Monday, May 24, 2010

It's All Just a Marx Brothers' Movie, Anyhow...


Paul Fericano


GROUCHO MARX THROWS OUT THE FIRST PITCH
—Paul Fericano, Millbrae

As the familiar strains of Tosca repeat themselves tonight,
take a bicarbonate of soda and skip the first act entirely.
If you can’t skip, try prancing.

All in all, we feel certain you’lll be thrilled and delighted
by Puccini’s music, which should come as surprise
since we’re actually presenting Verdi’s La traviata instead.

Of course, for the second act we hope to revive Rossini
if we can sober him up and find out what he did with Mussorgsky.
We tried to locate Handel but all we found was a brass doorknocker.

And if Rossini can’t play we’ve got Donizetti ondeck to pinch hit,
although it isn’t likely he’ll get on base
with Tinkers, Evers and Chance roaming the orchestra pit.

Nevertheless, we feel we’ve got a strong lineup
with Stravinsky on the mound, Offenbach and Bizet in the outfield
and Wagner batting cleanup and doing the dishes.

In fact, we’ve got a good chance to win the pennant this year
if we can just stay away from the third act. Naturally, it would have been
a different opera season altogether if we could have signed DiMaggio.


(From “Heavy Bear,” February, 2010)


___________________

Thanks, Paul! Paul Fericano was born in San Franciso in 1951 and is a part-time resident of both San Francisco and Santa Barbara. He is a poet, writer, satirist and co-founder in 1980 of the first parody news syndicate, Yossarian Universal News Service (www.yunews.com). His work has appeared in numerous publications and media outlets, including The New York Quarterly, Poetry Now, Abbey, The Realist, Free Lunch, The Wormwood Review, Vagabond, Mother Jones, Punch, Krokodil (Moscow) and National Public Radio and Saturday Night Live. He is the author of several poetry books and chapbooks, among them: Beneath the Smoke Rings, Driving to Reno with Freud, It’s Not Enough of Elvis, and Commercial Break. He is also the co-author (with Elio Ligi) of the political satire, The One Minute President.

In 1977 he founded the mock literary movement known as Stoogism which Allen Ginsberg duly noted was “the only movement with a punchline.” The following year his poem, "The Three Stooges at a Hollywood Party" (from his book, Loading the Revolver with Real Bullets, Second Coming Press) provoked outrage in the California senate when politicans argued that the poem libeled actors John Wayne, Stuart Whitman and Glen Campbell. The book was eventually used as a reason to deny Jane Fonda's appointment to the California Arts Council.

In 1982, as a commentary on the absurdity of competitive literary awards, he perpetrated a successful hoax on the literary community, specifically Poets & Writers, Inc. of New York, when he awarded the fictitious “Howitzer Prize” to his own poem, "Sinatra, Sinatra". Before exposing the hoax himself, nearly 300 writers and publishers would request applications for the 1983 prize from the bogus Howitzer Prize Committee in Sausalito, California. He was eventually (and quietly) blacklisted by several prominent poetry organizations, prompting the late Charles Bukowski to call the Howitzer Prize episode “truly ass boggling.”

Recent work has been rejected by The New Yorker, Ploughshares, The Atlantic Monthly, Prairie Schooner, and The Journal of the American Medical Association. His poem "A Direct Correlation Between the War on Terror and the Proliferation of Penis Enlargement Spam" is scheduled for rejection this fall by Poetry. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize 56 consecutive times, tying Joe DiMaggio's record. One more nomination will help secure a lucrative endorsement with Heinz 57. He is a frequent reader, appearing at various venues throughout the state of California.

He is currently the editor of The Broadsider: An Annual Magazine of Rescued Poems (yunews.com/broadsider.html), formatted in individual, limited edition, numbered and signed broadsides, featuring over 50 poets to date. Some of the poets in the series include Ann Menebroker, Gerald Locklin, Wanda Coleman, Dan Gerber, leah angstman, Angelica Jochim, Ted Kooser, Penelope Rosemont, Edward Field, Laurel Speer, Joyce Odam, Ron Koertge, Ligi, Perie Longo, Ellen Bass, Robert Bly, Patricia Schneider, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Billy Collins, Klipschutz, A.D. Winans, Robert Peake, Peg Quinn, Joyce La Mers and B. L. Kennedy. About The Broadsider, Paul says: I’ve always had my favorite poems, bookmarked from hundreds of little magazines and small press books in my collections. These are poems from poets I’ve loved and followed for years and corresponded with, and also from a few I’ve lost track of. The idea behind The Broadsider, then, was to do something special with these poems and I found the limited edition broadside was a nice way to honor the poems and the poets. It’s also been a great way to reconnect with poets, both familiar and not-so, and for them to connect with others. I’ve also discovered newer, younger poets that are deserving of some extra attention and it’s been interesting going online and exploring webzines and blogs. One poet in Volume 1 told me that she was treating her broadside like a “trading card,” writing to other poets in the series and asking to swap one of hers for theirs. It’s this kind of fun and playfulness with poetry that I like and encourage. At the end of the year I assemble each volume of The Broadsider into a limited number of sealed issues and offer all the signed broadsides for sale in one package. It adds a little more value and helps finance the next volume.

__________________

CHICO MARX EXPLAINS OPERA
—Paul Fericano

Sure, I listen to opera.
I watch opera all the time on TV.
She’s got a magazine, too.
But I don’t read so good.


(From “Heavy Bear,” 2010)

__________________

A new series of booklets has mysteriously appeared at The Book Collector…

Next time you’re in The Book Collector, be sure to pick up your free copies of the new CrftWrk series, which is “intended to offer a forum for local poets to express their ideas on poetry and poetics”. The series claims no publisher—and #1, Sacramanifesto, was written anonymously, in fact—but its presenters “hope you will take a personal tone, will get mad, will argue, will fight, will do whatever it takes to stir up Sacramento poetry, in order to make it more interesting, more new, more exciting, more… more whatever it needs to be less predictable, less boring, less in-a-rut. Submit your screeds, counter-manifestos, arguments, rants, calm rational argument: whatever you have to say that will help save Sacramento poetry from its present doldrums—we’ve got plenty of poets here, what we need are better (or worse) poems. All CrftWrk publications will be anonymous, unless the authors choose otherwise.”

