SNAKE IN THE WATERMELON
—Charles Bukowski
we french kissed in the bathrub
then got up and rode the merrygoround
I fell over backwards in the chair
then we ate 2 cheese sandwiches
watered the plants and
read the New York Times.
the essence is in the action
the action is the essence,
between the moon and the sea and the ring
in the bathtub
the tame rats become more beautiful
than long red hair,
my father's hands cut steak again
I roller skate before pygmies with green eyes,
the snake in the watermelon shakes the shopping cart,
we entered between the sheets which were as
delicious as miracles and walks in the park,
the hawk smiled daylight and nighttime,
we rode past frogs and elephants
past mines in mountains
past cripples working ouija boards,
she had toes on her feet
I had toes on my feet
we rode up and down and away
around,
it was sensible and pliable and holy
and felt very good
very very good,
the red lights blinked
the zepplin flew away
the war ended,
we stretched out then
and looked at the ceiling
a calm sea of a ceiling,
it was all right,
then we got back in the bathtub together
and french kissed
some more.
________________________
Tune in today at 1 pm to KVMR 89.5 FM to hear BookTown, a bi-weekly radio show spotlighting the literary scene, co-hosted by Molly Fisk and Eric Tomb. Then head on down to HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.) to hear Bob Stanley read, sponsored by Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30 pm.
Catch another radio show at 5 pm on Wednesday: Dr. Andy's Poetry and Technology Hour on KDVS 90.3 FM, hosted by Andy Jones. Info: culturelover.com. And of course, Mahogany Urban Poetry Series meets Wednesday at 9 pm at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.
2 CARNATIONS
—Charles Bukowski
my love brought me 2 carnations
my love brought me red
my love brought me her
my love told me not to worry
my love told me not to die
my love is 2 carnations on a table
while listening to Schoenberg
on an evening darkening into night
my love is young
the carnations burn in the dark;
she is gone leaving the taste of almonds
her body tastes like almonds
2 carnations burning red
as she sits far away
now dreaming of china dogs
tinkling through her fingers
my love is ten thousand carnations burning
my love is a hummingbird sitting that quiet moment
on the bough
as the cat
crouches.
____________________
STYLE
—Charles Bukowski
style is the answer to everything—
a fresh way to approach a dull or a
dangerous thing.
to do a dull thing with style
is preferable to doing a dangerous thing
without it.
Joan of Arc had style
John the Baptist
Christ
Socrates
Caesar,
Garcia Lorca.
style is the difference,
a way of doing,
a way of being done.
6 herons standing quietly in a pool of water
or you walking out of the bathroom naked
without seeing
me.
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Monday, November 21, 2005
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Ronald Stuart Thomas
IN CHURCH
—R.S. Thomas
Often I try
to analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen.
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.
____________________
ECHOES
—R.S. Thomas
What is this? said God. The obstinacy
Of its refusal to answer
Enraged him. He struck it
Those great blows it resounds
With still. It glowered at
Him, but remained dumb.
Turning on its slow axis
Of pain, reflecting the year
In its seasons. Nature bandaged
Its wounds. Healing in
The smooth sun, it became
Fair. God looked at it
Again, reminded of
An intention. They shall answer
For you, he said. And at once
There were trees with birds
Singing, and through the trees
Animals wandered, drinking
Their own scent, conceding
An absence. Where are you?
He called, and riding the echo
The shapes came, slender
As trees, but with white hands,
Curious to build. On the altars
They made him the red blood
Told what he wished to hear.
____________________
GONE
—R.S. Thomas
There was a flower blowing
and a hand plucked it.
There was a stream flowing
and a body smirched it.
There was a pure mirror
of water and a face came
and looked in it. There were words
and wars and treaties, and feet trampled
the earth and the wheels
seared it; and an explosion
followed. There was dust
and silence; and out of the dust
a plant grew, and the dew formed
upon it; and a stream seeped
from the dew to construct
a mirror, and the mirror was empty.
___________________
SUDDENLY
—R.S. Thomas
Suddenly after long silence
he has become voluble.
