Medusa's Kitchen

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Meditating Rivers

Photo by Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos

THE RUMINATION OF RIVERS
—William Bronk

I fall asleep meditating rivers—
their flows, that gravity desires
their deep waters, determines their pull, that dams
do not stop them, that even there, behind
that solid wall, their weight downs them and, released,
they rage toward their easement as much as in natural
falls where they gush white in frantic slams
at rocks and tear at earth-banks because Earth
has lured them, Sun has energized.

In less

watered times, other places, quietly,
shallow streams sport more gently at the rocks
to speak the same urges or wind themselves
between like a single finger's slow caress.

I think of slowness, patience, indifference
to time, their endurance as, almost lost
at the bottom of sculptured ruins worn and dug
as canyons, their flow goes on, their intention still
the same as though never was ever enough, though it is.

And my mind meanders in grassy, flatter lands;
in barely perceptible flow, I fall asleep.

__________________

—Medusa

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Unrumpled On Our Stems

Young Girl Defending Herself Against Eros
Painting by Adolphe William Bougeureau

XLV
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

I know my mind and I have made my choice;
Not from your temper does my doom depend;
Love me or love me not, you have no voice
In this, which is my portion to the end.
Your presence and your favours, the full part
That you could give, you now can take away:
What lies between your beauty and my heart
Not even you can trouble or betray.
Mistake me not—unto my inmost core
I do desire your kiss upon my mouth;
They have not craved a cup of water more
That bleach upon the deserts of the south;
Here might you bless me; what you cannot do
Is bow me down, who have been loved by you.

_________________

A COUPLE
—May Swenson

A bee
rolls
in the yellow
rose.
Does she
invite his hairy
rub?

He scrubs
himself
in her creamy
folds;
a bullet, soft, imposes
her spiral and, spinning, burrows
to her dewy
shadows.

The gold
grooves almost
match
the yellow
bowl.
Does his touch
please
or scratch?

When he's
done
his honey-
thieving
at her matrix,
whirs free
leaving,
she
closes,
still
tall, chill,
unrumpled on her stem.

_________________

CAT AND I
—May Swenson

Heat of the sun on wood of the deck. Spread flat,
my body accommodates to hardness on the worn boards.
Cat fools with my foot, trying to make my big toe
stay in her ear. She gets bored when you're not here.

House feels hollow, without vibration, asleep.
No sudden bumps or door-slams, no shuffled dishes,
no water rushing in the tub, or outside from the hose.
Vacuum's snarling inhale, hedge clipper's chatter—
any welcome racket would make the little cat leap up,

land four-footed like a springbok, and race downstairs
to see what you are making happen. Instead, all is
neat and peaceful. Phone never rings. Or, if it does,
receiver waits long to be raised.

If you were here, I wouldn't be this flat, sunbathing
a whole morning on the deck, half hearing the far
gargle of a helicopter over the bay. I get lazy when
you're away. I have to feel guilty that I don't do
all the Things To Do on today's list.

Whether I ought, or not, I'm blaming it on you
that kitten doesn't spring. Slow, from inside, wags
the old Seth Thomas pendulum. And from below I hear
the suspended slaps of the tide.

Kitten has quit fooling with my toe. She's collapsed
in the shade under the overhang, her blond belly-frill
barely moving with her breath, heavy little bucket-head
dropped on paws. The crossed blue eyes are shut.

_________________

GOOD THINGS COME FROM THEE
—May Swenson

On the Cliff

I'm sawing a slice off that hard dark knobby loaf
form Zabar's—black molasses and raisins in it—
to have with Tilsit cheese. You left a pumpkin and
autumn leaves on the stripped wood table, you filled
the birdfeeder hanging from the eaves. The window
is clean, the sill is varnished, white impatiens
in a brick clay pot smile above the sink. Our terrace
lined with boulders, the slate bath with pachysandra
you planted. Storm doors are on, in front and back,
it's snug in here. I'm chewing, looking at the shelves
you cut and hung to hold our books and decoys.
You're strong, you twist off the lids of jars.
Cold nights you're a stove in bed.