So far, publications include #1: Sacramanifesto, Or, Why I Don’t Go to Sacramento Poetry Readings Much Anymore; and #2: A Plea for Vision and a New Romanticism in Poetry by Julia Connor. There is no indication of who to submit your writings to, but I’m sure Richard Hansen has the ear of the Mysterious Beings who are behind it all. Check it out!


This week in NorCal poetry:

•••Mon. (5/24), 7:30pm: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Christopher Buckley and C.E. Chaffin at R25, 1719 25th St. (at 25th and R), Sacramento. [See the b-bd at the right for more.]

•••Weds. (5/26), 6-7pm: 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.

•••Weds. (5/26), 7-9pm: International Poetic Affair. Free. Open Mic. Social/Business Networking. Hosted by Brock KaLiM. At the Majestic Lounge, 2355 Arden Way, Sacramento.

•••Thurs. (5/27), 8pm: Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sacramento. Featured readers with open mic before and after.

•••Thurs. (5/27), 11:30am-1pm: California Lawyers for the Arts presents How to Self-Publish Your Book at The Avid Reader at the Tower, 1600 Broadway, Sacramento. Please register online at www.calawyersforthearts.org or call (916) 442-6210. Admission: $5 student/senior members, $10 members of CLA, $20 other. (1.5 MCLE credits $40) Learn how to self-publish your book in the age of Kindles, iPads, Nooks and Sony eReaders. This workshop explains the self-publishing timeline from idea to finished book. Whether you plan on printing, binding and distributing a physical book or publishing an eBook , this presentation shows you how to avoid the many legal and business pitfalls of do-it-yourself book publishing. Presented by Bob Pimm, a literary attorney, and C.L.A.'s Chief Learning Officer and Director of Legal Services. Hosted by The Avid Reader (www.avidreaderbooks.com/). This program is made possible in part by the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission Cultural Arts Award, The County of Sacramento, our sponsors and members of California Lawyers for the Arts. The opinions expressed in any of our events and programs shall not be construed to represent the opinions and policies of California Lawyers for the Arts. California Lawyers for the Arts is a non-profit service organization that provides lawyer referrals, dispute resolution services, educational programs, publications and resource library to artists of all disciplines and arts organizations. New members welcome.

•••Sat. (5/29), 7-9pm: Neo-Soul vocalist Kevin Sandbloom from L.A. and The Saint from Stockton (2010 King of the Mic & ILL List Spoken Word Champ) will be featured at The Show at New Dimension (formerly known as the Wo'se Community Center), 2863 35th St. (off 35th and Broadway, across from the parking lot). For vendor or event info, call T. Mo at (916) 208-POET. The Show is every last Saturday of the month. $5.


(For a more complete listing of NorCal poetry events and workshops, go to eskimopie.net)

___________________

HOLY COW IT'S MOSES
—Paul Fericano

not really

it’s just your strong
American memory
of all things Charlton Heston
commanding a reverent hush
in your Hollywood dream

listen:
one nation under God
indivisible like the Red Sea


(From “Commercial Break", Poor Souls Press, 1982)

__________________

THANK YOU ELIZABETH TAYLOR

for surviving the Hollywood
under your nails
all those Eddie Fisher records
skipping in your head
the Richard Burton years
echoing in your best screams
the uncorked bottles
the pills by the nightstand
the excessive weight
the plastic surgery
the heavy makeup
the chicken bone in your throat
thank you for not dying
for not being destroyed
by those two Oscars
a comedian’s joke
your husband’s campaign lies
and for telling the world
that Lawrence Harvey
was your dearest friend
when nobody else could stand him

thank you for making distinctions
for not committing suicide
when everyone was writing poems
to a dead Marilyn Monroe


—Paul Fericano

(From “Commercial Break”, Poor Souls Press, 1982)

__________________

THE ATHEIST IN THE HOTEL ROOM

found a bible in every drawer
several in the closet
two in the bathroom
and one under his pillow

when he saw the crucifix
nailed to the ceiling
he just assumed that
someone knew he was coming


—Paul Fericano

(From “Commercial Break”, Poor Souls Press, 1982)


__________________

THE ART OF QUOTING HARPO MARX
—Paul Fericano

Like right speech, it should be practiced with restraint,
usually, when you don’t have anything helpful to say,
about children, opera, or anything else for that matter.
And besides, no one asked for your opinion, anyway.


(From “Heavy Bear,” February, 2010)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down I was convulsed with laughter. Someday I intend reading it.

—Groucho Marx, on S.J. Perelman's first book

__________________

—Medusa




Sunday, May 23, 2010

Still, The Effort is Joy



UNFOLD YOUR OWN MYTH
—Rumi

Who gets up early to discover the moment light begins?
Who finds us here circling, bewildered, like atoms?
Who comes to a spring thirsty
and sees the moon reflected in it?
Who, like Jacob blind with grief and age,
smells the shirt of his lost son
and can see again?
Who lets a bucket down and brings up
a flowing prophet?
Or like Moses goes for fire
and finds what burns inside the sunrise?

Jesus slips into a house to escape enemies,
and opens a door to the other world.
Solomon cuts open a fish, and there's a gold ring.
Omar storms in to kill the prophet
and leaves with blessings.
Chase a deer and end up everywhere!
An oyster opens his mouth to swallow one drop.
Now there's a pearl.

Muhammad said, A faithful believer is a good camel,
always looking to its master, who takes perfect care.
He brands the flank.
He sets out hay.
He binds the knees with reasonable rules,
and now he loosens all bindings and lets his camel dance,
tearing the bridle and ripping the blankets.

