HEN
—Zbigniew Herbert
The hen is the best example of what living constantly with humans
leads to. She has completely lost the lightness and grace of a bird.
Her tail sticks up over her protruding rump like a too large hat in
bad taste. Her rare moments of ecstasy, when she stands on one leg
and glues up her round eyes with filmy eyelids, are stunningly dis-
gusting. And in addition, that parody of song, throat-slashed sup-
plications over a thing unutterably comic: a round, white, maculated
egg.
The hen brings to mind certain poets.
(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott)
________________________
OUR FEAR
—Zbigniew Herbert
Our fear
does not wear a night shirt
does not have owl's eyes
does not lift a casket lid
does not extinguish a candle
does not have a dead man's face either
our fear
is a scrap of paper
found in a pocket
"Warn Wojcik
the place on Dluga Street is hot"
our fear
does not rise on the wings of the tempest
does not sit on a church tower
it is down-to-earth
it has the shape
of a bundle made in haste
with warm clothing
provisions
and arms
our fear
does not have the face of a dead man
the dead are gentle to us
we carry them on our shoulders
sleep under the same blanket
close their eyes
adjust their lips
pick a dry spot
and bury them
not too deep
not too shallow
(translated from the Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott)
________________________
Be sure to click on the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Council link to the right of this column; when ARTCAP shows up, click on "spoken words" in the left-hand column to hear Sacramento poets reading their work! And check back to Monday's post ("Babe Ruth's Birthday") for all the po-events going on this week.
REMEMBERING MY FATHER
—Zbigniew Herbert
His face severe in clouds above the waters of childhood
so rarely did he hold my warm head in his hands
given to belief not forgiving faults
because he cleared out woods and straightened paths
he carried the lantern high when we entered the night
I thought I would sit at his right hand
and we would separate light from darkness
and judge those of us who live
—it happened otherwise
a junk-dealer carried his throne on a hand-cart
and the deed of ownership the map of our kingdom
he was born for a second time slight very fragile
with transparent skin hardly perceptible cartilage
he diminished his body so I might receive it
in an unimportant place there is shadow under a stone
he himself grows in me we eat our defeats
we burst out laughing
when they say how little is needed
to be reconciled
(Translated from the Polish by John Carpenter and Bogdana Carpenter)
_________________________
—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, February 08, 2006
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Getting Out of Dodge
WHAT A TEACHER KNOWS
—Joyce Koff, Los Angeles
I can see who is loved
by the walk
the way a mouth moves
the way the hands pick the paper up
the way the eyes gleam when new ideas come
the way the legs dance across the floor
I can tell when a mother is not there
the way a mouth yawns
the way the paper lays on the desk
the way the eyes hide when I come near
the way the legs trudge to the pencil sharpener
the way the pencil never gets sharpened enough
__________________
Thanks, Joyce! Joyce is a poet and teacher of poetry who regularly sends big stacks of poems from her elementary school students, which can be seen in most issues of Snakelets. Look for more of them in the upcoming issue, due out later this month. And watch for more of Joyce's own poetry in Snake 9—deadline for which is February 15 (that's one week from tomorrow!).
There's a lot to be said for getting out of town to concentrate on your writing, even for just a couple of days. The current Poetry Workshop With Ellen Bass in Santa Cruz has a new date: February 25-26. Ms. Bass writes: In this workshop we will allow ourselves to extend our roots deeply into the mud of our experience in order to give voice to our poems. This is an opportunity to meet the poems that gestate within us and to engage our greatest resources—attention, courage, precision—in bringing them into being. We will strive for language that is accurate, fresh, and interesting in itself and we will work to create poems whose form, rhythm, language, and meaning work as an effective whole. This is a workshop for poets who are ready to work to find the exact word, the right line, the exciting and memorable image. It's for poets who want to discover their truths and are willing to strive to convey their impact. Participants will write three new poems during the weekend. The workshop is sponsored by University of California Extension and will be held at Pacific Garden Mall, Santa Cruz. You may register directly with UCSC Extension by calling 800-660-8639 or enroll on-line: www.ucsc-extension.edu. Call Ellen at 831-426-8006 with any questions or email ellen@ellenbass.com. If you're coming from out of town and need housing while in Santa Cruz, there are a number of students willing to house a visiting writer for a very reasonable fee. Ms. Bass’s assistant, Shalom, can help you with this if you email her at victors75@rattlebrain.com.
