Medusa's Kitchen

Sunday, October 25, 2009

The Kiss Of Golden Sunlight

Sunrise
Painting by Claude Monet

THE GOLDEN MOMENT
—Ronald Edwin Lane, Weimar

I’m driving to work.
Behind me the sky is peach and red,
Up ahead a dim cool blue.
Trees stand in silhouette.
Tail lights stare like eyes, red.
My own eyes dry.
Orange intensifies in the sunrise.
Between east and west the sky glows silver.
I’m getting more and more of that in my hair,
I grow older like the sunrise.
The clouds in the silver sky are
Pastel shades of purple and lighter shades of sunrise,
Brighter on their sides that greet the day.
Life steps from silhouette.
The kiss of golden sunlight has
Yet to mark this day.
There’s something special about that first touch.
The clouds are touched.
That’s why they’re so pretty,
Why they glow while the rest of us wait—dim.
In that way they’re like you.

I’m hungry.
Some of the clouds now white as day
But still I drive in gray.
Those clouds that hug the mountains
Block the sun.
It’s after 6:30 A.M.
It seems as though the sun
Should have touched the land by now.

That first touch is special.
You can almost hear the leaves sing
In anticipation.
Any second now,
It’s on the verge.
Overhead stratus clouds turn to angel’s wings.
The blackbirds on the sign face east
Bob their heads.
On a tree a crow cries. “Come on, hurry up, rise!”
The sun slides up.
It’s red.
Like your lips.
And soon it will rise above the mist.
Such anticipation
In waiting for this kiss.
But it’s inevitable—the world turns.

__________________

—Medusa

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Wind & The City

Photo by Ann Privateer

WIND LIVES HERE
—Ann Privateer, Davis

Even when it’s calm,
evidence of howling
through trees persists,
tops blown sideways
against a mountain
backdrop. Everything
holds on while sea oats
bend and whistle, limbs
arch toward heaven's morn,
a power driving apex force
fills night's aperture with delight.

Raccoons hide, glad to be alive,
roll onto stomach then onto back,
they kick away constrictions
free, to be the breeze.

__________________

Thanks to Ann Privateer for the poem and photo! Another Ann, Ann Wehrman, who has sent us some riffs on our SOW: Songs of The City, writes: When I saw D.R. Wagner's photograph on Medusa last week, I immediately thought of "Change of Climate"; that cave photo could be an illustration for my poem! "Change of Climate" is about a very small town, Blue Mound, Illinois, and a much larger city, Evanston, Illinois and how I felt living in first one, then the other as a youngster.

CHANGE OF CLIMATE
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

I stood on the broad, shingled rooftop
spread like an awning over our sprawling, rented Victorian
surveyed Indian burial mounds, ancient tulip trees,
farmer’s hamlet, five hundred strong,
encircled by vast, mid-Illinois farmland,
where Dad steadied me on a bike with training wheels.
I spied upon the entire block
from my perch in the wide maple on the corner,
kindergarten was fifteen kids in the one-room library
and a Maypole dance in spring.
Summer nights we sang
She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain
and rocked in the porch swing,
adults cradling martinis and orange-tipped cigarettes.

In my dream, I poised, back again on that Blue Mound rooftop,
then it all changed—
through a death tunnel cavern,
walls dripping
varicolored stalactites of ice,
I flew forward, barreled faster and faster—
cave walls a kaleidoscope of ice moon glow
purple, aqua, fuchsia
colder and colder—
then jerked awake, rigid, shivering, numb.
Sleeping out on our new, screened-in back porch,
I tasted Evanston winters to come,
besieged by snow-filled winds
screaming in off Lake Michigan.

__________________

WHITE CASTLE
—Ann Wehrman

Heat clouds over spit-polished grills and bubbling fries. Tiny burgers steam next to tiny buns; soft meat and buns taste a little like chlorine, detergent, sanitizer. Child-size steel chairs and tables on posts bolted to the floor, cashiers in uniforms, bright neon, white walls, open 24 hours. Faces line up at the counter, peer over the tables—bundled in rags, cheap layers against snow; faces brown, black, exposure-beaten white; swollen noses red, broken veins, bloodshot eyes; teething babies, toothless hags eat and shelter in the glass and stainless cube. Outside: Chicago’s violence, despair. Inside: a seat, a wall against which to huddle. Outside: subzero night, seductive, flash-freezing flesh. Inside: sanctuary.