The field itself sprouts new forms,
while the camel dances over them, imaginary
plants no one has thought of,
but all these new seeds, no matter how they try,
do not reveal the other sun.
They hide it.
Still, the effort is joy,
one by one to keep uncovering
pearls in oyster shells.


(translated from the Urdu by Coleman Barks, with John Moyne)

___________________

—Medusa


Saturday, May 22, 2010

Promoting World Peace Thru Cinquains


Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz


WHEN I RETIRE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Growing up in the city
everything is sausage:
lots of processing of
who knows what
raw ingredients
until somewhere downstream
a product is certified, stamped,
packaged, labeled,
and offered for sale.

Wheat bread,
whole, cracked, or otherwise,
is just so much sausage.
On cattle, the brand is
one of the smaller images,
while on a loaf of bread in
the supermarket,
the brand is the whole thing.
Either way we’re getting bull.

When I retire,
I’m going to visit a field of wheat.
Real wheat,
not just the word on a plastic wrapper.

I want my 5 senses to experience wheat:
to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste
what wheat really is
before it is processed
into a cereal grain
and marginalized into tiny print
alongside dozens of other ingredients.

If only they held wheat tasting tours
like they do for wine…

_________________

Thanks, Carl! Carl Schwartz has recently been on a cinquain binge; this happened to one of our poets once before—I believe Mitz Sackman of Murphys was the victim that time. Carl discovered the various types of cinquains, too, and merged them into one poem (see below.) He says, Cinquains are not only great fun, but they help promote world peace because you're not hurting anybody.

You don't have to climb onto the cinquain for inspiration though. Try one of the many festivals that are braving the rain this weekend for sights and sounds and subjects a-plenty (and take your camera!). Or scroll down to Calliope and rummage around in her closet; there are some new duds there to try on, just for fun...

Some workshops coming up, too:


Bob Stanley’s Summer of 2010 Poetry Workshops

Sacramento Poet Laureate Bob Stanley writes: For the last 25 years, I’ve been leading poetry workshops, but this year, thanks to the Sacramento Poetry Center, and a grant from the Sacramento Regional Community Foundation’s Advancing Arts program, I will be leading groups all over the county! Sign up for a series, or, if that doesn’t work, drop in when you can—I’m hoping you can join one of the groups. Summer is a great time to get back to work on your poetry! Here’s my schedule for Summer 2010; please contact me if you have any questions! Note: For the library workshops, you can let me know, but I think you also need to contact the library coordinator at 264-2920.

Also, after years of thinking about it, I have a fledgling website, which has all this same information, and more. You can find it at bobstanleypoetry.wordpress.com/. Thanks to Lawrence Dinkins of MyWordOut for his assistance with the website! [Note: As Sac PL, Bob has a permanent spot on Medusa's b-bd at the right. Scroll down to find Bob in the weeds and follow the instructions to all his various web "locations". His email is bobstanley@sbcglobal.net to sign up for workshops.]

Bob's Workshop Schedule:

May 27-July 30
Rancho Cordova Library
Ten Thursday nights, 6-7:30pm, Free
May 27, June 3, 10, 17, 24, July 1, 8, 15, 22, 29

June 29-Aug 17
Southgate Library
Six Tuesday nights, 6-7:30pm, Free
June 29, July 6, 20, 27, August 10, 17

Sept 14-Nov 2
Valley Hi/Laguna Library
Eight Tuesday nights, 6-7:30pm, Free
Sept 14, 21, 28, Oct 5, 12, 19, 26, Nov 2

June 2-July 28
Sacramento Poetry Center
Wednesday afternoons, 12-2 pm, $20 per session
June 2, 9, 16, 30, July 7, 14, 21, 28

June 16-Sept 8
Sacramento Poetry Center
Alternating Wednesday evenings, 6-7:30pm, $20 per session
June 16, 30, July 14, 28, Aug 18, 25, Sept 1, 8


East of Eden Writers Conference: September 24-26 in Salinas

This conference will offer 8 workshop sessions, 6 classes at a pop. The 48 classes are grouped into 5 tracks, some of which include General Fiction, Mystery, Poetry, Nonfiction, and the Business of Writing. Early registration for the full conference is just $375—but only through June 30. Fee includes all 3 days, all 48 workshops, all meals and events, plus multiple opportunities to pitch your work to agents. (Saturday Only early rate is $206.) Prices go up after June 30: $435 full, $239 Saturday only. Discounts for students. Reg and more info at southbaywriters.com/EastofEden2010

Also: Pro authors and editors David Henry Sterry, Jana McBurney Lin, Nina Amir, Joyce Krieg, and Diane Lindsay Reeves have agreed to critique up to 8 pages of your work at the conference. You'll meet with the editors at the conference for a 15-minute session. Fee is $35 per submission. Deadline to sign up is August 15. For details and submission guidelines, visit the conference website's Critique Sessions page.

__________________

DIGGING FOR ANSWERS
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

People
Want their
Voices heard now
Which explains all that
Graffiti
Tacky, imperfect
imposing, proclaiming, looming
larger than life
Campaigns
Let people choose
Who sits, but handlers rule.
I, Carl Schwartz, approved this
Poem.

_______________

BETTER SAID THAN READ
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Cinquain
Tin prison cups
Folsom and empty some
Do not get quatrain to escape
Hard time.

Broken
Beyond repair
If only we
Had gotten better advice
Foreclosure

Poem
Mystical, tricky
Flowing, rhyming, going
Wherever you take it
Home

_________________

WARRIOR THERAPIST
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Playing music soothes me:
when I am tense, it is my therapy.
But this I do alone, since my instrument
is the slide trombone.

Medieval call to battle; fanfare,
stampeding cattle, I don’t care.
Hang it out and let it roar,
cut off the calls, ignore the door.

Garage: acoustics wild, loud,
loud, loud restless child.
Half tones, injured moans,
accidental clones.

Don’t sing along, this ain’t
that kind of song. Downbeat, upbeat,
stuck in between. I can’t leave now:
The audience loves it, take a bow.