He addresses me from a myriad
directions with the fluency
of water, the articulateness
of green leaves; and in the genes,
too, the components
of my existence. The rock,
so long speechless, is the library
of his poetry. He sings to me
in the chain-saw, writes
with the surgeon's hand
on the skin's parchment messages
of healing. The weather
is his mind's turbine
driving the earth's bulk round
and around on its remedial
journey. I have no need
to despair; as at
some second Pentecost
of a Gentile, I listen to the things
round me: weeds, stones, instruments,
the machine itself, all
speaking to me in the vernacular
of the purposes of One who is.
_____________________
Thanks, Ronald Stuart! And our thanks to Bloodhound Judy Taylor Graham, who searched-and-rescued R.S.'s two first names for us, finding this entry in
oldpoetry.com/authors/R.S.%20Thomas:
Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936. As promised in yesterday's post, TG's copy of Allegra Silberstein's In the Folds will be winging its way to her.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—R.S. Thomas
Often I try
to analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen.
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.
____________________
ECHOES
—R.S. Thomas
What is this? said God. The obstinacy
Of its refusal to answer
Enraged him. He struck it
Those great blows it resounds
With still. It glowered at
Him, but remained dumb.
Turning on its slow axis
Of pain, reflecting the year
In its seasons. Nature bandaged
Its wounds. Healing in
The smooth sun, it became
Fair. God looked at it
Again, reminded of
An intention. They shall answer
For you, he said. And at once
There were trees with birds
Singing, and through the trees
Animals wandered, drinking
Their own scent, conceding
An absence. Where are you?
He called, and riding the echo
The shapes came, slender
As trees, but with white hands,
Curious to build. On the altars
They made him the red blood
Told what he wished to hear.
____________________
GONE
—R.S. Thomas
There was a flower blowing
and a hand plucked it.
There was a stream flowing
and a body smirched it.
There was a pure mirror
of water and a face came
and looked in it. There were words
and wars and treaties, and feet trampled
the earth and the wheels
seared it; and an explosion
followed. There was dust
and silence; and out of the dust
a plant grew, and the dew formed
upon it; and a stream seeped
from the dew to construct
a mirror, and the mirror was empty.
___________________
SUDDENLY
—R.S. Thomas
Suddenly after long silence
he has become voluble.
He addresses me from a myriad
directions with the fluency
of water, the articulateness
of green leaves; and in the genes,
too, the components
of my existence. The rock,
so long speechless, is the library
of his poetry. He sings to me
in the chain-saw, writes
with the surgeon's hand
on the skin's parchment messages
of healing. The weather
is his mind's turbine
driving the earth's bulk round
and around on its remedial
journey. I have no need
to despair; as at
some second Pentecost
of a Gentile, I listen to the things
round me: weeds, stones, instruments,
the machine itself, all
speaking to me in the vernacular
of the purposes of One who is.
_____________________
Thanks, Ronald Stuart! And our thanks to Bloodhound Judy Taylor Graham, who searched-and-rescued R.S.'s two first names for us, finding this entry in
oldpoetry.com/authors/R.S.%20Thomas:
Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936. As promised in yesterday's post, TG's copy of Allegra Silberstein's In the Folds will be winging its way to her.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Let the Typing Begin!
Snake 8 is now in the stages of being put down on paper, thanks to all of you—poets, columnists, artists, photographers—who sent me your wonderful work and who continue to allow yourselves to be associated with that-there rascally reptile. Target release date is early December.
In the mood for a road trip on this spectacular Fall day? The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery will host a poetry reading at 4 pm today in the gallery (10115 J St., Modesto), featuring the writing group Licensed Fools. Info: Gordon Preston (523-8916)...gordonbp@sonnet.com. I've been down there, and the gallery is very nicely appointed, situated in the middle of the reconstructed inner city of Modesto. I also know the Fools and their writing; way cool.
Also tonight is the 7th Annual Poetry Festival at Shasta College in Redding. It starts at 7:30 PM in Room 802, and many poets from the region will be participating, including Tehama Snake-pal Patricia Wellingham-Jones. Heck, that's only a couple of hours up the road. Stop at the bird sanctuaries on the way and say hi to our wintering friends.