__________________

CITY BOY
—Ann Wehrman

On the divider at the center of six lanes,
he stands,
skateboard effortlessly trailing from his hand,
a taut, invisible ribbon running through him,
raising him to the sky.

I feel him soak up the power of vehicles that speed by,
imagining himself a car or a bus,
or flying in his own skin next to them,
just as strong.
Is he dead inside, a vacuum,
humming over and over the latest white boy’s rap
or Britney Spears ditty?

I want him to suffer the danger all around,
vibrate intensely in response,
to soar above the traffic’s strife,
and to use his power for good.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

ON WATCHING THE CONSTRUCTION
OF A SKYSCRAPER
—Burton Raffel

Nothing sings from these orange trees,
Rindless steel as smooth as sapling skin,
Except a crane's brief wheeze
And all the muffled, clanking din
Of rivets nosing in like bees.

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:

RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

RR23 is now available free at The Book Collector,
and contributor and subscription copies
have gone into the mail—you should've received yours;
let me know if you haven't.
You may also order a copy through rattlesnakepress.com/.
Deadline is November 15 for RR24: 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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!

NEW FOR OCTOBER:

Now available at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento:
A new chapbook from Brad Buchanan (The War Groom)
and a new Rattlesnake LittleBook from
William S. Gainer: Joining the Demented.

WTF!!: The third 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 send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Deadline for Issue #4 was Oct. 15;
it'll be released at Luna's on Thursday, Nov. 19.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 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/.)

Then gear up the flivver for a ROAD TRIP on Monday, Oct. 26 at 7:30 PM
as we all travel over to HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento
for Rattlesnake Press's release of the new SPC anthology,
Keepers of the Flame: The First 30 Years of the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Editor-in-Chief Mary Zeppa and her helpers have put together
many, many documents and photos
from SPC's history, and the resulting anthology (and SPC's 30th anniversary!)
will be celebrated that night. Be there!

COMING IN NOVEMBER:

Join us on Wednesday, November 11
for a new chapbook from Dawn DiBartolo (Secrets of a Violet Sky);
Rattlesnake Reprint #2, this one from frank andrick (Triptych);
plus our 2010 calendar from Katy Brown (Wind in the Yarrow)!
That's 7:30 PM at The Book Collector. Be there!

_________________

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.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Road Trip!

TRANSCONTINENT
—Donald Hall

Where the cities end, the
dumps grow the oil-can shacks
from Portland, Maine,

to Seattle. Broken
cars rust in Troy, New York,
and Cleveland Heights.

On the train, the people
eat candy bars, and watch,
or fall asleep.

When they look outside and
see cars and shacks, they know
they're nearly there.

___________________

We're nearly there! Fire up the flivver for a ROAD TRIP on Monday, Oct. 26 from 7:30-10 PM as we all travel over to HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento (in the California Stage complex at 25th and R) for Rattlesnake Press's release of the new SPC anthology, Keepers of the Flame: The First 30 Years of the Sacramento Poetry Center. By a delightful piece of serendipity, the celebration will take place on (by then Mayor Anne Rudin’s proclamation) Sacramento Poetry Day. Editor-in-Chief Mary Zeppa and her helpers (Emmanuel Sigauke, Kate Asche, Charlie McComish and Richard Hansen) have put together many, many documents and photos from SPC's history, and the resulting anthology (and SPC's 30th anniversary!) will be celebrated that night. Mary says:

Our goal is to give the reader a series of glimpses into the first 30 years of the Sacramento Poetry Center. Think of it as the in-print version of a highlight reel, brought to on-paper life by the remarkable generosity and amazing tech savvy of Photographer Charlie McComish and Graphic Designer Richard Hansen.

It’s going to be a festive night, a relaxed and celebratory gathering, light on formal presentation. The Editors plan to talk a little about SPC’s history and about the project. Contributors to Keepers (which includes an interview with Theresa Vinciguerra and brief essays by Julia Connor, MerryLee Croslin, Victoria Dalkey, Patrick Grizzell, Heather Hutcheson, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Bob Stanley and Stan Zumbiel), Publisher Kathy Kieth, Graphic Designer Richard Hansen and Photographer Charlie McComish have also been invited to join in the discussion.

Libations and light refreshments will be provided. And, in the spirit of the occasion, the walls of SPC will display a sampling of photos, posters and “artifacts” from the Center’s first 30 years.

