember. It’s just not done
now, like dancing near these plastic tables.
The coffee girl is turning out the lights: one
low-watt bulb is left burning at the counter.
Blue peonies (like smoke) hang in the air.
You keep leading me through a melancholy
music only you can hear. The barrista coughs,
but our late-night dancing isn’t over yet. Through
the dark air, blue peonies rise like smoke.
(prev. pub. in The Thread of Dreams chapbook,
Rattlesnake Press, 2009)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RONDELET FOR AN EARLY THAW
—Carol Frith
It’s cold enough
to snow. You tell me that. I know
it’s cold enough
for ragged ice to form that’s rough
along the eaves. We’re in a slow
deep freeze. Hold me now, just so—
it’s cold enough…
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2005)
____________________
Last Wednesday I posted a poem by Carol Frith, our Sacramento poet who passed away in 2019, and several readers commented on how good it was to see some of her work and its unique style again. Carol was a highly-published and awarded poet on the national level, working in forms as well as free verse. (I used to call her the Sonnet Queen for her many awards for her sonnets.) So here we are. Enjoy!
The first time the words, “Rattlesnake Press” passed my lips was in 2004. I was riding down to San Francisco for some poetry Do with Carol and Joyce Odam and Carol’s husband, Laverne, and I ventured that I was thinking of putting together a press. “Rattlesnake Press, Poetry with Fangs”, said I. Joyce said, “Well, there ya go!” So RP was born in the back seat of the Friths’ station wagon. And there ya go…
_____________________
—Medusa
Carol Frith
For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(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
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
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!
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(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
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
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!