By the Canal

For Valentine's Day a whole studio and library!
Shelves built to the ceiling, there's space for every
thing: papers, folders, files and books, books, books.
Binoculars and chess set, tape recorders, tapes and
jigsaw. Telephone that's a blue car has a shelf
of its own. The old maple sawhorse table fits right in
and looks brand new. Curly ivy on the sill and outside
an entire alphabet of birds, on the porch, in the yard.
You put pink ribbons of sunrise in the back window,
scarlet bands of sunset in the front, the moon above our
bed at night. It snowed. You made a path. The Christmas
poinsettia blooms all year.

_________________

XXXI
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
"What a big book for such a little head!"
Come, I will show you now my newest hat,
And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!
Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;
You will not catch me reading any more:
I shall be called a wife to pattern by;
And some day when you knock and push the door,
Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,
I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

No woman was ever ruined by a book.

—Jimmy Walker, ex-Mayor of New York City

_________________

—Medusa

Friday, July 24, 2009

All The Great Mad Poets

Leaf Shadows
Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

HUSBAND’S KNOT
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Thick packthread, lash of the knot, bristling multi-whip,

Lucrece fainting before Tarquin pain,

atavistic surgical botch,

anti-dilation.

Doctor. Her. Doctor

her up.

Red hemline, post-partum’s

ligature and cicatrice: Scarlett,

you’ll never have that seventeen-inch waist again,

you done give birth. Oh, yes,

by god, you’ll have those exact same dainty rose hips,

and everything mine will again

fit properly. Bring hoop skirt, corset, stays.

—Male to service.

—Officer Cervix, reporting for duty.

Reasonable excuse.

The most kindest cut.

Marital friction.

Where blood-silk, blood-satin, what does it matter

(needlepoint going in right now),

the barest hiss, long draw from the spool,

coarsens, scratches, gouges,

rends.

_________________

This weekend in NorCal poetry:

•••Sat. (7/25), 7-9 PM: TheShowPoetrySeries with live band LSB, vocalist Zionista plus poets Nate Hall, Alphonso Flowers, Nikki Brock and open mic. Wo'se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sacramento (off 35th & Broadway). $5.00. Info: 916 208-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com/.

•••Monday (7/27), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Shawn Pittard and LaVerne Frith at HQ for the Arts, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. Shawn Pittard is the author of These Rivers, a chapbook of poems from Rattlesnake Press. His poems, essays, and book reviews appear in a variety of publications, and he's written a screenplay, Junk Sick, with his brother, Trent. He holds degrees in fine arts, geography, and urban planning. He also writes for The Great American Pinup [http://www.greatamerican.pinup.blogspot.com] and for Rattlesnake Review.

Laverne Frith is co-editor of the poetry journal, Ekphrasis. His chapbooks are In the Translated Day (White Heron Press, 2004), In a Fast Food Place (Talent House Press, 1999), Sky After Summer Rain (Choice of Words Press), Drinking the Light (Finishing Line Press, 2007), The Range of Seeing (Finishing Line Press, 2008), and Celebrations: Images and Texts (Rattlesnake Press, 2009). Among his many awards are a 2004 nomination for the Pushcart XXIX Prize by Adept Press, a runner-up finish in the 2004 & 2005 Louisiana Literature Award and honorable mentions in the Common Ground and Quercus competitions in 2004. Winner of the Nostalgia Poetry Award, he was awarded an HM in the New Millennium competition in April 2003 and semi-finalist in New Millennium in December 2003. His publication credits include Poetry New York, Louisiana Literature, The Christian Science Monitor, Sundog: the Southeast Review, The Comstock Review, The Montserrat Review, California Quarterly, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Perihelion, Main Street Rag, New Zoo Poetry Review, Blue Unicorn, Kimera, and others.