Deep breath, deeper, is that all you’ve got?
The mouthpiece is peeling, starting to rot.
An acid forms and burns the tongue; use
your diaphragm to push air from the lung.

The octaves are deadly, from close range or far;
a medley of wounds that are too big to scar.
Now I think my chops are just about spent, and
there’s no way to lubricate a slide that is bent,

so I’m going to pack it up and put it away,
then it’s right here when needed, any old day
when my nerves are shot, and put to the test:
I’ll just open up my trusty trombone war chest.

___________________

OUR VERY QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Early one dewy morning
a scrawny mountain lion sauntered
down into the foothills, looking
for prey to feed her hungry cubs.
She wandered into our very quiet neighborhood
following a very different code of quietude:

Moving far more silently
than the rumble of cars cruising by
with arrogant lyrics blasting
over flimsy speakers;

Blending in far less assuming
than the man down the street
who is always talking, talking, talking,
about other people’s business;

Approaching homes far more softly
than the incessant advertising,
which reaches out to pound our
doors and windows as if to announce
an event of biblical proportion;

Scanning the area far more restrained
than the media, remaining even ho-hum quiet,
not jotting names or snapping pictures,
as she views people in their private situations.

At last, she finds a suitable meal
in the generous backyard of a family
that is preoccupied with hitching up
the boat trailer to their motor home
for that restful trip to the mountains…

…to her backyard.

__________________

THE RENTAL SHOP
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

(in memory of Rod Sirling)

It was an inconspicuous place
beside a cobbler’s quaint shop,
in the old part of town
where stores were mom and pop.

I needed to rent a tuxedo
to wear to my big wedding,
to project an air of confidence
like I knew where I was heading.

The door creaked shut behind me
as I was greeted by the tailor,
who measured me in silence
as he breathed through an inhaler.

When I expressed my early doubts
that the tux would come out right,
he brought out an old catalog
and held it open tight.

The bess thing you can do, he said,
is tess it out today.
Rent a wife and kid and everything,
then rehearss it like a play.

Have them look at you real close
while you’re dressed in your nice tux.
You’ll be assured it fits you well,
and it’s worth a few more bucks.

Then the tailor turned the page
and showed me more that I could rent:
a time machine that works just once,
then leaves you where you’re sent.

It was tempting to rent out that stuff,
on just a trial basis,
until I saw the coffin lids
still impressed with people’s faces.

I left the place without a tux,
but learned a lesson of life:
it isn’t clothes that make the man,
it’s all about his wife.



Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.

—Thomas Merton

__________________

—Medusa


Friday, May 21, 2010

Slap It To The Wall!

Flower Being
Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

See more of D.R.'s work in the new
WTF,
which is now available for free at The Book Collector—

or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.


SPAGHETTI THEORY
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento


got this theory
where every damn thing
coming outta my head,
gets written,

fire up a page
throw it wildly at the wall,
and if it sticks
well,
thassa good’un

never been
properly book-taught
and i sure as hell
can’t take
steamy studio pics
with come-hither glances,

so i deal in
volume spaghetti
that is,
blind luck
my meat an' potatoes

the rule is,
write everything
take those awkward,
improper phrasings,
flawed meter counts,
bad spellin’s,

and slap it to the wall
see if it sticks

sometimes i get lucky

…nope
this one’s a slider

_________________

This weekend in NorCal poetry:

•••Fri. (5/21), 10am: Gillian Wegener writes: If you have a chance to listen between 10 and 11am today, please tune in to KXJZ/KUOP 91.3FM (www.capradio.org) to listen to Molly Fisk, Jeff Knorr, Julia Levine and me (Gillian) talk about The Place That Inhabits Us, the anthology from Sixteen Rivers Press. We are going to be interviewed by Jeffrey Callison on his Capital Public Radio show, Insight. Molly, Jeff, and Julia will read their fantastic poems, and I will discuss how the anthology came together. If you can't listen live, you can pick up the podcast later in the afternoon for your listening pleasure. The Place That Inhabits Us is #1 on Small Press Distribution's April bestseller list. I have a few copies left if you are interested; email me at wegenerspage@yahoo.com/.

•••Friday (5/21), 8-10:30pm: Special Event: The Blackout Spoken Word Battle. The poet in Northern California with the best spoken word poems for the night goes home with $100 cash! Come see this first annual Spoken Word War!!!! Poets sign up now by e-mailing fromtheheart1@hotmail.com/. Inside the upper level VIP lounge inside Fitness Systems Healthclub, 26 Massie Ct., Sacramento.

•••Fri. (5/21), 7:30pm: The Other Voice (sponsored by the UU Church of Davis) features two of the younger poets of Davis, Dorine Jennette and Matthew Chenoweth Wright, in the library of the church located at 27074 Patwin Rd. in Davis. This is the last program until September. Open mike and refreshments follow the reading, so bring along a poem or two to share. [See the b-bd for more about the poets.]

•••Sat. (5/22): Patricia Wellingham-Jones will be talking about ‘healing writing’ and reading her poems at 2pm and 3pm at HeartFelt Design Gallery, 623 Main St., Red Bluff. The event is part of a day-long and downtown-wide celebration, the Well-Being Faire, with many stores featuring discounts and hosting more than 50 practitioners, healers, artists, candidates, and others. The day ends with a wine tasting and the movie, Mamma Mia, at the State Theatre.

•••Sat. (5/22), 2-4pm: Former Sacramento Resident Patricia D’Alessandro will be celebrating the release of her latest poetry collection, Pax Vobiscum: Anti-War Poetry Collection (Pacific Copy&Print, 2010) at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, Sacramento (www.underground-books.com/aboutus.htm).