Closer to home, the Fifth Annual Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival will be held in Pleasanton on April 1. They also sponsor a poetry contest for attendees (deadline March 4, which is also the end of early registration—$75, vs. $90 after that). The day features many workshops for youth and adults, and Billy Collins will hold a "one-hour conversation" with attendees during the afternoon. He will also speak at the banquet (from 5-7 pm), tickets for which are available to the public (as I understand it) for $25. There are some brochures available at The Book Collector or from me, and the sponsors have also arranged for discounted ($54, including tax!) hotel reservations. Further info: www.PleasantonArts.org, or contact Pleasanton Poet Laureate Cynthia Bryant (you know, the Poet's Lane Literary List lady): www.poetslane.com.
PLAYING WITH MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD FRIEND
—Joyce Koff, Los Angeles
Chris and I play
and I become four
and he says "never ever"
to eveything
and I repeat "never ever"
"stop copying me" he says
"never ever"
and the game continues
he kicks his foot up in the air
like a karate champ
and looks in the mirror to see
his tough image
he's ready to control the world
with his small fists
and scare the dark monsters
and scare me when he talks about them
his eyes get big
and his voice gets loud
and I keep repeating "never ever"
to his "never ever"
and he continues "stop copying me"
and then it's time to leave
and with a voice smooth
and soft as a baby's
he says pointing to my husband
"are you going to kiss him when you get home"
______________________
—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.)
—Joyce Koff, Los Angeles
I can see who is loved
by the walk
the way a mouth moves
the way the hands pick the paper up
the way the eyes gleam when new ideas come
the way the legs dance across the floor
I can tell when a mother is not there
the way a mouth yawns
the way the paper lays on the desk
the way the eyes hide when I come near
the way the legs trudge to the pencil sharpener
the way the pencil never gets sharpened enough
__________________
Thanks, Joyce! Joyce is a poet and teacher of poetry who regularly sends big stacks of poems from her elementary school students, which can be seen in most issues of Snakelets. Look for more of them in the upcoming issue, due out later this month. And watch for more of Joyce's own poetry in Snake 9—deadline for which is February 15 (that's one week from tomorrow!).
There's a lot to be said for getting out of town to concentrate on your writing, even for just a couple of days. The current Poetry Workshop With Ellen Bass in Santa Cruz has a new date: February 25-26. Ms. Bass writes: In this workshop we will allow ourselves to extend our roots deeply into the mud of our experience in order to give voice to our poems. This is an opportunity to meet the poems that gestate within us and to engage our greatest resources—attention, courage, precision—in bringing them into being. We will strive for language that is accurate, fresh, and interesting in itself and we will work to create poems whose form, rhythm, language, and meaning work as an effective whole. This is a workshop for poets who are ready to work to find the exact word, the right line, the exciting and memorable image. It's for poets who want to discover their truths and are willing to strive to convey their impact. Participants will write three new poems during the weekend. The workshop is sponsored by University of California Extension and will be held at Pacific Garden Mall, Santa Cruz. You may register directly with UCSC Extension by calling 800-660-8639 or enroll on-line: www.ucsc-extension.edu. Call Ellen at 831-426-8006 with any questions or email ellen@ellenbass.com. If you're coming from out of town and need housing while in Santa Cruz, there are a number of students willing to house a visiting writer for a very reasonable fee. Ms. Bass’s assistant, Shalom, can help you with this if you email her at victors75@rattlebrain.com.
Closer to home, the Fifth Annual Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival will be held in Pleasanton on April 1. They also sponsor a poetry contest for attendees (deadline March 4, which is also the end of early registration—$75, vs. $90 after that). The day features many workshops for youth and adults, and Billy Collins will hold a "one-hour conversation" with attendees during the afternoon. He will also speak at the banquet (from 5-7 pm), tickets for which are available to the public (as I understand it) for $25. There are some brochures available at The Book Collector or from me, and the sponsors have also arranged for discounted ($54, including tax!) hotel reservations. Further info: www.PleasantonArts.org, or contact Pleasanton Poet Laureate Cynthia Bryant (you know, the Poet's Lane Literary List lady): www.poetslane.com.