_________________

LIVING IN THE SUMMER MOUNTAINS
—Yu Hsuan-chi (843-868)

I have moved to this home of Immortals.

Wild shrubs bloom everywhere.

In the front garden, trees

Spread their branches for clothes racks.

I sit on a mat and float wine cups

In the cool spring.

Beyond the window railing

A hidden path leads away

Into the dense bamboo grove.

In a gauze dress

I read among my disordered

Piles of books.

I take a leisurely ride

In the painted boat,

And chant poems to the moon.

I drift at ease, for I know

The soft wind will blow me home.

_________________

SPRING THOUGHTS SENT TO TZU-AN

—Yu Hsuan-chi

The mountain road is steep, the stone steps are dangerous;

The hard climb hurts me less than thoughts of you.

Don't listen to the singers, springsick with wine.

Don't call your guests to play chess at night.

Like pine or stone our promise stays,

So I can wait for paired wings to join.

I walk alone in the cold end of winter.

Perhaps we'll meet when the moon is round.

What can I give my absent man?
In the pure light, my tears fall: a poem.

_________________

IN MY CRAFT OR SULLEN ART
—Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art

Exercised in the still night

When only the moon rages

And the lovers lie abed

With all their griefs in their arms.

I labour by singing light

Not for ambition or bread

Or the strut and trade of charms

On the ivory stages

But for the common wages

Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon I write

On these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers, their arms

Round the griefs of the ages,

Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

_________________

WRITTEN IN THE MOUNTAINS
—Kuan Hsiu (832-912)

A mountain's palace
for all things crystalline and pure:
there's not a speck of dust
on a single one of all these flowers.

When we start chanting poems like madmen
it sets all the peaks to dancing.
And once we've put the brush to work
even the sky becomes mere ornament.

For you and me the joy's in the doing
and I'm damned if I care about "talent."

But if, my friend, from time to time
you hear sounds like ghostly laughter...
It's all the great mad poets, dead,
and just dropping in for a listen.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

I put a piece of paper under my pillow, and when I could not sleep I wrote in the dark.

—Henry David Thoreau

_________________

—Medusa

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Dreaming of Perfect Concentration

Rooftop Mannequin Gathering
Photo by Bob Dreizler

STRIP MALL PASTORAL
—Robert Grossklaus

The grasses yawn in
the streetlights; the night
air thick with insomnia.
Every tree planted firmly
in asphalt pits, illuminated
by corporate logos. Each
subtle variance betrays
similarities and agendas;
intentional landscapes.

__________________

THE FACT OF PRESENCE
—Robert Grossklaus

The hollowed eyes
of the night streets
bore into mine with
fevered gore. An
absence of presence
passing me in phantoms
one after another...

_________________

MY FAVORITE SIN
—Robert Grossklaus

My favorite sin
is in your eyes,
ecumenical.
Where skin and
shadow converge.
Pull me back
into myself
and release me.

__________________

Thanks, Robbie, for the poems! Tonight (Thurs. 7/23, 8 PM), Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sacramento) presents Phillip T. Nails, Robert Grossklaus, Julie Valin. Open mic before and after.

_________________

SHE WROTE IN DARKNESS
—Adam Zagajewski

(To Ryszard Krynicki)

While living in Stockholm Nelly Sachs
worked at night by a dim lamp,
so as not to waken her sick mother.

She wrote in darkness.
Despair dictated words
heavy as a comet's tail.

She wrote in darkness,
in silence broken only
by the wall clock's sighs.

Even the letters grew drowsy,
their heads dropping on the page.

Darkness wrote,
having taken this middle-aged woman
for its fountain pen.

Night took pity on her,
morning's gray prison
rose over the city,
rosy-fingered dawn.

White she dozed off
the blackbirds woke
and there was no break
in the sorrow and song.