•••Sat. (5/22), 12-6pm: La Raza Galeria Posada presents Malo, featuring Jorge Santana plus arts, poetry, dance, food and special guests. Cesar Chavez Plaza, 9th and I Sts., Sacramento. Advance tickets $10; see www.larazagaleriaposada.org/malo-may-22nd

•••Sat. (5/22), 8pm and Sun. (5/23), 3pm: As part of their last performance of the season, the Sacramento Master Singers will present I, Too, Sing America: A Celebration of American Poets and Composers to be held at the First United Methodist Church at 21st & J Sts., Sacramento. Poets represented will be e.e. cummings and Dorothy Parker, whose works have been set to music by Eric Whitacre, Clifford Shockney, and Carol Barnett. Click on Dorothy Parker's pic (over on the b-bd at the right) for last Sunday's Sac. Bee article by Edward Ortiz; go to www.mastersingers.org/pages/enjoy for tickets.

•••Sat. (5/22), 7-11pm: The Social-Poetry Slam hosted by Khiry Malik at Sol Collective, 2574 21st St. (Broadway and 19th Sts.), Sacramento, 916-476-3628, www.solcollective.org

•••Sun. (5/23), 2pm: Ina Coolbrith Circle presents Kathleen Lynch at the San Ramon Library, 100 Montgomery St., San Ramon. Bring a poem to read at the open mic and you will have a chance to see it appear on "The Po-Bowl." More about Kathleen at www.kathleenlynch.com


•••Sun. (5/23), 2-4:30pm: A Starry Night Poetry Series in Lodi, featuring Wallace Condon, plus open mic. At the Lodi Library, 201 West Locust St., Lodi. Info: starrynightpoetry@gmail.com/. Co-sponsored by the Lodi Library.

•••Mon. (5/24), 7:30pm: Sacramento Poetry Center presents Christopher Buckley and C.E. Chaffin at R25, 1719 25th St. (at 25th and R), Sacramento. Christopher Buckley’s Rolling the Bones won the Tampa Review Prize for Poetry last year—his 17th book of poetry. Buckley was raised in Santa Barbara in the 1950s, and he currently teaches in the Creative Writing Department at the University of California, Riverside. His poetry has appeared widely in periodicals including The New Yorker, Antaeus, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, The Sewanee Review, Prairie Schooner and Poetry. He is a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry, two NEA grants, a Fulbright Award to Yugoslavia, four Pushcart Prizes, the James Dickey Prize from Five Points magazine, and two Gertrude B. Claytor Memorial Awards from the Poetry Society of America.

C.E. Chaffin, M.D., FAAFP (Fellow of American Academy of Physicians), is a contributing editor for Umbrella. He published The Melic Review for eight years. His new volume, Unexpected Light, was released by Diminuendo Press in 2009. He also teaches an online poetry tutorial. Inquiries can be made at www.cechaffin.com. He has never been published in Poetry, Ploughshares or The Paris Review, though he has appeared in other journals that start with 'P': The Pedestal, The Philadelphia Inquirer Book Review, Plum Ruby Review, Poetry Tonight, Poetry SZ, Poetry Magazine, Poets' Canvas, Poetry Superhighway, Poetry Cafe, Poetry Exchange, and PIF. (If he listed credits for more letters, this would be an insufferable bio.) A retired family physician, CE lives in Northern California with his wife and editor, Kathleen, two cats and a dog. He considers himself a Classicist in art, a Lutheran in religion and a Libertarian in politics. Shoe size: same as mouth.


(for a more complete listing of workshops and events, go to eskimopie.net)

_______________________


SMOKE, SHADOWS AND GRASSHOPPERS
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Aurora, the goddess of dawn
was attracted to mortal men,
who, unlike gods, can die.

When Tithonus, a mortal,
became her lover, she went to
the Goddess Juno for help.

Juno granted Tithonus eternal
life, but, mistakenly didn't grant
the poor man eternal youth.

Things went well for years,
then Tithonus' hair turned
to an old man's white.

Aurora began to lose interest
in him. Tithonus grew weaker and
weaker and could no longer walk.

Not wanting to see him age,
Aurora changed the unlucky
man into a large grasshopper.

So if one day you see something
moving in your garden that
gives you a start—remember...

It may be smoke, a mysterious
shadow, or just a large green
grasshopper named Tithonus.


_________________

THE ANGRY BOOKWORM
—Richard Zimmer

Kelly was an avid book reader. He’d say,
Books think for me. If he were in trouble,
he’d go to the library to fix any problem.
Kelly had a bad temper. He went and got
some books on Zen and Eastern Thought.

He hoped they would help control his anger.
He studied the books a while and then stood
in front of a mirror and recited a mantra…
My soul be gentle, my soul be kind,
may all the anger leave my mind.

To Kelly’s horror, the face he saw in the mirror
was filled with rage...features distorted into a
malevolent, devilish grin. Fearing he must have
a very bad karma, and needed further study, he
went back to the library to get some more books.

__________________

BLUE PLATE SPECIAL
—Charles Mariano

on an otherwise
lifeless day
i stumbled sleepily
to the table
and stared
at my gloomy
plate of words

words,
delicious and glorious
last night
just lays there,

a carcass
slathered
in oily
preservatives

suddenly,
through the corner
of my eye,
it moved…

i whipped out
my mighty pen,
still stained
from last night’s epic battle
and stabbed it
furiously

“die! die! worthless scum!”

there’s no glory
in bad writing,
only death

to the victor
go the spoils

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

ADVICE
—Langston Hughes

Folks, I'm telling you,
birthing is hard
and dying is mean—
so get yourself
a little loving
in between.

__________________

—Medusa




Bird of Paradise
Photo by D.R. Wagner


Thursday, May 20, 2010

The Kama Sutra is Not a Sex Manual—

Trina Drotar


TAGGED: SECOND SATURDAY, SACRAMENTO
—Trina Drotar, Sacramento

I found an old coin in an alley, a Shiny Nickel,
a crumbling Victorian that outshines the
View Point of those who believe that
dryer lint, hair strands, and
dead flies are art.