PLAYING WITH MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD FRIEND
—Joyce Koff, Los Angeles
Chris and I play
and I become four
and he says "never ever"
to eveything
and I repeat "never ever"
"stop copying me" he says
"never ever"
and the game continues
he kicks his foot up in the air
like a karate champ
and looks in the mirror to see
his tough image
he's ready to control the world
with his small fists
and scare the dark monsters
and scare me when he talks about them
his eyes get big
and his voice gets loud
and I keep repeating "never ever"
to his "never ever"
and he continues "stop copying me"
and then it's time to leave
and with a voice smooth
and soft as a baby's
he says pointing to my husband
"are you going to kiss him when you get home"
______________________
—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, February 06, 2006
Re-Locating Edna (Devoured in Peace Revisited)
Here, once again, are the poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay which I posted on Saturday, Feb. 4, and which apparently were eaten by the accursed Bloggy-monsters. These poems are from her Selected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers, 1991):
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE FITTING
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
The fitter said, "Madame, vous avez maigri,"
And pinched together a handful of skirt at my hip.
"Tant mieux," I said, and looked away slowly, and took my
under-lip
Softly between my teeth.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE FITTING
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
The fitter said, "Madame, vous avez maigri,"
And pinched together a handful of skirt at my hip.
"Tant mieux," I said, and looked away slowly, and took my
under-lip
Softly between my teeth.
Rip-rip!
Out came the seam, and was pinned together in another place.
She knelt before me, a hardworking woman with a familiar
and unknown face,
Dressed in linty black, very tight in the arm's-eye and smelling
of sweat.
She rose, lifting my arm, and set her cold shears against me,—
snip-snip;
Her knuckles gouged my breast. My drooped eyes lifted to my
guarded eyes in the glass, and glanced away as from someone
they had never met.
"Ah, que madame a maigri!" cried the vendeuse, coming in with
dresses over her arm.
"C'est la chaleur," I said, looking out into the sunny tops of
the horse-chestnuts—and indeed it was very warm.
I stood for a long time so, looking out into the afternoon,
thinking of the evening and you...
While they murmured busily in the distance, turning me,
touching my secret body, doing what they were paid to do.
_____________________
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man, who happened to be you,
At noon today had happened to be killed—
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face;
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE TRUE ENCOUNTER
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.
______________________
—Medusa (see below for today's REAL post)
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.)
She knelt before me, a hardworking woman with a familiar
and unknown face,
Dressed in linty black, very tight in the arm's-eye and smelling
of sweat.
She rose, lifting my arm, and set her cold shears against me,—
snip-snip;
Her knuckles gouged my breast. My drooped eyes lifted to my
guarded eyes in the glass, and glanced away as from someone
they had never met.
"Ah, que madame a maigri!" cried the vendeuse, coming in with
dresses over her arm.
"C'est la chaleur," I said, looking out into the sunny tops of
the horse-chestnuts—and indeed it was very warm.
I stood for a long time so, looking out into the afternoon,
thinking of the evening and you...
While they murmured busily in the distance, turning me,
touching my secret body, doing what they were paid to do.
_____________________
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man, who happened to be you,
At noon today had happened to be killed—
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face;
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
______________________
THE TRUE ENCOUNTER
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.
______________________
—Medusa (see below for today's REAL post)
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.)
Babe Ruth's Birthday (and Ronald Reagan, Zsa Zsa Gabor...)
THE DREAM
—Linda Boyden, Redding
Upon my finger
The diamond ring disintegrated:
Each separate stone released itself
From the band willingly,
Nothing violent.
More an act of erosion than
Something geothermal.
Each spilling into a void,
Floating on singular journeys;
Miniature stars, but still within my reach.
I stretched.
The diamonds settled
On slender fingerpads.
The hem of my dress sashayed
In a whirl
As I clenched my fist and I awoke:
To the memory of your tongue
Inside my mouth;
The intoxicating twinge,
Bittersweet.
I surrendered back to sleep,
Relaxed my grip,
Dimly aware of diamonds
Cascading freely,
Like river tears over rock.
______________________
Thanks, Linda! This poem was submitted to the Snake as part of Linda's packet for the upcoming Snake feature on poets from Chico to the Border; watch for a whole passel of 'way-cool poems from our northern friends in Issue #9, due out in March. Don't let the anticipation of same distract you from your own submission, though—deadline February 15.