_________________

THE ROOM I WORK IN
—Adam Zagajewski

The room I work in is as foursquare
as half a pair of dice.
It holds a wooden table
with a stubborn peasant's profile,
a sluggish armchair, and a teapot's
pouting Hapsburg lip.
From the window I see a few skinny trees,
wispy clouds, and toddlers,
always happy and loud.
Sometimes a windshield glints in the distance
or, higher up, an airplane's silver husk.
Clearly others aren't wasting time
while I work, seeking adventures
on earth or in the air.
The room I work in is a camera obscura.
And what is my work—
waiting motionless,
flipping pages, patient meditation,
passivities not pleasing
to that judge with the greedy gaze.
I write as slowly as if I'll live two hundred years.
I seek images that don't exist,
and if they do they're crumpled and concealed
like summer clothes in winter,
when frost stings the mouth.
I dream of perfect concentration; if I found it
I'd surely stop breathing.
Maybe it's good I get so little done.
But after all, I hear the first snow hissing,
the frail melody of daylight,
and the city's gloomy rumble.
I drink from a small spring,
my thirst exceeds the ocean.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.

—Richard Bach

_________________

—Medusa

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Knots of Logic

Alice, Lizard Hunting
Photo by Bill Gainer

LIZARDS IN THE TREES
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

There are lizards
in the trees
around the house.
They do pushups
and sun themselves,
at times climbing low,
teasing the dog—
most are missing their tails.
In the evening
the dog lays on the porch,
knowing the sweet taste
of revenge
and lizard...

__________________

Sorry to be late today—it's a long story about technology, but thanks, Bill, for the poem and pix about the carnivorous Alice. Who I am to talk? I've been known to eat mammals, birds and fish, including the occasional calamari—speaking of which, we have two more poems about the little-celebrated squid! Calamariabilia (squidabilia?) aside, this week's SOW is actually the photo of the knotted rope in yesterday's post, and Taylor Graham sends us this:

DREAM-FADE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Mother's walking downtown with my father, window-
shopping. Already her house is full of marble-top
tables, blue beads from Florence, quilts from grand-
mothers out of mind. She lags behind. Her ankles ache,
she can't remember where she put the key, she doesn't
understand the tax code. My father strides ahead, not
looking back. She gazes both ways, perhaps crosses
to the other side, dodging cars and buses. Has she lost
her mind? her glasses? Quite gone now, leaving nothing
but a daughter whose ankle's beginning to ache, brain
stuck in the tick of codes, a blinding glare of whizzing
metal. Knots of logic interlocked with dream and
memory. Look both ways twice before you cross.

__________________

AND BECAUSE "BICYCLE TIRE"
ON THE MENU WOULD OPEN
UP A WHOLE OTHER
SET OF PROBLEMS
—Kevin Jones, Fair Oaks

It's
Calamari.
If we called
It squid,
Nobody
Would order
It, the waiter
Explained.

___________________

DEEP SEA
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

Stark
Graceful
Secretive
Inky swimmer
Deep sea waving legs
Nightmare movie starring
Surfer tangling kisser
Head and legs are all the body parts
Ocean denizen, small to large, tasty
Squid the swiftly swimming cephalopod

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Who'd have thought the lowly squid would generate so much... ink?

—Kevin Jones

__________________

—Medusa

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Knotty Problem of Squid

Our Seed of the Week:
Have at it and send your
knotty poems to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/.

BOND REMAKE, STORY CONFERENCE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Let’s you and me scrape up some das kapital
and remake Doctor No. But this time we’ll do it like

the novel, do it right. Cast a real Eurasian bad guy,
not some made-up white movie doofus. The evil

doctor in the novel runs a Caribbean guano factory?
Okay, guano, lots of guano. After a bazillion gross-out

comedies with bowl and plunger as virtual characters,
viewers can handle what Bond finally does

with all that bird poop. Remember, Craig does
torture way better than Connery, so tuck it to him

first, just a tad. Above all, we must have the Giant
Squid. Find one, tank one, feed it what it eats, film it