I placed the coin with its Reggae beat
inside my pocket, remembering
Marley’s words that followed
even as we rounded the corner.
Kyle blowing harp.
A man asked if there was a gallery nearby.

Sacramento Art Complex had,
a friend claimed, real art. We crossed
the street to transparent
dragonfly wings and leaves in
one room where the artist
spoke about her work. A dark-haired
girl with earthtone skin, red lips,
and a multi-colored, swirl lollipop stood out—
untagged. My friend asked the title.

Tags removed from pieces
withdrawn. A man with a cart
stopped and asked for change.

Jodette’s prompted questions
about beads and dangles and the meaning
of belly dance. Women comfortable
in their own bodies. I
remembered the friend
whose body would soon
become the artist’s canvas.

The Kama Sutra is not a sex manual.

Kyle’s harp, Marley, the untagged,
although blocks behind,
travelled to the corner where
DJ Rated R spun and scratched, where
spectators became participants, and
performers spectators. One fellow said he’d
freestyle with objects from
pockets and handbags. A cigarette,
phone, cup. I should have offered my
booklight. Guy’s got talent, a woman said.

Next to the collector of books, a business
closed. Not closed, I said.
Moved.

United State, bass pounding into the street
vendors selling painted LPs for Valentine’s Day.
Hawaiian shirts pounding their colors onto
the sidewalk. A friend converses
with street vendors and
we wait.

I returned the coin, newly shined, to its alley.
Inside the crumbling Victorian. Asked the artist
what he meant.

__________________

Thanks, Trina! Trina Drotar came to poetry via art, fiction, and memoir. She expects to complete her MA in English—Creative Writing next spring and then write and make art and volunteer. She served as executive editor of Calaveras Station at CSUS for two years, creative nonfiction editor for one year, and recently began working as managing editor of Poetry Now and serving on the Board of Sacramento Poetry Center. She has won several awards for her writing and art and has work published or forthcoming in Word Riot and Rattle. In her free time, she designs, creates, and sews clothes and accessories, makes art, writes, rides her bicycle, and reads.

__________________

IN MY POCKET

is a lipstick in the shade you
always said was too bold for me.

I wore Hot Buttered Rum
every single day that you
were not around. I kissed
envelopes, my hand, paper,
and that man down the street
whose name I no longer recall.

I bought ten, no twelve, and kept
one in each purse, two in the bathroom
drawer, the one on the upper left that you
never opened, and one in the freezer where
you’d never have thought to look. It was
always in between last week’s leftovers and
some heat and serve cardboard dinner that you
always wanted.

In my pocket is a lipstick
in my favorite shade.


—Trina Drotar

___________________

EARLY WINTER MORNING AT THE PRESERVE
—Trina Drotar

Tule fog.
Vision skewed
as eyes strain through the
silver veil of droplets that shimmer
not like diamonds
dug from the ground.
Rather,
like a million tiny beads
stitched one by one
on silken webs, woven.

Droplets like pearls, cultured
by condensation
moisten dried leaves and seedpods
nourish
barely emerging growth.

_________________

SYMPHONY
—Trina Drotar

Sometimes we need to hear a symphony,
a symphony of browns and grays, not
reds and oranges or blues and magentas.
Sometimes a symphony of browns and grays,
countered by the green spores of moss
or the seafoam of lichen.
A symphony reverberating
not inside a concert hall, but
in nature’s own hall, surrounded by
the fur of catskins, the sharpness of seeds.

Sometimes we need to hear a symphony,
a symphony not of trumpets, not
violins and cellos or flutes and clarinets.
Sometimes a symphony of silence is required
in a day filled with beeps and buzzes and whistles
and the ticking of clocks

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Peacock iridescence in veridical shadows,
Violet blooms spread to noonday sun.
The world's beauty is a swirl of color,
But in the flower's center is bright stillness.

—Deng Ming-Dao



Photo by Katy Brown

—Medusa


Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Where We Mean To Be


Santa Cruz Surfer Stairs
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis



OLD BOAT
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

This Dutchman won’t quite fly, though piracy
age-dwindled winks from the stamp-sized stern-stuck flag,
a jolly non-Roger more like a toe-tag,
the morgue-stored corpse’s last cold scrap of privacy.

The rest of the boat’s a match for that sorry appendage.
Heaped-up pallets and crates wish this old rumboat
swift bootleggers running booze. Pipe dream: this bumboat
scumboat’s palsied, bedridden, no determined age.

It hugs itself newspaper-warm, long docked yet listing,
tranced in cutlass notions of self-protection,
exhaust funnels box-ribbed, quarantined from no infection.
Solid blue boxes must be the inutile engines,

each deputized to take over (but neither functions).
Even the pilot house of this fishing smack
lacked altitude, so another story got stacked,
the better to squint out at roadsteads and foggy junctions.

Between the green element and much murky sky,
atop these planks of albatross-poop deck,
worked the long-gone Silvers of this varnishless wreck.

This ancient mariner’s last rime’s a filthy salt.
No point pinpointing a leak to stop and caulk.

All maritime law says, sink. To float is to defy.

__________________

Thanks, Tom. We're talking about the old boat in yesterday's photo; send your Seed of the Week poems to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs.


This week in NorCal poetry:

•••Thurs. (5/20), 7:30pm: The Nevada County Poetry Series presents Theresa Whitehill & Lytton Bell. $5 general, seniors and students; $1 for those under 18. Refreshments and open-mic included. The show will be in the Off Center Stage (the Black Box theater, enter from Richardson St.) at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley. Info: (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384. Open Mic. [See the b-bd for more.]

•••Friday (5/21), 8-10:30pm: Special Event: The Blackout Spoken Word Battle: The poet in Northern California with the best spoken word poems for the night goes home with $100 cash! Come see this first annual Spoken Word War!!!! Poets sign up now by e-mailing fromtheheart1@hotmail.com/. Inside the upper level VIP lounge inside Fitness Systems Healthclub, 26 Massie Ct., Sacramento.