Or stay in Sac and go to Underground Books to hear Flo-Real, Terry Moore, and Rob Anthony at "Candlelight Love Poetry Night". 35th & Broadway, Sac., $3, 7-9 pm. Sounds like a great place to take a date. Info: Terry Moore, 916-455-POET.
Tomorrow (Sunday 11/20) at 3 pm, FRIENDS OF ARTHUR & KIT KNIGHT (including Annie Menebroker, Joan Kruger, the Hansens and other Valley people) will host a goodbye potluck for poets/writers Arthur and Kit Knight, who are moving to Yerington, Nevada in December. This will be a sit-down late lunch potluck, so PLEASE RSVP richard@poems-for-all (916-442-9295) if you'd like to attend. Bring a dish to serve six, and any tributes or poems you'd like to read in their honor.
Also on Sunday is the Third Sunday Writing Group at 1:00. This is one of the long-running workshops in Sacramento, and meets at various locations around town. Info: Rebecca Morrison at eskimopi@jps.net.
And Monday night, Sac. Poetry Center features Bob Stanley, local poet and musician and SPC Board member who has served the Sacramento poetry scene well over the years. 7:30 pm at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.). Info: 916-451-5569.
THE ONE FURROW
—R.S. Thomas
When I was young, I went to school
With pencil and foot-rule
Sponge and slate,
And sat on a tall stool
At learning's gate.
When I was older, the gate swung wide;
Clever and keen-eyed
In I pressed,
But found in the mind's pride
No peace, no rest.
Then who was it taught me back to go
To cattle and barrow,
Field and plough;
To keep to the one furrow,
As I do now?
___________________
In honor of The Snake, another of which is in the throes of birth:
ADDER
—R.S. Thomas
What is this creature discarded
like a toy necklace
among the weeds and flowers,
singing to me silently
of the fire never to be put out
at its thin lips? It is scion
of a mighty ancestor
that spoke the language
of trees to our first
parents and greened its scales
in the forbidden one, timelessly shining
as though autumn were never to be.
______________________
Thanks, R.S! Medusa will send a free copy of Allegra Silberstein's new book, In the Folds, to anyone who can come up with R.S. Thomas' first name—but you have to show me (or tell me) your source...
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
In the mood for a road trip on this spectacular Fall day? The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery will host a poetry reading at 4 pm today in the gallery (10115 J St., Modesto), featuring the writing group Licensed Fools. Info: Gordon Preston (523-8916)...gordonbp@sonnet.com. I've been down there, and the gallery is very nicely appointed, situated in the middle of the reconstructed inner city of Modesto. I also know the Fools and their writing; way cool.
Also tonight is the 7th Annual Poetry Festival at Shasta College in Redding. It starts at 7:30 PM in Room 802, and many poets from the region will be participating, including Tehama Snake-pal Patricia Wellingham-Jones. Heck, that's only a couple of hours up the road. Stop at the bird sanctuaries on the way and say hi to our wintering friends.
Or stay in Sac and go to Underground Books to hear Flo-Real, Terry Moore, and Rob Anthony at "Candlelight Love Poetry Night". 35th & Broadway, Sac., $3, 7-9 pm. Sounds like a great place to take a date. Info: Terry Moore, 916-455-POET.
Tomorrow (Sunday 11/20) at 3 pm, FRIENDS OF ARTHUR & KIT KNIGHT (including Annie Menebroker, Joan Kruger, the Hansens and other Valley people) will host a goodbye potluck for poets/writers Arthur and Kit Knight, who are moving to Yerington, Nevada in December. This will be a sit-down late lunch potluck, so PLEASE RSVP richard@poems-for-all (916-442-9295) if you'd like to attend. Bring a dish to serve six, and any tributes or poems you'd like to read in their honor.
Also on Sunday is the Third Sunday Writing Group at 1:00. This is one of the long-running workshops in Sacramento, and meets at various locations around town. Info: Rebecca Morrison at eskimopi@jps.net.