actually swimming somewhere. You know, bathysphere,
diving bell, whatever? Then cook up a full-scale model,

some CGI, okay, but make the rubber (squid)
meet the road (Craig). Remember that no animals

were harmed in the making of this picture. I looked up
Giant Squid on Wikipedia. There’s an old book illustration:

head with curved cruel beak, graceful mantle, a couple
tentacles, good for sucking flesh wounds. Those are

long suckers, like arms dragging knuckles
on a gorilla. Then, all kinds of little legs,

this way that, neatened up in the lithograph
so the legs curlicue just so,

like deep-sea calligraphy. Remember,
without the squid, no new Doctor No.

The squid stays in the picture.

_________________

Our thanks to Tom Goff for correcting a cosmic deficit noted yesterday by Medusa: not enough squid poems in the universe—not even one by Ogden Nash! (And no, octopi poems don't count.) Jane Blue also wrote to say she's working on the squid problem, though she suspects they are really aliens. Meanwhile, she sends us this bookend to the autobiographical poem she sent last week:

NEAR MONTEREY II
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

The Monterey pines are dying, infected
with a virus, rusty. Across the road
seedlings grow spaced apart on the dune,
inoculated, staked and mulched
on the slope to the long beach, clean salt air
and the crash of the sea.

Ideally they will replace the ill,
make a healthy new forest in fifteen years.

Will I be here in fifteen years? Inoculated,
cloned? A quiet watching crow sits above me
winking its eye among the cones.
A class on the deck erupts
into a polyglot argument, exploding
off the picnic benches, standing
in clumps with their arms across their chests.

Then the class is over. The discourse goes on,
theoretical, a sudden bouquet of laughter.
The crow laughs,
sniffs the wind and flies away.

I return to our room to find you
stretched out on your back in the big bed, lie down
next to you, your mouth a rictus, your jaw
dropped as if in rigor mortis, your vampire incisors
backlit from the glare of a sliding glass door
opening out to the pines and the dunes, the room
smelling of them, a prick of nostalgia.

You are dead to the world.

_________________

Bob Stanley writes:

As my first endeavor as Sacramento City and County Poet Laureate, I am posting a weekly article on the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission website (www.sacmetroarts.org/poet-laureate.html) which will feature a local poet and his or her work. I’m calling it “County Lines: The poetry of Sacramento” (http://www.sacmetroarts.org/PLcountylines.html). Over time, using this weekly format, I’m hoping to increase visibility for local writers. SacramentoPress.com has also agreed to carry it, and I’ve had a discussion with the Sacramento Bee as well. At this point, I’m looking for submissions (I’ll probably start with those who live in the city or county), and hope this online presence can be an inexpensive way you can share your fine work with a wider local audience. Two years: 100 poems, a hundred poets. Can Poetry Matter? I’m sure going to try and find out.

Any questions, let me know. Feel free to email or call anytime!

Bob Stanley, Sacramento Poet Laureate
916-240-1897
bobstanley@sbcglobal.net

_________________

COSIMO AND BIANCA
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

In autumn they leave a Naples flat
for their cottage in Tuscany where
ripe vines color windowpanes.

Breakfast: purple grapes, country
rolls, sweet butter, soft cheese,
coffee in white porcelain cups.

They gather easel, palette, pigments,
ride a horse cart into outskirts
of Florence, walk to the Uffizi.

Cosimo and Bianca are copying
one work, It will take each autumn
for the rest of their lives.

___________________

REHEARSAL AMONG TREES
—Claire J. Baker

She retreats to a park where
only trees know her name. They
never ask more than she can give,
don't need her clever, young,
beautiful, rich, trim.

Here she rehearses
gratitude for life,
apologies for slights. Birds
carry off tidbits of meditation,
sing their lungs out.

Roots nurture whole villages
of heartwood;
wind stirs a meadow
into a library of grass
with its unique vocabulary.