Closer to home, this week's poetry events around here include:
•••Sabrina Mathis reads tonight for the Sacramento Poetry Center at HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac., 7:30. Info: click on the link to the right of this column.
•••Poetry Unplugged at Luna's on Thursday (2/9), 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm. Info: 441-3931. An evening of no feature—all open mic tributes to Phil Goldvarg and the publishing of the collection Goldvarg: What Makes Bones Talk, published jointly by the 24th St. Irregular Press and AMP Press. Shock & Awe Spoken Word Style, and a benefit for the Zapatista Coalition. Copies of the book will be available for purchase ($7), and poets are encouraged to read from their copies when they take to the open mic and stage at Luna’s. A special note: As there is no feature this evening (Phil and the book are the true features), we ask that all those speaking/reading during the first open mic (and time allotted for a feature) read or speak a Phil Goldvarg poem and/or tribute statement in honor of Phil.
•••Fire up the old buggy and head down to Santa Rosa Friday (2/10) for JANE HIRSHFIELD and DAVID ST. JOHN reading for the WordTemple Poetry Series at 7:00 pm at Copperfield’s Books, 2316 Montgomery Dr., Santa Rosa. Info: 707-578-8938. Jane Hirshfield’s sixth collection of poems, to be released in 2006, is After: Poems. Other books of poetry include Given Sugar, Given Salt which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, The Lives of the Heart, The October Palace, Of Gravity & Angels, and Alaya. She is also the author of Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry.
David St. John is the author of many books of poetry including the National Book Award Finalist, The Red Leaves of Night. He is also the author of a novella in verse, The Face, and Where Angels Come Towards Us—Selected Essays. St. John will be visiting from Los Angeles where he teaches at the University of Southern California. For more information visit www.wordtemple.com.
•••A memorial for Davis Poet Charlie MacDonald will be held on Sat., Feb. 11, 2006 at 2 p.m. at Wiscombe's Davis Funeral Chapel, 116 D Street, Davis.
•••Also Saturday (2/11), Patricity Presents Poetry: "In Spirit & Truth" & Patricity's Birthday Celebration at Queen Sheba's Fine Dining, 1537 Howe Avenue, Ste. 116 (Century Plaza), 3 to 5 pm. Features Heather Christian Arlington (the soulful, one-of-a-kind poetess), "Big E" (Poet of Born2B Poets). Open mic.
•••Poems-for-All Second Saturday (2/11) presents another Bliss: An Erotic Evening reading, 8 pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., hosted by Rhony Bhopla. Info: 442-9295. Readers will celebrate the acclaimed Bliss anthology.
•••Sunday (2/12), 4-6 pm, Poems-for-All presents Donald Sidney-Fryer at The Book Collector, 1008 24th Street, Sac. Info: 442-9295.
WHY VENUS AND MARS MUST SPIN ON SEPARATE ORBS
—Linda Boyden, Redding
When I told you,
“See! My $500 advance!
For my first book
and
doesn’t it look good
doesn’t it smell good...here!”
I smiled then, triumphant as a teenager,
A cheerleader, Prom Queen, National Merit Scholarship winner—
all denied me in my youth
but present now in my hand,
Present in my smile
even as I felt the smile
deepen into a
laugh line,
into a wrinkle,
Adding another brick in the wall of middle age,
but I checked myself.
Glory rested in my hand,
Under its spell,
I did not care—
for one splendid moment—I did not care about wrinkles,
age, fat, no, nothing would ruin this moment!
Except this:
You nodded, then scratched your head.
“See?” you said, pointing out the door.
“See that circle of green in the lawn?
Must be a break in the septic line.
Damn.”
_____________________
Thanks, Linda!
—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.)
—Linda Boyden, Redding
Upon my finger
The diamond ring disintegrated:
Each separate stone released itself
From the band willingly,
Nothing violent.
More an act of erosion than
Something geothermal.
Each spilling into a void,
Floating on singular journeys;
Miniature stars, but still within my reach.
I stretched.
The diamonds settled
On slender fingerpads.
The hem of my dress sashayed
In a whirl
As I clenched my fist and I awoke:
To the memory of your tongue
Inside my mouth;
The intoxicating twinge,
Bittersweet.