Also note:

Theresa Vinciguerra, Patrick Grizzell and Mary Zeppa will also be interviewed by Jeffrey Callison on that morning’s (10/26) "Insight".

___________________

THE BLUE OF THE SKY
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

When looking up past trees
you wonder how the painted sky
remains so see-through blue.

You wonder how the painted sky
was painted, whether by brush
or splash of periwinkle tear.

Painted, whether by brush
of angel wings or stroke of
luck, or luck-of-Welsh blue.

Angel wings or stroke of
hand on the Eternal Clock
all play a part in how

the sky remains so see-through blue
with splash of periwinkle,
teardrop paint, and luck-of-Welsh.

Blue plays all the parts.

___________________

SOME THOUGHTS ON HORSE FACES
—Carol Louise Moon

Horse faces are larger than other faces. Let's
look at a horse face, but not up too close,
after all, these animals bite. Their nostrils
are too big. Their teeth are stones with
some kind of sauce. The moisture of their
nostrils is unseasonable, while the space
between their eyes is unreasonable.

While riding in Spain in the rain, remember
the reins. The reins fall mainly on the mane,
although partly on the upper back, as well.
Consider the backpack of a pack animal which
horses sometimes pack. The pack is almost as
large as its face.

Consider the little burro. Consider the long
and the short of it.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

DREAMS
—Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

__________________

—Medusa

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Good Is In The Wingspan

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

blatancy
—Dawn DiBartolo, Citrus Heights

say something pretty
about autumn?

amber, golden leaf-fall,
mahogany mixed…

adds spice.
hallowed pumpkins, and

ghoulish solicitations;
poetry written

to the steady drone
of rain. saying

goodbye to heat,
the blatant taunting

of the sun, as if
shine were all that mattered.

__________________

flip flops in the rain
—Dawn DiBartolo

rain…
changes everything.

sitting in my car,
at a stop light, window
streaked with tears from the sky,
the radio played some dance rhythm
outdone by the beat
of my windshield wipers
and the angry wind rocked
my car with the weight of
a large beast hell-bent
on destruction. gray
bore the burden of
Christmas, Thanksgiving
and Halloween just ahead,
looming in the thrash
of each tree branch.
the long-silent heater hissed
malcontent, stealing breath
from my lungs even as
cold from my limbs,
and i thought…

sleeves and winter boots hold
a lesser sexy confidence than
painted toes, sun dresses,
flesh and flip flops.

the light turned green,
and i drove on.

___________________

pianist
—Dawn DiBartolo

she plays piano.

and she’s good at it.
many have told her so;
and she believes them,
because she tries to do it well;
because she enjoys it;

believes in herself, and
WANTS to believe.

she also sings;
sometimes even dances…
beautifully, rhythmically;
to watch and hear
is to feel her.

she
passionately strokes
each piano key; sensually,
in pleasure and intent.
tho no one takes the time
for her beyond melody,
she sings anyway,
cuz her voice is steady,
strong even…

she can’t help it;
soul is in the song,
as a whole. and when
she moves, the sky grays,
not for rain, but
the very sweat of it all.

and then it’s somehow ok
if no one hears her whole song;
because the song
was meant for her.

_________________

scars and the grass
—Dawn DiBartolo

born in blackness,
some follow the moon.

others may choose
the warmth of a star

directly,
rather than reflection. regardless,

the grass will blame you…
for waves, for night,

for drought, for everything,
despite steady rotation.

choice is as prevalent as dirt;
nurturing, fundamental…

necessary, yet
we grow as we choose…

__________________

uncertain sorrow
—Dawn DiBartolo

they said it was suicide.
i say a man of heavy fist
likely strikes outward
prior to introspection.
in my memory,
the blood that flowed
was always someone else’s ~
i suppose that’s why a hanging ~
no blood, only tears shed
from those left behind.
speak no ill of the dead,
i know ~ not my intent, but
i am changed
for having known him.
he was there when my own father
was not; he taught me fear ~
a lesson father had begun,
then disappeared ~ broken bones,
split lips and blood on the lamp shade ~
no, never mine, but mother loved him anyway,
which crippled my faith
in the sovereignty of parenthood.
yes, he also taught me to drive,
bought my class ring,
and took us on road trips ~
i remember him
in more than fists, i’ll admit,
but the tears i can’t cry
are for the parts of me that died
over and over as a child
in his shadow of violence.
and as he dies, i weep inside
for all that was lost with him.