_________________

PROPHECY
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

This is a road.
It was once a field.
We were not allowed
To see the change.

Time was much too short,
Had other things to do.
Battles took place here,
Their outcomes were
Precipitous at best.
Nothing could come of them.

This is a field.
It was once a road.
There are many ways
To see how these things
Happened. We will not
Know what they were.

I am telling you this
So that you can see this place.
We are the body.
This is the song.
Here, I will walk with you.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

Individually, we are one drop. Together we are an ocean.

—Ryunosuke Satoro

_________________

—Medusa

(Thanks to Claire Baker for Today's LittleNip.)

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:

THIS SUMMER:
There will be no rattle-read in July, while the Snake enjoys a little summer hibernation. (Stay current on Sacramento poetry, though, by way of Medusa's Kitchen.) Then join us Weds., August 12 to celebrate Joyce Odam’s birthday month with two new books from her: Peripherals: Prose Poems by Joyce Odam (illustrated by Charlotte Vincent) and Rattlesnake LittleBook #2 (Noir Love).
That’s at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30 PM. Free!

WTF!: The second issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick, is now available at The Book Collector or through rattlesnakepress.com, or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Deadline for Issue #3 (which will be available August 21) was July 15; next deadline will be Oct. 15. Submission guidelines are the same as for the Snake, but send your poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces (500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred) or, if you’re snailing, to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

RATTLESNAKE REVIEW: Issue #22 is now available (free) at The Book Collector, or send me four bux and I'll mail you one. Or you can order copies of current or past issues through rattlesnakepress.com/. Deadline is August 15 for RR23: send 3-5 poems, smallish art pieces and/or photos (no bio, no cover letter, no simultaneous submissions or previously-published poems) to kathykieth@hotmail.com or
P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. E-mail attachments are preferred, but be sure to add all contact info, including snail address. Meanwhile, the snakes of the on-going Medusa are always hungry; keep that poetry comin', rain or shine!
Just let us know if your submission is for the Review or for Medusa, or for either one, and please—only one submission packet per issue of the quarterly Review.
(More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46: Snake Secrets: Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press (and lots of other places, besides!): A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process so as to make editors everywhere more happy, thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published. Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or write to me and I'll send you one. Free!

Medusa's Weekly Menu:

(Contributors are welcome to cook up something for any and all of these!)

Monday: Weekly NorCal poetry calendar

Tuesday: Seed of the Week: Tuesday is Medusa's day to post poetry triggers such as quotes, forms, photos, memories, jokes—whatever might tickle somebody's muse. Pick up the gauntlet and send in your poetic results; and don't be shy about sending in your own triggers, too! All poems will be posted and a few of them will go into Medusa's Corner of each Rattlesnake Review. Send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline for SOWs; respond today, tomorrow, or whenever the muse arrives. (Print 'em out, maybe, save 'em for a dry spell?) When you send us work, though, just let us know which "seed" it was that inspired you.

Wednesday (sometimes, or any other day!): HandyStuff Quickies:
Resources for the poet, including whatever helps ease the pain of writing and/or publishing: favorite journals to read and/or submit to; books, etc., about writing; organizational tools—you know—HandyStuff! Tell us about your favorite tools.

Thursday: B.L.'s Drive-Bys: Micro-reviews by our irreverent
Reviewer-in-Residence, B.L. Kennedy. Send books, CDs, DVDs, etc. to him for possible review (either as a Drive-By or in future issues of Rattlesnake Review) at P.O. Box 160664, Sacramento, CA 95816.

Friday: NorCal weekend poetry calendar

Daily (except Sunday): LittleNips: SnakeFood for the Poetic Soul:
Daily munchables for poetic thought, including short paragraphs, quotes, wonky words, silliness, little-known poetry/poet facts, and other inspiration—yet another way to feed our ravenous poetic souls.

And poetry! Every day, poetry from writers near and far and in-between!
The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry.......!