And Monday night, Sac. Poetry Center features Bob Stanley, local poet and musician and SPC Board member who has served the Sacramento poetry scene well over the years. 7:30 pm at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.). Info: 916-451-5569.
THE ONE FURROW
—R.S. Thomas
When I was young, I went to school
With pencil and foot-rule
Sponge and slate,
And sat on a tall stool
At learning's gate.
When I was older, the gate swung wide;
Clever and keen-eyed
In I pressed,
But found in the mind's pride
No peace, no rest.
Then who was it taught me back to go
To cattle and barrow,
Field and plough;
To keep to the one furrow,
As I do now?
___________________
In honor of The Snake, another of which is in the throes of birth:
ADDER
—R.S. Thomas
What is this creature discarded
like a toy necklace
among the weeds and flowers,
singing to me silently
of the fire never to be put out
at its thin lips? It is scion
of a mighty ancestor
that spoke the language
of trees to our first
parents and greened its scales
in the forbidden one, timelessly shining
as though autumn were never to be.
______________________
Thanks, R.S! Medusa will send a free copy of Allegra Silberstein's new book, In the Folds, to anyone who can come up with R.S. Thomas' first name—but you have to show me (or tell me) your source...
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Friday, November 18, 2005
Transformations
TRANSFORMATIONS
—Thomas Hardy
Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.
These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.
So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!
____________________
Regretfully, Sacramento poet Anatole Lubovich passed away this week, following heart surgery. Anatole moved here from the Bay Area several years ago; he has maintained ties to friends and poets in that area, as well as forming new friendships here. He will be missed at the Hart Center Tuesday Night Workshop, as well as at Ina Coolbrith Circle events, where he usually won prizes for his skillful wit and smooth use of the rhythm of words—a facility which he also expressed in his many light-opera performances onstage. He and I shared a love of Gilbert and Sullivan; our last conversation, in fact, was about how appropos some of the political commentary of HMS Pinafore remains today.
Anatole was also a frequent contributor to Rattlesnake Review. I don't think he would mind if I published some of his poems here today. The first appeared in our very first issue:
GRAY HEREAFTER EVERAFTER
—Anatole Lubovich
Some, with rapturous visions of postmortem vacations,
Hope to catch God's attention by self-flagellations.
While mouthing high praise for His bounty—it's funny—
They insult Him by spurning His wine, milk and honey.
No wings, harps or haloes, or heavenly robes
Await these ascetics and hedonophobes.
The just disappointment they'll meet after death
Will eternally reek from their pious gray breath.
_______________________
PROPER PLACE
—Anatole Lubovich
When one says something tongue-in-cheek,
Then squints his eyes and makes a face,
I think, what's odd 'bout tongue in cheek?
It seems to be its proper place.
_______________________
And then there was the Limerick Olympiad, where he and Mabel Mello faced off in Issue #3:
There was once a young chieftain of Gypsies,
Who insisted his love was for keepsies,
But divorce court's inquiry
Subpoenaed his diary,
Which was dotted with rows of ... ...
_______________________
Rest, Anatole. Our community has lost one of its own.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Thomas Hardy
Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.
These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.
So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!
____________________
Regretfully, Sacramento poet Anatole Lubovich passed away this week, following heart surgery. Anatole moved here from the Bay Area several years ago; he has maintained ties to friends and poets in that area, as well as forming new friendships here. He will be missed at the Hart Center Tuesday Night Workshop, as well as at Ina Coolbrith Circle events, where he usually won prizes for his skillful wit and smooth use of the rhythm of words—a facility which he also expressed in his many light-opera performances onstage. He and I shared a love of Gilbert and Sullivan; our last conversation, in fact, was about how appropos some of the political commentary of HMS Pinafore remains today.
Anatole was also a frequent contributor to Rattlesnake Review. I don't think he would mind if I published some of his poems here today. The first appeared in our very first issue:
GRAY HEREAFTER EVERAFTER
—Anatole Lubovich
Some, with rapturous visions of postmortem vacations,
Hope to catch God's attention by self-flagellations.
While mouthing high praise for His bounty—it's funny—
They insult Him by spurning His wine, milk and honey.
