Both Rain And Snow...

...can indeed keep Medusa from her appointed rounds; this Gorgon was trapped in Yreka overnight as we traveled home from our Thanksgiving jaunt to the wilds of Coos Bay. Chains were required on the pass south of Ashland, as well as over Mt. Shasta's sisters, so we stopped in-between to spend the night with a cozy cave and a hot meal. Hence, Medusa lied in her last post; she was not online yesterday as promised. Future jaunts may well include my laptop, though, since cable will be hooked up by then, and our wee refuge by the sea will be a "hot" spot, as they say.

Meanwhile, check out my last post for all the poetry doin's this week in the flatlands of Sacramento, where snow is a Christmas card, and not thirty miles of clunk clunk clunk with chains on your tires. Tomorrow (12/1) is the SPC Benefit, of course, with the added bonus of poetry books and special broadsides to be auctioned. And don't forget that Taylor Graham, Phil Weidman and myself will read at the “Our House Defines Art” Gallery, 4510 Post St., El Dorado Hills, 7 pm. on Friday (12/2).

This just in, for those of you who are reading this later edition of today's Kitchen: Susan Kelly-DeWitt writes: I'm reading this Friday night (it's a big week!) in Davis, a benefit reading for the Women's Wisdom Project here in Sacramento, where, as many of you know, I was the program director for several years. I'll be reading with Sandra McPherson, Pamela Moore Schneider and Virginia Wiegand. The art from WWP artists will be on display and for sale, and Five Figs Couture is donating a portion of any sale to the WWP. It would be great to see you there if you can make it—I know this is a busy time of year, and a busy week. That's Friday (tomorrow, 12/2) at 7 pm at Five Figs Couture, 803 Second St., #307 (upstairs above Shuz), Davis. RSVP: 530-756-3500.

Another special event this week: Sunday (12/4), one of Sacramento’s first Poets Laureate, Dennis Schmitz, will be featured at PoemSpirits, 6 pm. Co-host JoAnn Anglin will also do a brief presentation on current U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser from Nebraska. Location: Rooms 7-8 at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., Sac. (2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd., between Howe and Fulton Avenues). Refreshments and open mic: we invite you to bring a favorite poem to read. Questions? 916-481-3312 (Tom Goff, Nora Staklis) or 916-451-1372 (JoAnn Anglin). An emeritus professor of English, Dennis began at Sac State in 1966, teaching writing, literature and translation. He became a mentor and model for many regional poets [including Medusa]. His first collection, We Weep for Our Strangeness, came out in 1969. His poetry collections have since been published by major literary presses and his work has been in the American Poetry Review, Poetry Magazine, The Nation and Chicago Review, among others; he has also appeared in and edited many anthologies. A former Guggenheim fellow, Dennis has also been awarded six annual fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.

________________________

When I think of snow, I think of Robert Frost:

STORM FEAR
—Robert Frost

When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
"Come out! Come out!"—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away,
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.

___________________

LOOKING FOR A SUNSET BIRD IN WINTER
—Robert Frost

The west was getting out of gold,
The breath of air had died of cold,
When shoeing home across the white,
I thought I saw a bird alight.

In summer when I passed the place
I had to stop and lift my face;
A bird with an angelic gift
Was singing in it sweet and swift.

No bird was singing in it now.
A single leaf was on a bough,
And that was all there was to see
In going twice around the tree.

From my advantage on a hill
I judged that such a crystal chill
Was only adding frost to snow
As gilt to gold that wouldn't show.

A brush had left a crooked stroke
Of what was either cloud or smoke
From north to south across the blue;
A piercing little star was through.

_________________

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
—Robert Frost

Whose woods there are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

_____________________

—Medusa (who's still clunk-clunk-clunking in her sleep)

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.)

Happy Thanksgiving!

WHEN TURKEYS WERE CLAY
—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks

Smell of warm wet wool over squeaky
muddy rubber boots: peckish first-graders

cooped up, restless in November rain.
Cool white ceramic turkeys nestle

in small hands as cheap brushes feather
poster paint in neon globs and patches.

None of us had ever seen turkeys, so we
made them up, leaving fan-tailed rainbows

leaping over dusty paper towels. . .

_________________________

In addition to this Saturday’s readings (see yesterday’s post) here are some upcoming events to take note of on next week’s busy poetry calendar:

***Monday (11/28) The Sac. Poetry Center present the Zen Marxist Launderettes (Ellen Johnson, Erin Doyle, Carolyn Schneider, Emily Wright, Margaret S. Burns, Laura Ann Walton, Sandra K. Senne, Mira Kores, Cecile Martin) at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac), 7:30 pm. Info: 451-5569.

***Wednesday (11/30) will be a read-around at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., Placerville, 6-7 pm. It's an open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.