•••Fri. (5/21), 7:30pm: The Other Voice (sponsored by the UU Church of Davis) features two of the younger poets of Davis, Dorine Jennette and Matthew Chenoweth Wright, in the library of the church located at 27074 Patwin Rd. in Davis. This is the last program until September. Open mike and refreshments follow the reading, so bring along a poem or two to share. Dorine Jennette is a fresh-air sort of person with a fledgling interest in green design. She is the author of Urchin to Follow (The National Poetry Review Press, 2010). Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in journals such as Puerto del Sol, the Journal, Ninth Letter, Coconut, Court Green, the Los Angeles Review, and the Georgia Review. Originally from Seattle, she earned her MFA from New Mexico State University and her PhD from the University of Georgia. Now she lives in Davis and is a copyeditor for university presses.

Matthew Chenoweth Wright delights in the fluidity of language's shoals and backwaters, currents of words as pictures. His first book of poems, From Under Eyelids, is from and about dreams and the language that we all use to share our visions with each other. On-line he has published in Postpoems, Allpoetry and Paperdollz. He has read in public since 1988 at Word Jam and at Luna's in Sacramento and other events there and in Davis. [See the b-bd for more about the poets.]

•••Sat. (5/22), 2-4pm: Former Sacramento Resident Patricia D’Alessandro will be celebrating the release of her latest poetry collection, Pax Vobiscum: Anti-War Collection (Pacific Copy&Print, 2010) at Underground Books, 35th & Broadway, Sacramento (www.underground-books.com/aboutus.htm).

•••Sat. (5/22), 12-6pm: La Raza Galeria Posada presents Malo, featuring Jorge Santana plus arts, poetry, dance, food and special guests. Cesar Chavez Plaza, 9th and I Sts., Sacramento. Advance tickets $10; see www.larazagaleriaposada.org/malo-may-22nd

•••Sun. (5/23), 2pm: Ina Coolbrith Circle presents Kathleen Lynch at the San Ramon Library, 100 Montgomery St., San Ramon. Bring a poem to read at the open mic and you will have a chance to see it appear on "The Po-Bowl." Sacramento's Kathleen Lynch publishes poetry, fiction, and essays. Her work has been widely anthologized and reprinted in college textbooks. Her poetry collection, Hinge (released 2006) won the Black Zinnias Press National Poetry Competition. Her chapbooks are How to Build an Owl, No Spring Chicken, Alterations of Rising, and Greatest Hits (Pudding House invitational series). She has recent work in Poetry, Poetry East, Alhambra Poetry Calendar, and The Recorder. Kathleen has received awards from Sow's Ear, Spoon River Poetry Review, Two Rivers Review, and a Ucross Foundation residency. She is a freelance editor and workshop leader. You can sample her poetry at www.kathleenlynch.com

___________________

PORTRAIT OFF RHODES
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

(for G.)

Once upon a time you coiffed the stars,
handed the Goddess of Fashion down the runway.
In Monaco you silver-plattered pheasant
and broke golden eggs one-handed into a crystal bowl.
British Lords and St.-Tropez vedettes adored you.

It grew tedious as that same old sentence.
Life behind corporate bars.

Look at you now. Hair wild as a sea-god
bare chested, legs planted at the bow, grinning
in the face of a Levanter. You’ve bartered your ease
for a sailing ship, your crew as brave
and crazy for joy as you are.

__________________

DERELICT
—Taylor Graham

The tide sobs among rocks worn smooth
by aeons, and into holes and hidden passages
in the old fishing trawler beached here

against this ocean, storehouse of time.
She’s clambered along the shore
till fall of dusk. Tonight will be black as tar

washed up from distant disasters.
How everything’s linked by ocean.
All day she’s seen no sanderlings

skirting the surf. Where are the gulls,
the pelicans? Has she gone beyond her
depth—hasn’t man gone beyond

his depth? It’s almost dark now,
time to find solid ground, to forget
that everything’s circled by sea.

___________________

ADVICE TO A YOUNG OR AN OLD POET
—Patricia L. Nichol, Sacramento

If you have to write a poem, it’s very, very easy;
do not feel nervous, just relax, and don’t feel very queasy.

Here’s all you have to do:
I. Know about a hundred forms and how to do them swell.
Work one hard and work it right until you have it jell.
II. Know about a million words and all their definitions:
done, Donne, dun, none, nun, Acheron, Algonquin, Balzacian . . .
III. Have a perfect sense of syllables, meter, and accents;
never flounder, put words together in incomparable segments.
IV. Last, know all there is to know about how to do a rhyme:
masculine, feminine, slant, subtle . . . Well, it takes a little time.

Here’s what you do when you are finished:
V. Read it over to yourself and then read it out loud;
whether it’s doggerel or academic, you will be very proud.
VI. Mail it to the New Yorker, Harper’s, or Atlantic.
They’ll adore it, publish it, and implore you to be prolific.

__________________

TRUE ART TAKES ITS OWN FORM
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

I should have seen the warning signs
when I expressed my inner feelings
using outré poetic styling.

It was like the incongruity of dreaming
you are wandering about in public,
when you are really in your jammies, or less.

The problem arose in junior high art class,
when they started with lessons on form:
lines of things into the distance.

True art takes its own form.
Instead of following the assignment and
drawing a tree using charcoal,
Art reduces that tree to charcoal,
then has a grand BBQ. Culinary art.

Let’s strip the body down to muscles and sinews,
then it isn’t nasty anymore, because it will have
only the disposition the artist gives it.

Poetry speaks out, sometimes out of order,
out of its mind, out of luck, or just
“I’m going out, don’t follow me.”

Music is vibrating air.
“I’m going out to vibrate, don’t follow me.”



Photo by Katy Brown


Today's LittleNip:

Waking, we subvert our dream experience
by using it. Asleep, it takes us where
we mean to go, the place we mean to be.