No wings, harps or haloes, or heavenly robes
Await these ascetics and hedonophobes.
The just disappointment they'll meet after death
Will eternally reek from their pious gray breath.
_______________________
PROPER PLACE
—Anatole Lubovich
When one says something tongue-in-cheek,
Then squints his eyes and makes a face,
I think, what's odd 'bout tongue in cheek?
It seems to be its proper place.
_______________________
And then there was the Limerick Olympiad, where he and Mabel Mello faced off in Issue #3:
There was once a young chieftain of Gypsies,
Who insisted his love was for keepsies,
But divorce court's inquiry
Subpoenaed his diary,
Which was dotted with rows of ... ...
_______________________
Rest, Anatole. Our community has lost one of its own.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Kissing a Panther
HAVE YOU EVER KISSED A PANTHER
—Charles Bukowski
this woman thinks she's a panther
and sometimes when we are making love
she'll snarl and spit
and her hair comes down
and she looks out from the strands
and shows me her fangs
but I kiss her anyhow and continue to love.
have you ever kissed a panther?
have you ever seen a female panther enjoying
the act of love?
you haven't loved, friend.
you with your squirrels and chipmunks
and elephants and sheep.
you ought to sleep with a panther
you'll never again want
squirrels, chipmunks, elephants, sheep, fox,
wolverines,
never anything but the female panther
the female panther walking across the room
the female panther walking across your soul
all other love songs are lies
when that black smooth fur moves against you
and the sky falls down against your back,
the female panther is the dream arrived real
and there's no going back
or wanting to—
the fur up against you,
the search over
and you are locked against the eyes of a panther.
_______________________
Poetry in the area this weekend:
***Tonight at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac.: Poetry Unplugged presents Bill Gainer, Song Kowbell, Todd Cirillo, 8-ish. Info: 441-3931.
***Friday (11/18): The Jook Joynt 3: Ainsley Burrows at the Hard Rock Cafe, 545 7th St., Sac, $15. Info: malikspeaks@aol.com. Also Friday: The Nevada County Poetry Series: giant open mic to celebrate the release of their annual anthology. Off-Center Stage at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley. Info: 530-432-8196.
***Saturday (11/19) Underground Poetry Series features Flo-Real, Terry Moore, Rob Anthony and open mike in "Candlelight Love Poem Night", 7-9 pm at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, $3. Info: 916-737-3333. Also Saturday: The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery announce a poetry reading at 4:00 pm in the gallery (10115 J Street, Modesto) featuring the writing group, Licensed Fools. Info: 523-8916 or gordonbp@sonnet.com.
______________________
CHILLED GREEN
—Charles Bukowski
what is it?
an old woman, fat, yellow dress,
torn stockings
sitting on the curbing
with a little boy.
98 degrees at 3 in the afternoon
it seems
obscene.
but look, they are calm,
almost happy,
they eat the green jello
and the red roses shine.
________________________
SHORT ORDER
—Charles Bukowski
I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,
she said.
yes, yes? I asked.
she's young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your
guts.
then she stretched out on the couch
and pulled off her
boots.
I don't have very good legs,
she said.
all right, I thought, I don't have very good
poetry; she doesn't have very good
legs.
scramble two.
_______________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Charles Bukowski
this woman thinks she's a panther
and sometimes when we are making love
she'll snarl and spit
and her hair comes down
and she looks out from the strands
and shows me her fangs
but I kiss her anyhow and continue to love.
have you ever kissed a panther?
have you ever seen a female panther enjoying
the act of love?
you haven't loved, friend.
you with your squirrels and chipmunks
and elephants and sheep.
you ought to sleep with a panther
you'll never again want
squirrels, chipmunks, elephants, sheep, fox,
wolverines,
never anything but the female panther
the female panther walking across the room
the female panther walking across your soul
all other love songs are lies
when that black smooth fur moves against you
and the sky falls down against your back,
the female panther is the dream arrived real
and there's no going back
or wanting to—
the fur up against you,
the search over
and you are locked against the eyes of a panther.