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) 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.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Giant Squid Comes To San Diego

Today's post is dedicated to our friends from the deep,
the giant squid, who have left Davey Jones' locker
to visit San Diego. Unfortunately,
I could find no poems about squid/calamari.
Any ideas?

HOOK
—Erica Jong

Nights we spend apart
I am at the bottom of a lake
with my loneliness.
Even a fishhook
would taste good.
I throw myself a line.
I write.

Night terrors come back.
I am four.
There is a man under the bed
who holds his breath
so I will think he's dead.
I know he's cheating
& I hold mine too.
We wait each other out.

Last gasp.
The water fills my lungs.
WOMAN KILLED BY DROWNING IN HER DREAMS.

At the bottom of the world
where books dissolve,
when pencils turn to salt,
where Venice sinks
under the weight
of stolen gold,
the blind fish bump me
& I turn to them.

I speak their silent thoughts
before I sleep.

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This week in Norcal poetry:

•••Monday (7/20), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents MC Sho’Nuff and Jenilynn with Litany. See last Friday's post for bios. NOTE NEW LOCATION: HQ for the Arts at 1719 25th St., Sacramento. [Due to a new policy about using the electrical outlets at Fremont Park, this event has been moved to HQ for the Arts.] Admission: FREE (though donations are encouraged). Rebecca Morrison will be on hand to host, as well as share stories from her recent trip to France.

•••Tues. (7/21), 6:30 PM: Third Tuesday Poetry Series at The Barkin’ Dog Grill, 940 11th St., Modesto presents MeterMaids, followed by an open mic. Info: Gillian Wegener at wegenerspage@yahoo.com/. Come early to eat dinner!

•••Weds. (7/22), 6-7 PM: Upstairs Poetry Reading at The Upstairs Art Gallery, 420 Main St (2nd floor), Placerville. It's a poetry open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen. No charge.

•••Thurs. (7/23), 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sacramento) presents Phillip T. Nails, Robert Grossklaus, Julie Valin. Open mic before and after.

•••Sat. (7/25), 7-9 PM: TheShowPoetrySeries with live band LSB, vocalist Zionista plus poets Nate Hall, Alphonso Flowers, Nikki Brock and open mic. Wo'se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sacramento (off 35th & Broadway). $5.00. Info: 916 208-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com/.

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THREE
—Erica Jong

The best lovers
think constantly of death.
It keeps them honest.
It causes them to make love all night,
avoiding sleep.

We made love all night—
we three.
You & me
& that death's head
which slept between us.
The third impression on our pillow
was death itself—
& I smoothed back your mustache
in the direction from which
it had grown.

All night you drank from me.
The light was bone white,
moon white, white as gravestones.
The sheets were limestone,
the blankets marble shrouds
& in the morning
we lay there quite as numb
as a sarcophagus king
& queen.

What a loving corpse you were!
I have known living men
to be much, much colder.
Being dead,
we needed so much heat—
that we rubbed each other's flints
& made blue sparks.

I think how valiantly we fought off sleep,
& of your skin
like worn-down marble.

I think especially of your gentleness.
Death also can be thanked
for that.

_________________

FOR A MARRIAGE
—Erica Jong

(seven years old, just beginning):

After we had torn out
each other's ribs
& put them back—

after we had juggled thigh bones
& knee caps,
& tossed each other's skulls at friends,

after we had sucked
each other's blood
& spat it out,

after we had sucked
each other's blood
& swallowed it
licking our lips‚

after the betrayals
& imagined betrayals—

after you left me in the snow
& I left you in the rain
& we both came back—

after staying together
out of lust
& out of fear
& out of laziness—

we find ourselves
entangled in each other's arms,
grown into each other
like Siamese twins,
embedded in each other
like ingrown toenails,

& for the first time
wanting each other
only.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

This world has its pants on backwards. Most carry their values and knowledge in a jug that has a big hole in it.

—Kabir (translated by Daniel Ladinsky)

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—Medusa