—William Bronk

__________________

—Medusa


Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Meeting the Boatman




A SURPRISE FROM THE WEATHER
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Suppose this is nothing.
Suppose the clouds and the candy
Of birdsong, furred flutes of a pile
Of sleepy kittens, are nothing.

Curved flight of an eagle, smooth as flesh.
Pretty carts, yellow with children’s
Laughter, the preening carnivals of
Sleep, laced up with dreams, all pretty they are,
Full of the heart singing the names of God.

Oh the bears and the rivers and the
Blustery hills senseless with the stars,
They are so bright. Turtles, snowflakes
Quiet on the ice of their pond, the beauty of
Your thighs, the little noises that escape
Us when we are suddenly standing on high
Places, the phosphorus of the moment
Burst into flame, all this nothing.

Long ago, I walked here alarmed
That one day, as sure as shooting,
That angel would be walking out to
Meet the boatman, raise his hand to greet
Him and, beautiful rose of life, such a
Thought would rise up, hallelujah I
Find myself saying hallelujah to
The whole orchard, we are here together.

___________________

THE NIGHT IS BEAUTIFUL
—D.R Wagner

The night is beautiful
With its lips full
Upon the thighs of Summer.

It swirls the moon
Through clouds and spews
It high and bright and round
The dome of its fine home.

Crickets in their dark
Lovemaking, sing the praises
Of the grass and breezes,
A rhythmic transubstantiation
Played in scraping stridulation
To a counterpoint of August dark.

There, then and only then,
We take our breath out walking
On the milky paths of full moon
Shining and cast our glances deep
Into its lap of dreams, to hold
Just but a moment, for a moment
Only, all the crazy swirl of star
Light unto ourselves that we
May be this way before it.

__________________

NIGHTINGALES
—D.R. Wagner

Summer breaks its face on my arm.
I can’t remember how your mouth
Felt on mine. How your hand was
When I put my lips on your fingertips.

My heart dances on my spine, fooling
Me into believing that love has a name
That sounds like yours but ends before
I can reach out and touch your hips,
Your lips; it, as they said, trips me
Past the dream house built of pale
Moonlight and forever and a day.

Up among the concordance of moon,
Sun and our loving, bop style in mouth
Jazz explaining to each other from song
To song how wild this thing is, wind,
The keys ripping past; candles made of
Fireflies and mission bells. Tearing
Sheets of song into tiny pieces. Oh yes how
And howl, spurl myself dingingly, plutridly
Forniculated, intensely exploding in charcoal
Mouth bar-b-que laughing. There is
No farther town we can be found in.
Every stop on your skin reveals the
Brisk night, irresponsible, tales told
By the blind about how the hands
Know the name of all the rains,
Their particular voice, their night thoughts
On sidewalks, opened at last, no streetlights,
No mouth of song following. I touch
Your crazy traffic and burn acetylene yellow,
Pure green. Aircraft land in the middle of summer.
My skin stretches, explodes and contains all
The mysterious rainbows from which we reconstruct
The language of all the endless nights of our youth.

__________________

EDGE OF SUMMER, MIDDLE MAY
—D.R. Wagner

In the garden the roses are making
Up their minds as to colors and ways
They might look just after the rain.

There is a way songs begin. The problem
Is we never know when that moment is.
It usually circles around the song title
Collapsing into the lyrics and winds up
Near the corner of the heart telling us
Something we already knew in a flurry
Of delight and secret code remembered
Sometimes, for the rest of our lives.

In the garden the bees are making
Their rounds, fumbling and gathering,
Finding the sweet center faster than
The Buddha did under the Bo tree,
Much much faster with no thoughts.

The sky spins by as quickly as the wind
Will allow, so beautifully arranged it
Seems random but for the birds
Outlining the edges, describing
The parameters of the day.

There is so little we remember after
All. It is only in these moments where
The garden is the world and songs are
Everywhere around us. Here is some blue.

__________________

CARS COMPLAINING
—D.R. Wagner

There really isn’t any turning back.
I keep looking down the hallway
Out to the park across
The way. Broken pavement on the streets
Below the window. The cars keep complaining
About the way they fall into time and are suddenly
Gone. Every year a new model.

We don’t notice much of this anymore.
Our friends fall and disappear,
We suddenly are unable to find
The way things move to fit together
As they used to do.

The cars complaining with loud
Horns and a squeal of brakes,
Tires becoming tongues. We
Must find other ways of understanding
Them. Erotica made of wood.

Christ on the cross. A ringing in the
Ears that never seems to stop.

__________________

A SILENCE
—D.R. Wagner

This silence, broken only by an occassional
Voice from somewhere in the neighborhood
Is disconcerting. Usually there are at least
Birds or the noises of cars moving through
The veins of streets and alleyways.

Today there is none of this. The sun blows
Through the day contained by its usual
Concerns and too far away to have to do
With sound and its eccentricities.

I find myself trying to speak. The words
Begin to come out then stop, confused
That they might be mispronounced or tired

From the effort. I know they want to tell
You so much, how much I really care

But they are absorbed like alcohol in an alcoholic.

__________________

FARM
—D.R. Wagner

I was once a farm.
The soft lips of dairy cows
Across my skin. The wheat
Discovering the sun and yes
The vegetables, huge books
Full of them, gardens they were

Called and too the rooster
And the hens and cats and dog,
A lamb, three goats in pens,

A pig, then two and Tommy
Took a horse awhile, and that
Was nice. His day: the pumps
And wagons, tools and working
The while. I was once
A farm. And now, a vacant parking lot
At the side of a Target store.



FOR THE FARMER
—Photo and poem by Ronald Edwin Lane

In this cold cathedral
They wait in shadows
Useless
Peering through stained slats
Praying for a touch of sun,
And
For the farmer to return
And give their lives
Meaning

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

That man Leeuwenhoek was like a puppy who sniffs—with a totally impolite disregard of discrimination—at every object of the world around him!

—Paul de Kruif

__________________

—Medusa

(The boat photo at the top is our ekphrastic Seed of the Week; make of it what you will.)