_______________________
Poetry in the area this weekend:
***Tonight at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac.: Poetry Unplugged presents Bill Gainer, Song Kowbell, Todd Cirillo, 8-ish. Info: 441-3931.
***Friday (11/18): The Jook Joynt 3: Ainsley Burrows at the Hard Rock Cafe, 545 7th St., Sac, $15. Info: malikspeaks@aol.com. Also Friday: The Nevada County Poetry Series: giant open mic to celebrate the release of their annual anthology. Off-Center Stage at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley. Info: 530-432-8196.
***Saturday (11/19) Underground Poetry Series features Flo-Real, Terry Moore, Rob Anthony and open mike in "Candlelight Love Poem Night", 7-9 pm at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, $3. Info: 916-737-3333. Also Saturday: The Central California Art Association & the Mistlin Art Gallery announce a poetry reading at 4:00 pm in the gallery (10115 J Street, Modesto) featuring the writing group, Licensed Fools. Info: 523-8916 or gordonbp@sonnet.com.
______________________
CHILLED GREEN
—Charles Bukowski
what is it?
an old woman, fat, yellow dress,
torn stockings
sitting on the curbing
with a little boy.
98 degrees at 3 in the afternoon
it seems
obscene.
but look, they are calm,
almost happy,
they eat the green jello
and the red roses shine.
________________________
SHORT ORDER
—Charles Bukowski
I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,
she said.
yes, yes? I asked.
she's young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your
guts.
then she stretched out on the couch
and pulled off her
boots.
I don't have very good legs,
she said.
all right, I thought, I don't have very good
poetry; she doesn't have very good
legs.
scramble two.
_______________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
The Fire That Speaks Our Language
Yesterday, local poets. Today, something from poets faraway in recently-troubled France, from the collection called The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, ed. by J.D. McClatchy, Vintage Books, 1996:
EVERY MORNING
—Claire Malroux, France (b. 1935)
Every morning the curtain rises
Alone, you listen to the dark dissolving
The stars slowly clicking themselves apart
The sky turns back into this breezy scarf
Shaken out by the awakened birds
You don't touch each other but you walk together
Leaning against and within each other until evening
When, alone, you chase the wild night at your gate
Sweet to weep for, like a wet stray dog
You don't want to hear the crows cry
The diminishing number of lines
To be spoken on this stage, set for how long
The shadow grows, flesh hollows itself out, another
Takes your place. Step by step you leave yourself.
Translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker
_______________________
MY BODY
—Jacques Dupin, France (b. 1927)
My body, you will not fill the ditch
That I am digging, that I deepen each night.
Like a wild boar caught in the underbrush
You leap, you struggle.
Does the vine on the rampart remember another body
Prostrate on the keyboard of the void?
Throw off your clothes, throw away your food,
Diviner of water, hunter of lowly light.
The sliding of the hill
Will overflow the false depth,
The secret excavation underfoot.
Calm wriggles into the night air
Through disjointed stones and the riddled heart
At the instant you disappear,
Like a splinter in the sea.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
________________________
WAITING WITH LOWERED VOICE
—Jacques Dupin, France
Waiting with lowered voice
For something terrible and simple
—Like the harvest of the lightning
Or the crumbling of the plaster...
It is the nearness of the intact sky
That emaciates the flocks,
This jug ot burning rock,
And the revival of smells from the flowerless mountain...
Summits of wind and famine,
Insipid motet, fury of returns,
I dread the ruin which is due to me
Less than this immunity
That fetters me in its rays.
Promised land, land that crumbles,
Despite the columns, despite the drum.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
________________________
MINERAL KINGDOM
—Jacques Dupin, France
In this country lightning quickens stone.
On the peaks that dominate the gorges
Ruined towers rise up
Like nimble torches of the mind
That revive the nights of high wind
The instinct of death in the quarryman's blood.
Every granite vein
Will unravel in his eyes.