I surrendered back to sleep,
Relaxed my grip,
Dimly aware of diamonds
Cascading freely,
Like river tears over rock.
______________________
Thanks, Linda! This poem was submitted to the Snake as part of Linda's packet for the upcoming Snake feature on poets from Chico to the Border; watch for a whole passel of 'way-cool poems from our northern friends in Issue #9, due out in March. Don't let the anticipation of same distract you from your own submission, though—deadline February 15.
Closer to home, this week's poetry events around here include:
•••Sabrina Mathis reads tonight for the Sacramento Poetry Center at HQ, 25th & R Sts., Sac., 7:30. Info: click on the link to the right of this column.
•••Poetry Unplugged at Luna's on Thursday (2/9), 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm. Info: 441-3931. An evening of no feature—all open mic tributes to Phil Goldvarg and the publishing of the collection Goldvarg: What Makes Bones Talk, published jointly by the 24th St. Irregular Press and AMP Press. Shock & Awe Spoken Word Style, and a benefit for the Zapatista Coalition. Copies of the book will be available for purchase ($7), and poets are encouraged to read from their copies when they take to the open mic and stage at Luna’s. A special note: As there is no feature this evening (Phil and the book are the true features), we ask that all those speaking/reading during the first open mic (and time allotted for a feature) read or speak a Phil Goldvarg poem and/or tribute statement in honor of Phil.
•••Fire up the old buggy and head down to Santa Rosa Friday (2/10) for JANE HIRSHFIELD and DAVID ST. JOHN reading for the WordTemple Poetry Series at 7:00 pm at Copperfield’s Books, 2316 Montgomery Dr., Santa Rosa. Info: 707-578-8938. Jane Hirshfield’s sixth collection of poems, to be released in 2006, is After: Poems. Other books of poetry include Given Sugar, Given Salt which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, The Lives of the Heart, The October Palace, Of Gravity & Angels, and Alaya. She is also the author of Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry.
David St. John is the author of many books of poetry including the National Book Award Finalist, The Red Leaves of Night. He is also the author of a novella in verse, The Face, and Where Angels Come Towards Us—Selected Essays. St. John will be visiting from Los Angeles where he teaches at the University of Southern California. For more information visit www.wordtemple.com.
•••A memorial for Davis Poet Charlie MacDonald will be held on Sat., Feb. 11, 2006 at 2 p.m. at Wiscombe's Davis Funeral Chapel, 116 D Street, Davis.
•••Also Saturday (2/11), Patricity Presents Poetry: "In Spirit & Truth" & Patricity's Birthday Celebration at Queen Sheba's Fine Dining, 1537 Howe Avenue, Ste. 116 (Century Plaza), 3 to 5 pm. Features Heather Christian Arlington (the soulful, one-of-a-kind poetess), "Big E" (Poet of Born2B Poets). Open mic.
•••Poems-for-All Second Saturday (2/11) presents another Bliss: An Erotic Evening reading, 8 pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac., hosted by Rhony Bhopla. Info: 442-9295. Readers will celebrate the acclaimed Bliss anthology.
•••Sunday (2/12), 4-6 pm, Poems-for-All presents Donald Sidney-Fryer at The Book Collector, 1008 24th Street, Sac. Info: 442-9295.
WHY VENUS AND MARS MUST SPIN ON SEPARATE ORBS
—Linda Boyden, Redding
When I told you,
“See! My $500 advance!
For my first book
and
doesn’t it look good
doesn’t it smell good...here!”
I smiled then, triumphant as a teenager,
A cheerleader, Prom Queen, National Merit Scholarship winner—
all denied me in my youth
but present now in my hand,
Present in my smile
even as I felt the smile
deepen into a
laugh line,
into a wrinkle,
Adding another brick in the wall of middle age,
but I checked myself.
Glory rested in my hand,
Under its spell,
I did not care—
for one splendid moment—I did not care about wrinkles,
age, fat, no, nothing would ruin this moment!
Except this:
You nodded, then scratched your head.
“See?” you said, pointing out the door.
“See that circle of green in the lawn?
Must be a break in the septic line.
Damn.”
_____________________
Thanks, Linda!
—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.)
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Tomorrow the Plum Blossoms
I must go there today—
Tomorrow the plum blossoms
Will scatter.