__________________

and so it goes
—Dawn DiBartolo

and so it goes

lost on moment’s edge,
and toppling toward bliss,

history is irrelevant
to the insanity of repetition.

let go and you know
bottom will find you;

scratch, cling at the cliff
and always wonder
what you missed.

iron forges iron,
and adversity shapes
the soul.

no worries in playing safe,
but you’ll never experience flight…

the unfathomable middle
reeks of self-defeat.

take the crow, for example:
all of evil connotation

with silken black feathers
and cavernous, blank eyes;

but it flies…
it flies.

alight upon what matters
for survival; good
is in the wingspan.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.

—Robert Frost

__________________

Thanks to Katy Brown and Dawn DiBartolo for today's post. Be sure to watch for Dawn's new chapbook, Secrets of a Violet Sky, and Katy's 2010 calendar, Wind in the Yarrow, both coming November 11 to The Book Collector.

—Medusa

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

CitySongs, II

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

CITYSONG
—SLiC, Sacramento

(to be read to the wailing of a didgeridoo)

Click shick!
the windblown flame of the battered Zippo
fills the doorway of the dark hotel;
My cigarette glows like the last log on the hearth.
I close my eyes—
my ears
are taken

Helicopter blades slice the night
circling like vultures,
they put guns to the city's head;
a motorcycle snarls
patrolling its territory; neon signs hum nonsense
about flickering dreams;

I try to focus on the smoke that
fills my lungs and burns like home.
a Volkswagen on its last leg;
a tow truck wanting to go home;
a fading street lamp buzzes
buzzes buzzes
loud in my ears—

but not louder than my brain
my buzzing screaming brain
I'm trying to set it on fire
another breath
set it on fire on fire fire

radiators boil over;
bats everywhere;
a lost brass horn;

the symphony is constant;
when I run to the back of my eyelids,
the city still sings—
dissonant, mad,
warm like blood;
every night like a final performance:
desperate and tense

a street sweeper moans and shuffles by

this cigarette is too small to hide behind
when it's burned out I'll
head to the diner, play some Elvis,
wait for the next high

___________________

Thanks, Stuart Livingston Canton! We're singing about the city this week, though Taylor Graham says: I didn't want to go to a city to be inspired, so fell back on one of Vitkovsky's weird paintings. Besides, with the anniversary of the Loma Prieta, I guess I've got earthquake on my mind. Mitz Sackman echoes TG's sentiments about country life, then Patricia Wellingham-Jones and Patricia Hickerson remember what we used to call The City—San Francisco (Baghdad by the Bay):

HORIZON AND BEYOND
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

See how skyline cuts through the girth
of houses, cinder-block and mortar, horizon
that calls for an angel

on earthquake wings. Inhale
the afterscent of smog pressing earth. Air
expressed from lungs. Who could sing

under the weight of so much sky?
On the ground, under the threat of wings
a man with a guitar is playing

as if the angel dispensed dreams in his sleep.
Jackstraw timbers and beams.
This morning the earth woke him shaking.

Did he dream that memory, or
did he wake remembering how sky over city
shatters to let heaven through?

___________________

CITY SONG REMEMBERED
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

I have been so long in the forest
I can barely remember the song
The sounds, the rhythm, the heartbeat
Of city streets
Visiting New York City a couple of years back
Renewed memories
Steep stairwells with echoing voices and footsteps
Conversations in the bar below
Flashing neon lights, no stars above
Sirens yowling 24/7
A pace that no longer suits my country soul

___________________

ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSTORE NEAR UNION SQUARE
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

My nose rubs a pattern
of drips and longing
against a window pane frosted
by raincoat-covered breath.

Inside paradise an old man putters,
wrinkled in clothing, gray in skin,
his is the dream
creating my vision.

Room a white shoebox
striped floor to ceiling
in shelves. Fragile spines
march to rafters.

From the narrow back wall,
over doors and meager window,
volumes' muted voices
whisper under the door.

Two cracked leather chairs,
scrap of Persian carpet,
small desk frowning
at frivolity.

White light from a crystal center
probes the saturated night.
Core unguarded, helpless—
possessed.

Weeks later, miles away, I yearn
to throw pallet on Persian,
oust the bookworm in possession,
bring French bread, wine and beans

and simply stay.