***Thursday (12/1) Sacramento Poetry Center’s Annual Benefit will be held from 6-8 p.m. at the home of Burnett and Mimi Miller, 1224 40th St., Sac. Poetry by Tim McKee and Charles Curtis Blackwell, music by the a cappella quintet, Cherry Fizz, complimentary wine and hors d’oeuvres, silent auction. $25 per person, payable at the door. SPC President Mary Zeppa says, Because arts funding is always a premium, volunteers do most of the work which makes our programs possible. Those who join us on December 1 not only share our celebration but help support our continued survival. If you can’t fit our party into your busy life, you can still warm our hearts, still send us some holiday cheer, still support our ongoing programs with a tax-deductible contribution. If you’ve ever been warmed by, cheered by, delighted by, inspired by an SPC reading or an SPC publication, let your memories of those moments guide your hand as you write your check. And help us spread the word!

***Friday (12/2) Taylor Graham, Phil Weidman and Kathy Kieth will read at the “Our House Defines Art” Gallery, 4510 Post St., El Dorado Hills, 7 pm. An evening of fine poetry surrounded by beautiful art. For more info, or if you are interested in reading, contact Mike Roberts (916-933-4278 or mroberts@ourhousedefinesart.com). There are very few reading venues available in El Dorado County; come on up and enjoy this new one in a lovely setting with three fine, fine poets (well, okay, two fine poets and me…). And thanks to Mike Roberts for supporting local poetry!

***Also Friday (12/2): Poetry Unplugged presents Beth Lisick at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac, 8:30 pm. Earlier this year, Beth Lisick released (via the ReganBooks imprint) Everybody Into The Pool, a collection of ‘true tales’ written from the first person. Also: Gene Bloom, Terrell and Eric, B.L. Kennedy, and more. $5. Info: 916-441-3931.

***Saturday (12/3): Poetry in Rancho Cordova at Club Itaewon, 2942 Bradshaw Road (near King Skate). $3. Info: T-Mo, 519-5213, www.fingerpirntpress.com/terry.

_______________________

Medusa will be taking a wee break during Thanksgiving; I'll be back online Tuesday the 29th.

—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.)

That On-Going Effort to Balance...

THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT
—Amy Lowell

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and tellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snow-ball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone?

____________________

THE CORNER OF NIGHT AND MORNING
—Amy Lowell

Crows are cawing over pine-trees,
They are teaching their young to fly
About the tall pyramids of double cherries.
Rose luster over black lacquer—
The feathers of the young birds reflect the rose-rising sun.
Caw! Caw!
I want to go to sleep,
But perhaps it is better to stand in the window
And watch the crows teaching their young to fly
Over the pines and the pyramidal cherries,
In the rose-gold light
Of five o'clock on a May morning.

_________________________

SEPTEMBER. 1918
—Amy Lowell

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.

Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
Today I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

__________________________

—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.)

Those Danged Hamsters...

THOUGHTS AT 3 A.M.
(for Ruth)
—Margaret Ellis (Peggy) Hill, Wilton

The hamsters are fighting again
and we’re going to have to get out
the whips or find another town.
Maybe a pail of cold water would help.
Black ones charge against the white
like a chess game with the queen long gone.
The gray babies keep running foot races
on the merry-go-round while bells ring
constantly. Sawdust flies around the room
from all the fluffing and failing.

Windows are taped shut, newspaper
headlines splashed all over the pans.
Watering systems have been shut down.
Squeaks and bellows, hair flying,
teeth gnashing comes from backwash.
Sharp nails scratch glasses that sit
on books, raises hair on the back of necks
Tranquilizers won’t be effective unless
we serve some meat for dinner.

Night times have fooled the clock,
and night shades have stripes.
There are certain days when talk
of porcupines triggers the little terrors
to slip into high gear, sharpen teeth
and struggle towards freedom.
You can’t sell the critters when
they see red and carry the placards
out in front of the house.

Soon enough they will go back
into the dungeon and sleep soundly
until the fife and drum corps signals
another round of battle.

_________________________


Thanks, Peggy! Peggy is one of the many local poets and writers to be featured in the upcoming Snake.

Coming up this Saturday (11/16): The Show hosts Rodzilla, The Forgotten One, and Born 2B Poets with open mic contest ($20 prize!), 7-9 pm at the Wo’se Community Center (2863 35th St., Sac). Tickets $5 at Underground Books or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com. Info: 455-POET.

Also Saturday: From Tundra and Bone features Anne Coray & Rebecca Morrisson in a poetry reading, 7:30 pm, The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Midtown Sacramento. Come enjoy a presentation by Anne Coray, Alaskan poet, author of Bone Strings (recently published by Scarlet Tanager Books in Oakland). We also feature Rebecca Morrison, Alaska-born-and-raised poet who has been active in the Sacramento-Davis arts communities for many years, as well as webmistress of www.eskimopie.net. Sponsored by Escritores del Nuevo Sol/Writers of the New Sun. Info: 916-451-1372. [Medusa says check out www.eskimopie.net for cool local poetry and other features.]


GALLANT CHATEAU
—Wallace Stevens

Is it bad to have come here
And to have found the bed empty?

One might have found tragic hair,
Bitter eyes, hands hostile and cold.

There might have been a light on a book
Lighting a pitiless verse or two.

There might have been the immense solitude
Of the wind upon the curtains.

Pitiless verse? A few words tuned
And tuned and tuned and tuned.

It is good. The bed is empty,
The curtains are still and prim and still.

________________________

—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.)

STYLE IS THE DIFFERENCE

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.)

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.)

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.)