***
A nightingale's song
Brings me out of a dream:
The morning glows.
***
A single wish:
To sleep one night
Beneath the cherry blossoms.
***
The mountain village:
Swallowed up by
A chorus of croaking frogs!
***
Autumn's first drizzle:
How delightful,
The nameless mountain.
***
Left behind by the thief—
The moon
In the window.
***
Around my shuttered door,
Fallen pine needles:
How lonely I feel...
***
Calling out to me
As they return home:
Wild geese at night.
***
This old body of mine:
A bamboo buried
In the cold snow.
(—Ryokan, translated by John Stevens)
________________
—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.)
Tomorrow the plum blossoms
Will scatter.
***
A nightingale's song
Brings me out of a dream:
The morning glows.
***
A single wish:
To sleep one night
Beneath the cherry blossoms.
***
The mountain village:
Swallowed up by
A chorus of croaking frogs!
***
Autumn's first drizzle:
How delightful,
The nameless mountain.
***
Left behind by the thief—
The moon
In the window.
***
Around my shuttered door,
Fallen pine needles:
How lonely I feel...
***
Calling out to me
As they return home:
Wild geese at night.
***
This old body of mine:
A bamboo buried
In the cold snow.
(—Ryokan, translated by John Stevens)
________________
—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, February 03, 2006
The World May be Tiny...
MISSING YOU
—Shu Ting
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with no solution;
A one-stringed lyre that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
(translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer)
__________________________
Tonight (2/3), The Other Voice presents Mehdi Moghaddam for an evening of music, dance and poetry inspired by the Persian poet, Rumi. This promises to be a wonderful evening, led by a powerful reader. The Other Voice meets at 7:30 in the library of the Unitarian Church at 27074 Patwin Road, Davis, CA.
JoAnn Anglin writes: All are invited to PoemSpirits this Sunday (2/5). This month’s featured poets are the duet of Joe Finkleman and Susan Hennies. They will be musically accompanied by Phil Hildenbrand and Fran Reitano. The evening also includes a brief presentation on the poet James Merrill by Tom Goff. Then enjoy refreshments and the open mic period, for which you may read a favorite poem of your own or by someone else. Location: Room 11 (in the back) at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues. Questions? 916-481-3312 (Tom Goff, Nora Staklis) or 916-451-1372 (JoAnn Anglin). Note: March’s featured reader (3/5) is Jeanine Stevens, whose recent chapbook (from Rattlesnake Press) is called The Keeping Room.
Here are the bios for Sunday’s dynamic duo: Susan Hennies began her delusional existence as a struggling novelist in Detroit, Michigan at age 10, and as a poet at age 13. She has been recently encouraged in these delusions by such publishers as Susurrus, Rattlesnake Review, The Yolo Crow, and the Sacramento News and Review, as well as by her fiancé, Joseph Finkleman, with whom she is co-authoring a novel for children and any number of two-voice poems. Having recently burned out on transforming classrooms full of students into struggling writers, she is now employed as the office manager of the Davis Cemetery. In her miniscule spare time, she whirls around, contra dancing; when thoroughly spun out, she practices Zen.
Joseph Finkleman was born in Hollywood, CA, which he says sounds really cool until you realize that it's no big deal. His BFA and an MFA are from the San Francisco Art Institute. A professional photographer for 20 years, he taught photography and animation. He exhibits both photography and watercolor and characterizes himself as a serious artist. Before art school, he was a literature major with a journalism minor. Along with writing the novel, a number of short stories and plays, and a great deal of poetry, Joe has recently completed the libretto of an opera which will be performed this fall at Sac State.
BITS OF REMINISCENCE
—Shu Ting
A toppled wine-cup,
A stone path floating beneath the moon
Where the grass was trampled:
One azalea branch left lying there...
Eucalyptus trees begin to spin
In a collage of stars
As I sit on the rusted anchor,
The dizzy sky reflected in my eyes.
A book held up to shut out candlelight;
Fingers lightly at your mouth;
In the fragile cup of silence
A dream, half-illumined, half-obscure.
(translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer)
_________________
FAIRY TALES
—Shu Ting
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it—
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.
The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.
And the people in turn believe—
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.
The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.
(translated from the Chinese by Donald Finkel)
—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.)