___________________

HIGH TIMES ON FILLMORE STREET 1968
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

poor Bobby had a bullet in his thigh
he wouldn’t tell me who had put it there
we lit up joints to reach a mellow high
then danced till dawn and scarcely had a care

he wouldn’t tell me who had put it there
his girlfriend’s flat was soon filled up with folks
we danced till dawn and scarcely had a care
we never had a shortage of shared tokes

his girlfriend’s flat was soon filled up with folks
I hoped this night would never have an end
we never had a shortage of shared tokes
to leave at dawn would on a cab depend

I hoped this night would never have an end
but Clarence had the money so we left
to leave at dawn would on a cab depend
I mourned for Bobby; and I felt bereft

but Clarence had the money so we left
poor Bobby had a bullet in his thigh
I mourned for Bobby, and I felt bereft
we shared a final joint and said goodbye

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

Two peanuts walk into a bar, and one was a salted.

—Anonymous

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:

RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

RR23 is now available free at The Book Collector,
and contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail by the end of this week.
You may also order a copy through rattlesnakepress.com/.
Deadline is November 15 for RR24: 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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!

NEW FOR OCTOBER:

Now available at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento:
A new chapbook from Brad Buchanan (The War Groom)
and a new Rattlesnake LittleBook from
William S. Gainer: Joining the Demented.

WTF!!: The third 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 send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Deadline for Issue #4 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/.)

Then gear up the flivver for a ROAD TRIP on Monday, Oct. 26 at 7:30 PM
as we all travel over to HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento
for Rattlesnake Press's release of the new SPC anthology,
Keepers of the Flame: The First 30 Years of the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Editor-in-Chief Mary Zeppa and her helpers have put together
many, many documents and photos
from SPC's history, and the resulting anthology (and SPC's 30th anniversary!)
will be celebrated that night. Be there!

COMING IN NOVEMBER:

Join us on Wednesday, November 11
for a new chapbook from dawn di bartolo (Secrets of a Violet Sky);
Rattlesnake Reprint #2, this one from frank andrick (Triptych);
plus our 2010 calendar from Katy Brown (Wind in the Yarrow)!
That's 7:30 PM at The Book Collector. Be there!

_________________

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.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Songs Of The City

Photo by Bob Dreizler, Sacramento

GOD MUST BE CHLORINE GAS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

God must be chlorine gas.
On Niagara Falls Boulevard at 1:00 AM
The red lights went on. All cars
Stopped. The air became green with
Chlorine gas as it vented
Into the air of Niagara Falls.

Five minutes of clouds full.
Dreams of death in its many forms
Caught in headlights and a view.

A road stretching toward
The Falls covered in green gas.
Klaxons blaring danger.
A line of cars watching this
Terror blow into our very
Air. There was no escape.

Eventually the traffic light
Changed to green itself and
Suddenly it was safe to proceed
Through Klieg lights on ghost figures
Closing valves against any future.

__________________

Thanks, Bob, for the urbane urban photo, and D.R. for the unsettling song of his original city, Niagara Falls. Our Seed of the Week is Songs of the City. Send 'em to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. Herewith are some more possible inspirations, plus Richard Zimmer's "Campaign Promises" to round out last week's SOW.

FOUR SONGS OF THE CITY
—Charles Reznikoff

1

Showing a torn sleeve, with stiff and shaking fingers the old man
pulls off a bit of the baked apple, shiny with sugar,
eating with reverence food, the great comforter.

2

In steel clouds
to the sound of thunder
like the ancient gods:
our sky, cement;
our earth, cement;
our trees, steel;
instead of sunshine,
a light that has no twilight,
neither morning nor evening,
only noon.

Coming up the subway stairs, I thought the moon
only another street-light—
a little crooked.

3

If there is a scheme,
perhaps this too is in the scheme,
as when a subway car turns on a switch,
the wheels screeching against the rails,
and the lights go out—
but are on again in a moment.

4

What are you doing in our street among the automobiles, horse?
How are your cousins, the centaur and the unicorn?

___________________

NATIONAL COLD STORAGE COMPANY
—Harvey Shapiro

The National Cold Storage Company contains
More things than you can dream of.
Hard by the Brooklyn Bridge it stands
In a litter of freight cars,
Tugs to one side; the other, the traffic
Of the Long Island Expressway.
I myself have dropped into it in seven years
Midnight tossings, plans for escape, the shakes.
Add this to the national total—
Grant's tomb, the Civil War, Arlington,
The young President dead.
Above the warehouse and beneath the stars
The poets creep on the harp of the Bridge.
But see,
They fall into the National Cold Storage Company
One by one. The wind off the river is too cold,
Or the times too rough, or the Bridge
Is not a harp at all. Or maybe
A monstrous birth inside the warehouse
Must be fed by everything—ships, poems,
Stars, all the years of our lives.