The fire that will never be cured of us
The fire that speaks our language.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
EVERY MORNING
—Claire Malroux, France (b. 1935)
Every morning the curtain rises
Alone, you listen to the dark dissolving
The stars slowly clicking themselves apart
The sky turns back into this breezy scarf
Shaken out by the awakened birds
You don't touch each other but you walk together
Leaning against and within each other until evening
When, alone, you chase the wild night at your gate
Sweet to weep for, like a wet stray dog
You don't want to hear the crows cry
The diminishing number of lines
To be spoken on this stage, set for how long
The shadow grows, flesh hollows itself out, another
Takes your place. Step by step you leave yourself.
Translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker
_______________________
MY BODY
—Jacques Dupin, France (b. 1927)
My body, you will not fill the ditch
That I am digging, that I deepen each night.
Like a wild boar caught in the underbrush
You leap, you struggle.
Does the vine on the rampart remember another body
Prostrate on the keyboard of the void?
Throw off your clothes, throw away your food,
Diviner of water, hunter of lowly light.
The sliding of the hill
Will overflow the false depth,
The secret excavation underfoot.
Calm wriggles into the night air
Through disjointed stones and the riddled heart
At the instant you disappear,
Like a splinter in the sea.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
________________________
WAITING WITH LOWERED VOICE
—Jacques Dupin, France
Waiting with lowered voice
For something terrible and simple
—Like the harvest of the lightning
Or the crumbling of the plaster...
It is the nearness of the intact sky
That emaciates the flocks,
This jug ot burning rock,
And the revival of smells from the flowerless mountain...
Summits of wind and famine,
Insipid motet, fury of returns,
I dread the ruin which is due to me
Less than this immunity
That fetters me in its rays.
Promised land, land that crumbles,
Despite the columns, despite the drum.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
________________________
MINERAL KINGDOM
—Jacques Dupin, France
In this country lightning quickens stone.
On the peaks that dominate the gorges
Ruined towers rise up
Like nimble torches of the mind
That revive the nights of high wind
The instinct of death in the quarryman's blood.
Every granite vein
Will unravel in his eyes.
The fire that will never be cured of us
The fire that speaks our language.
Translated from the French by Paul Auster
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
When Dogs Dress Up
WINE DANCE
—Pearl Stein Selinsky, Sacramento
A day without wine
is a thirst-hole
in the calendar...
So bring the cup,
sweet Ganymede
who serves the gods...
Let us sip the nectar-
spell
tripping on the tongue
traveling down
through lightened breast,
pathed
through carefree limbs
to dance
the dark of night
to dazzle-day.
__________________
Thanks, Pearl! Today we celebrate local poets, as the last of the submissions roll in for Snake 8. Here's one from Song Kowbell:
HE WANTED TO
—Song Kowbell, Penn Valley
He said he
wanted to…
as if
I didn’t know…
As if I couldn’t see
the addition to
his already tight Levis.
Reaching his hand
across the great distance
between wanting
and getting
I felt him,
watched him smirk.
Then slowly,
casually he sez…
uummmmm
I thought so…
__________________
Thanks, Song! Come hear her read Thursday night at Luna's, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8-ish, along with Bill Gainer and Todd Cirillo, and pick up all three of their littlesnake broadsides that night, too.
One of Ted Kooser's Poet Laureate projects is his on-line American Life in Poetry, which provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems from people across the country. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry; publications that register can reprint these columns at no charge. The columns are also available to all of us: just type in "americanlifeinpoetry.org".
MANY SHADES
—Steve Williams, Portland, OR
They prattle behind my back
fence. The raven is my sun-shadow, I dangle
from its open beak—tinfoil lace for its hoard.
Under fowl feet, candle-shadow lies
with my moon-shadow. They copulate
in rhythm with witching flame.
From creosote poles, streetlight-shadows coil
around my feet as petals. Some short
and black, others stretched and gray
as if obscurity is allotted and finite.
They all talk at once and shiver.
I can’t understand any of them.
Telephone-shadow argues with my storm,
Sunset is purple, my sunrise and drizzle
are failures I’ve never seen.
Gossip tones emote from a collection of holes,
I walk guitar wires—eyes in the acoustic cave,
feet on prison bars that own no shadow,
find comfort among the silhouettes.