—Shu Ting
A multi-colored chart without a boundary;
An equation chalked on the board, with no solution;
A one-stringed lyre that tells the beads of rain;
A pair of useless oars that never cross the water.
Waiting buds in suspended animation;
The setting sun is watching from a distance.
Though in my mind there may be an enormous ocean,
What emerges is the sum: a pair of tears.
Yes, from these vistas, from these depths,
Only this.
(translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer)
__________________________
Tonight (2/3), The Other Voice presents Mehdi Moghaddam for an evening of music, dance and poetry inspired by the Persian poet, Rumi. This promises to be a wonderful evening, led by a powerful reader. The Other Voice meets at 7:30 in the library of the Unitarian Church at 27074 Patwin Road, Davis, CA.
JoAnn Anglin writes: All are invited to PoemSpirits this Sunday (2/5). This month’s featured poets are the duet of Joe Finkleman and Susan Hennies. They will be musically accompanied by Phil Hildenbrand and Fran Reitano. The evening also includes a brief presentation on the poet James Merrill by Tom Goff. Then enjoy refreshments and the open mic period, for which you may read a favorite poem of your own or by someone else. Location: Room 11 (in the back) at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues. Questions? 916-481-3312 (Tom Goff, Nora Staklis) or 916-451-1372 (JoAnn Anglin). Note: March’s featured reader (3/5) is Jeanine Stevens, whose recent chapbook (from Rattlesnake Press) is called The Keeping Room.
Here are the bios for Sunday’s dynamic duo: Susan Hennies began her delusional existence as a struggling novelist in Detroit, Michigan at age 10, and as a poet at age 13. She has been recently encouraged in these delusions by such publishers as Susurrus, Rattlesnake Review, The Yolo Crow, and the Sacramento News and Review, as well as by her fiancé, Joseph Finkleman, with whom she is co-authoring a novel for children and any number of two-voice poems. Having recently burned out on transforming classrooms full of students into struggling writers, she is now employed as the office manager of the Davis Cemetery. In her miniscule spare time, she whirls around, contra dancing; when thoroughly spun out, she practices Zen.
Joseph Finkleman was born in Hollywood, CA, which he says sounds really cool until you realize that it's no big deal. His BFA and an MFA are from the San Francisco Art Institute. A professional photographer for 20 years, he taught photography and animation. He exhibits both photography and watercolor and characterizes himself as a serious artist. Before art school, he was a literature major with a journalism minor. Along with writing the novel, a number of short stories and plays, and a great deal of poetry, Joe has recently completed the libretto of an opera which will be performed this fall at Sac State.
BITS OF REMINISCENCE
—Shu Ting
A toppled wine-cup,
A stone path floating beneath the moon
Where the grass was trampled:
One azalea branch left lying there...
Eucalyptus trees begin to spin
In a collage of stars
As I sit on the rusted anchor,
The dizzy sky reflected in my eyes.
A book held up to shut out candlelight;
Fingers lightly at your mouth;
In the fragile cup of silence
A dream, half-illumined, half-obscure.
(translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer)
_________________
FAIRY TALES
—Shu Ting
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it—
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.
The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.
And the people in turn believe—
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.
The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.
(translated from the Chinese by Donald Finkel)
—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, February 02, 2006
Catching Me With a Song
WITH A GREEN SCARF
—Marin Sorescu
With a green scarf I blindfolded
the eyes of the trees
and asked them to catch me.
At once the trees caught me,
their leaves shaking with laughter.
I blindfolded the birds
with a scarf of clouds
and asked them to catch me.
The birds caught me
with a song.
Then with a smile I blindfolded
my sorrow
and the day after it caught me
with a love.
I blindfolded the sun
with my nights
and asked the sun to catch me.
I know where you are, the sun said,
just behind that time.
Don't bother to hide any longer.
Don't bother to hide any longer,
said all of them,
as well as all the feelings
I tried to blindfold.
(translated from the Romanian by Michael Hamburger)
______________________
PRECAUTIONS
—Marin Sorescu
I pulled on a suit of mail
made of pebbles
worn smooth by water.
I balanced a pair of glasses
on my neck
so as to keep an eye
on whatever
was coming behind me.
I gloved and greaved
my hands, my legs, my thoughts,
leaving no part of my person
exposed to touch
or other poisons.