___________________

CAMPAIGN PROMISES
OF AN ULTRA-CONSERVATIVE
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Birth Control:
All citizens must multiply or be subtracted.

Postal Service:
You’ll get mail when we feel like it.

Death Penalty:
No electric chair, we’ll just work you to death.

Health Care:
I don’t care about your health.

Jobs:
Work for free, or be shot.

Taxes:
You’ll have no income to tax.

Education:
Citizens must outscore a dead crow on I.Q. tests.

Death Benefits:
You’ll be glad to die.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

Most writers enjoy two periods of happiness—when a glorious idea comes to mind and, secondly, when a last page has been written and you haven't had time to know how much better it ought to be.

—J.B. Priestley

__________________

—Medusa

Monday, October 19, 2009

Nights Of Cloud Dancing

Cave
Photo by D.R. Wagner, Sacramento

CHOOSING SIDES
—Chrys Mollett, Angels Camp

Ransacking history for clues
About which foot to stand on—
But the platform's made of recycled moral fiber.

What makes an honorable, effective leader
in these times?
What historical leader still looks good to us today?
Who died first?
Who won before dying?

There are so many dragons out there.
So many things need mending, deserve reform—
And every cause needs money Right Now.

Disarm! (The cost is too high.)
Go in there and get them! (Cost what it may.)
Those evil bastards beyond our borders
Are teeming, restless, relentless,
And more organized than we gave them credit for.

One side wins on compassion.
The other stands on caution.
But the pot itself is melting.
And nothing stays in fashion for long...
Except a kernel of wisdom
That may somehow elude deception and disaster.

__________________

POLITICAL PULL
—Dewell H. Byrd, Eureka

When you reach
to shake my hand
why do you:
Say VOTE VOTE VOTE
For ME ME ME,
Look over my shoulder,
Pull me forward,
Shake my hand,
Push me away.
Then reach for another hand?

Are you afraid
I'll ask why,
give an opinion,
or have shallow pockets?

I find your political pull
to be disdainful, disrespectful.
So, I'll just vote
for ME ME ME!

__________________

This week in NorCal poetry:

•••Monday (10/19), 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Brian Teare and Kate Greenstreet at HQ for the Arts, 1719 25th St., Sacramento. [See last Friday's post for bios.]

Coming next Monday (Oct. 26), 7:30 PM: SPC's 30th birthday party, with Rattlesnake Press's release of the new SPC anthology, Keepers of the Flame: The First 30 Years of the Sacramento Poetry Center, Mary Zeppa, Editor-in-Chief.

•••Tuesdays, 7:30 PM: Sacramento Poetry Center Workshop at the Hart Center, 27th & J Sts., Sacramento. Free; bring 13 copies of your one-page poem to be read/critiqued. Info: Danyen Powell at 530-756-6228.

•••Wednesdays, 9 PM: Mahogany Urban Poetry Series at Queen Sheba's Restaurant, 1704 Broadway (17th and Broadway), Sacramento. $5 cover, all ages.

•••Wednesdays, 5 PM: Dr. Andy’s Technology and Poetry Hour, KDVS radio station (90.3 FM) or http://www/kdvs.org/.

•••Wed. (10/21 and every 1st and 3rd Weds.), 9 PM: Featured reader plus open mic at 10 PM at Bistro 33, 3rd and F Sts. in Davis. Free. Hosted by Andy Jones and Brad Henderson. Info: http://poetryindavis.blogspot.com/ or 530-756-4556 or aojones@ucdavis.edu/; schedule at http://www.bistro33.com/bistro33/.

•••Wed. (8/19, and every 3rd Weds.), 7:30 PM: Our House Art Gallery Poetry Night. Sign up for open mic by 7 PM. Located at 1004 White Rock Rd., Suite 400 (corner of Latrobe & White Rock Rds. in the Montano El Dorado Shopping Center), El Dorado Hills. Free. Info: http://ourhousegallery.com/ or 916-933-4278.