When she bends over me, I hold the kiss long
enough for each to have their turn.
__________________
Thanks, Steve! Well, okay, Portland isn't exactly local, but Steve is an ex-Sacramentan who still manages to feed the Snake every issue, bless his heart. Check out his lively poetry website: wildpoetryforum.com or send for his littlesnake broadside (free with SASE), which was the very first one in the series.
One more local poet: something silly from Kathy Kieth:
RECENT ELECTIONS: WHEN DOGS DRESS UP
we tend to blame them: make fun of
their fashion choices: ridicule
their hairy legs, their mustaches: point
and laugh and turn our heads away in
embarrassment for them and their
feeble attempts to make us happy… Still,
we are the ones who are at fault, for
demanding such nonsense. How can we not
take some of the blame for such perverse
proclivities? How can we not look inside
and hang our own heads—cluck in dismay
at what we require from our all-too-eager
fellow passengers on this misguided, ill-
navigated, lost and very unhappy ark?…
_______________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Pearl Stein Selinsky, Sacramento
A day without wine
is a thirst-hole
in the calendar...
So bring the cup,
sweet Ganymede
who serves the gods...
Let us sip the nectar-
spell
tripping on the tongue
traveling down
through lightened breast,
pathed
through carefree limbs
to dance
the dark of night
to dazzle-day.
__________________
Thanks, Pearl! Today we celebrate local poets, as the last of the submissions roll in for Snake 8. Here's one from Song Kowbell:
HE WANTED TO
—Song Kowbell, Penn Valley
He said he
wanted to…
as if
I didn’t know…
As if I couldn’t see
the addition to
his already tight Levis.
Reaching his hand
across the great distance
between wanting
and getting
I felt him,
watched him smirk.
Then slowly,
casually he sez…
uummmmm
I thought so…
__________________
Thanks, Song! Come hear her read Thursday night at Luna's, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8-ish, along with Bill Gainer and Todd Cirillo, and pick up all three of their littlesnake broadsides that night, too.
One of Ted Kooser's Poet Laureate projects is his on-line American Life in Poetry, which provides newspapers and online publications with a free weekly column featuring contemporary American poems from people across the country. The sole mission of this project is to promote poetry; publications that register can reprint these columns at no charge. The columns are also available to all of us: just type in "americanlifeinpoetry.org".
MANY SHADES
—Steve Williams, Portland, OR
They prattle behind my back
fence. The raven is my sun-shadow, I dangle
from its open beak—tinfoil lace for its hoard.
Under fowl feet, candle-shadow lies
with my moon-shadow. They copulate
in rhythm with witching flame.
From creosote poles, streetlight-shadows coil
around my feet as petals. Some short
and black, others stretched and gray
as if obscurity is allotted and finite.
They all talk at once and shiver.
I can’t understand any of them.
Telephone-shadow argues with my storm,
Sunset is purple, my sunrise and drizzle
are failures I’ve never seen.
Gossip tones emote from a collection of holes,
I walk guitar wires—eyes in the acoustic cave,
feet on prison bars that own no shadow,
find comfort among the silhouettes.
When she bends over me, I hold the kiss long
enough for each to have their turn.
__________________
Thanks, Steve! Well, okay, Portland isn't exactly local, but Steve is an ex-Sacramentan who still manages to feed the Snake every issue, bless his heart. Check out his lively poetry website: wildpoetryforum.com or send for his littlesnake broadside (free with SASE), which was the very first one in the series.
One more local poet: something silly from Kathy Kieth:
RECENT ELECTIONS: WHEN DOGS DRESS UP
we tend to blame them: make fun of
their fashion choices: ridicule
their hairy legs, their mustaches: point
and laugh and turn our heads away in
embarrassment for them and their
feeble attempts to make us happy… Still,
we are the ones who are at fault, for
demanding such nonsense. How can we not
take some of the blame for such perverse
proclivities? How can we not look inside
and hang our own heads—cluck in dismay
at what we require from our all-too-eager
fellow passengers on this misguided, ill-
navigated, lost and very unhappy ark?…
_______________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
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