Then I fashioned a breastplace
from the shell
of an eight-hundred-year-old
turtle.
And when everything was just so
I tenderly replied:
—I love you too.
(translated from the Romanian by Paul Muldoon and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
_____________________
FRESCO
—Marin Sorescu
In hell, maximum use
Is made of the sinners.
With the help of tweezers,
Brooches and bracelets, hairpins and rings,
Linen and bedclothes
Are extracted from the heads of the women.
Who are subsequently thrown
Into boiling cauldrons
To keep an eye on the pitch,
And see that it doesn't boil over.
Then some of them
Are transformed into dinner pails
In which hot sins are carried to the domiciles
Of pensioned-off devils.
The men are employed
For the heaviest work,
Except for the hairiest of them,
Who are spun afresh
And made into mats.
(translated from the Romanian by D.J. Enright and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
_____________________
THE TEAR
—Marin Sorescu
I weep and weep a tear
Which will not fall
No matter how much I weep.
Its pang in me
Is like the birth of an icicle.
Colder and colder, the earth
Curves on my eyelid,
The northern ice-cap keeps rising.
O, my arctic eyelid.
(translated from the Romanian by Seamus Heaney and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
______________________
We're celebrating the Year of the Dog—send Medusa a poem of your own this week—about dogs or new beginnings or whatever tweaks your pen—and I'll send you a rattlechap, either James DenBoer's Black Dog, or Jeanine Stevens' new The Keeping Room, or any Rattlechap you don't already have (let me know). Your poem has to get to me by FRIDAY, though, so email is probably best: kathykieth@hotmail.com.
—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.)
—Marin Sorescu
With a green scarf I blindfolded
the eyes of the trees
and asked them to catch me.
At once the trees caught me,
their leaves shaking with laughter.
I blindfolded the birds
with a scarf of clouds
and asked them to catch me.
The birds caught me
with a song.
Then with a smile I blindfolded
my sorrow
and the day after it caught me
with a love.
I blindfolded the sun
with my nights
and asked the sun to catch me.
I know where you are, the sun said,
just behind that time.
Don't bother to hide any longer.
Don't bother to hide any longer,
said all of them,
as well as all the feelings
I tried to blindfold.
(translated from the Romanian by Michael Hamburger)
______________________
PRECAUTIONS
—Marin Sorescu
I pulled on a suit of mail
made of pebbles
worn smooth by water.
I balanced a pair of glasses
on my neck
so as to keep an eye
on whatever
was coming behind me.
I gloved and greaved
my hands, my legs, my thoughts,
leaving no part of my person
exposed to touch
or other poisons.
Then I fashioned a breastplace
from the shell
of an eight-hundred-year-old
turtle.
And when everything was just so
I tenderly replied:
—I love you too.
(translated from the Romanian by Paul Muldoon and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
_____________________
FRESCO
—Marin Sorescu
In hell, maximum use
Is made of the sinners.
With the help of tweezers,
Brooches and bracelets, hairpins and rings,
Linen and bedclothes
Are extracted from the heads of the women.
Who are subsequently thrown
Into boiling cauldrons
To keep an eye on the pitch,
And see that it doesn't boil over.
Then some of them
Are transformed into dinner pails
In which hot sins are carried to the domiciles
Of pensioned-off devils.
The men are employed
For the heaviest work,
Except for the hairiest of them,
Who are spun afresh
And made into mats.
(translated from the Romanian by D.J. Enright and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
_____________________
THE TEAR
—Marin Sorescu
I weep and weep a tear
Which will not fall
No matter how much I weep.
Its pang in me
Is like the birth of an icicle.
Colder and colder, the earth
Curves on my eyelid,
The northern ice-cap keeps rising.
O, my arctic eyelid.
(translated from the Romanian by Seamus Heaney and Joana Russell-Gebbett)
______________________
We're celebrating the Year of the Dog—send Medusa a poem of your own this week—about dogs or new beginnings or whatever tweaks your pen—and I'll send you a rattlechap, either James DenBoer's Black Dog, or Jeanine Stevens' new The Keeping Room, or any Rattlechap you don't already have (let me know). Your poem has to get to me by FRIDAY, though, so email is probably best: kathykieth@hotmail.com.
—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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