•••Thurs. (10/22), 4-5 PM: CSUS creative writing students read their work in "The Collective Reading Series" in the Library Gallery. Info: Host Joe Montalbo at crsatcsus@yahoo.com/. Save the following dates for other readings by these students:
Thurs. (11/5), 4-5pm: Library Gallery
Tues. (11/17), 4-5pm: Multicultural Center (across from the Library entrance)
Tues. (12/1), 4-5pm: Multicultural Center (across from the Library entrance)

•••Thursdays, 8 PM: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sacramento. Featured readers, with open mic before and after.

•••Thursdays, 7 PM: “Life Sentence” reading at The Coffee Garden, 2904 Franklin Blvd., Sacramento. Open mic.

•••Thursdays, 10-11 AM (replayed Sundays 10-11 AM): Mountain Mama’s Earth Music with Nancy Bodily on 95.7 FM. Music/poetry woven around a central theme deeply tied to mountains/earth.

•••Sat. (9/12 and every 2nd and 4th Sat.), 10-11:30 AM: Sacramento Poetry Center 2nd and 4th Sat. workshop with Emmanuel Sigauke and Frank Dixon Graham. South Natomas Community Center (next door to S. Natomas Library), 2921 Truxel Rd., Sacramento. Bring ten copies of your one-page poem to read/critique. Info: grahampoet@aol.com/.

__________________

A FAREWELL TO A SOUTHERN MELODY
—Huang O (1498-1569)

The day will come when I will
Share once more the quilts
And pillows I am storing
Away. Once more I will shyly
Let you undress me and gently
Unlock my sealed jewel.
I can never describe the
Ten thousand beautiful sensual
Ways we will make love.

(translated from the Chinese by
Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung)

__________________

TO THE TUNE "A FLOATING CLOUD
CROSSES ENCHANTED MOUNTAIN"
—Huang O

Every morning I get up
Beautiful as the Goddess
Of Love in Enchanted Mountain.
Every night I go to bed
Seductive as Yang Kuei-fei,
The imperial concubine.
My slender waist and thighs
Are exhausted and weak
From a night of cloud dancing.
But my eyes are still lewd,
And my cheeks are flushed.
My old wet nurse combs
My cloud-like hair.
My lover, fragrant as incense,
Adjusts my jade hairpins, and
Draws on my silk stockings
Over my feet and legs
Perfumed with orchids;
And once again we fall over
Overwhelmed with passion.

(translated by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung)

__________________

THE NEGLECTED WIFE
—Yi Talch'ung (c. 1385)

One moon of joy I knew,
And in the waning radiance of that moon
I gave you a folding fan.

Your love was lighter than the fragrant wind
Stirred by these sticks of carven sandalwood.

The moon sank down behind the city wall.
How bitter was the wine we drank at dawn!

Soon came the whisper of a silken skirt.
Soon came the perfume of a jasmine flower.
Swiftly for you there rose another moon.

You new wife's face is like a jasmine petal
And like a fallen petal it will fade
After the moon goes down.

I think you do not know how cruel you are.
But why was your parting gift to me
Another folding fan?

(translated by Jean S. Grigsby)

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

The charcoal kiln—
A deer watches
The evening smoke

—Hayano Hajin

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:

RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

RR23 is now available free at The Book Collector,
and contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail in the next two weeks.
You may also order a copy through rattlesnakepress.com/.
Deadline is November 15 for RR24: 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 (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!

NEW FOR OCTOBER:

Now available at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento:
A new chapbook from Brad Buchanan (The War Groom)
and a new Rattlesnake LittleBook from
William S. Gainer: Joining the Demented.

WTF!!: The third 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 send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Deadline for Issue #4 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/.)

Then gear up the flivver for a ROAD TRIP on Monday, Oct. 26 at 7:30 PM
as we all travel over to HQ for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento
for Rattlesnake Press's release of the new SPC anthology,
Keepers of the Flame: The First 30 Years of the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Editor-in-Chief Mary Zeppa and her helpers have put together
many, many documents and photos
from SPC's history, and the resulting anthology (and SPC's 30th anniversary!)
will be celebrated that night. Be there!

COMING IN NOVEMBER:

Join us on Wednesday, November 11
for a new chapbook from dawn di bartolo (Secrets of a Violet Sky);
Rattlesnake Reprint #2, this one from frank andrick (Triptych);
plus our 2010 calendar from Katy Brown (Wind in the Yarrow)!
That's 7:30 PM at The Book Collector. Be there!

_________________

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.