The Pen & The Sword

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

SHAKESPEARE IN THE UCD ARBORETUM
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

The image in the skinny blue column
passes off an image of a man with his
arms down and a complacent expression,
as William Shakespeare. This cannot
be!

During Broken Promises week, the
man should be poised with his arms
raised, white-knuckled fists clenched
around a spear that he shakes relentlessly
while his clearly strained face betrays
the hopeless desperation of a man who
has entirely exhausted all avenues of
civil remedy.

Back in his day there was no “Call Curtis”
or any other ombudsman to fix your
problems. A man had to stand his ground
and beat off any detractors. Even if the
pen is mightier than the sword, as later
authors would conclude, William Shakespeare
knew that you had to keep them both sharp,
just in case.

_________________

Thanks, Carl. The "skinny blue column" he refers to is, of course, Medusa's bulletin board. And, of course, this is Broken Promises week on Medusa, about which Carl says: Bridges are built from wood, steel and concrete. If weak, they can be reinforced, and if broken, they can be rebuilt. Promises are built from trust. Once weakened or broken, there is no more trust.

Recently I realized to my shock and dismay that, although Carl sends us lots of fine material and is frequently posted on Medusa, he's never been featured—an oversight which we are rectifying today. About himself, he writes:

Born and raised in Culver City, California, blocks from MGM Studios, superstars, limos, etc. I appeared once on Bowling for Dollars (where I got a spare) but have no other nexus with Hollywood. I entered college on crutches as a left-handed, near sighted, coma survivor who fondly remembered his motorcycle, but not what hit him. After getting a degree in music from UCLA I sampled sales, banking, teaching, law office support, and now I’m a state worker. Married (27 years) to my sweet soul mate, and we have one grown son. That’s it, no ungrown sons or daughters, unless you count our pets, Chica Chihuahua, Myrtle Turtle, and Rosy Boa. I used to pepper newspapers with my opinion letters, and when we moved to Sacramento I found a greater opportunity for expression in the local poetry scene. In 2008 I read some left-leaning poems at Queen Sheba’s, and more recently I have attended the [Hart Center] Tuesday Workshop, been published in Medusa’s Kitchen, and will be in the next Ophidian.

Thanks, Carl!


Ekphrasticism Lives in Livermore!

Sacramento is the home town of Ekphrasis, Carol and Laverne Frith’s poetry journal that combines art and poetry. Now the City of Livermore presents the Third Biennial Ekphrasis Exhibition of Poetry and Art. Paintings and photography by local artists are on display weekdays during regular business hours and by appointment at Windermere Welcome Home Realty in the Vine Cinema Plaza. Writers are invited to create poetic responses to whichever artwork they choose, then submit two copies of up to three poems along with a $10 entry fee (payable to the City of Livermore) to Cher Wollard, c/o Windermere Welcome Home Realty, 1790 First St., Livermore, CA 94550. One copy must include your name, address, e-mail and phone number. The second copy should include no identifying information.

Entries must be received by Friday, Oct. 1. Winning poems will be displayed beside the art at ArtWalk from Oct. 9 through Nov. 30. Other entries will be included in an album for the public to see.

Info: Peggy Schimmelman at peggyschimmelman@pacbell.net or Cher Wollard at cherw@livermorelit.com.

__________________

EVOLUTION
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Their ancestors were dinosaurs
dominant, tough, cold-blooded, deadly,

landed aristocracy
leaving children their old money.

Now they fly to where the weather suits them
educated, incorporated, mobile, cunning,

children of democracy
in the land of milk and honey.

__________________

THE PEOPLE FARM
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Welcome to the people farm
where all parenting is delegated
to surrogates, and the primary
role of couples who mate is to
produce a marketable product.

During your stay here, you will
be escorted around by handlers.
Attorney coached, they make no
promises they can’t break. About
the best you can do here is to be a
free range chicken, free at least
until you become someone’s meal.

You get special treatment if your
meat is lean and trim, as there
are wonderful opportunities for
you in sports and entertainment.
Once your body is worthy of
showcasing, or whenever it is
not, you’re history. There is no
emotion here, because meat isn’t
capable of harboring opinions.

If your mind is quick and your
movements agile, you may be the
lucky recipient of awards and
scholarships. Congratulations,
you are now a more marketable
product!

The time has come to shut the
gates and let everyone get some
sleep. Don’t even think of trying
to leave here…

__________________

JUSTIFIABLE TRUTH-ASIDE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

In certain carefully defined circumstances
a handy law gives an out:
enter a plea of justifiable homicide,
when that is beyond a reasonable doubt.

In politics, it is anything goes,
one’s candidate to anoint:
lively campaign with justifiable truth-aside,
when that is necessary to make a point.

__________________

SEASON TO TASTE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

We moved from Southern to
Northern California and expected
to experience four seasons. But
this year there was no summer.

Those glorious two-pound
beefsteak tomatoes that we grew
in Long Beach would just be a
distant memory, offset by all the
broadly smiling weather reporters
who are just deliriously happy that
temperatures stayed below triple
digit. We’re not celebrating.

A year without summer is like a
sailing vessel caught in the
doldrums, or a multi-cell flashlight
with one battery missing, or a top
notch race horse with a broken
leg, and on and on…

This winter we are going to really
turn up the heat.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

The secret of being tiresome is to tell everything.

—Voltaire

_________________

—Medusa

Carl Bernard Schwartz

Find Where The Words Are Kept

Photo by D.R. Wagner

CAPES AND CLOTHING
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

She puts on the cape of swans.
She puts on the cape of darkness.
She puts on the cape of dim music.
She puts on the whispering cape.

She has the songs already in the chamber
When she fires. They look for corners
In the night where they may hide as darkling beetles
Do. She puts on the chorus of stridulations.

It is so easy to be distracted, to look away,
To lose sight of her movements. She wants
It that way and drives her car as if it were
A moth finally escaped from the flame charms.

The sea horns begin to make their low pitched
Bellows. “There are dangerous rocks here,”
They announce without any words at all.
Everyone cowers in fear, the sound of the waves

Crashing against the cliffside. Let us hurry.
Bring the instruments. Find where the words
Are kept, what shapes may be noticed in deepest
Night, where the moon is resting right now.

She puts on the hood of stars.
She puts on the shoes of the sylph-footed.
She makes the gestures learned from the old days.
She slips away before we ever get near her.

__________________

Put on your poetry shoes and hie thee out to some of the many poetry readings this weekend—you'll see where the words are kept, including the new Shakespeare at the Arboretum troupe at UC Davis. There are plenty of events between now and Sunday; check the b-board for your itinerary.

Medusa’s bottom has been “freshened”—the bottom half of our b-board, that is. First, scroll down the skinny blue box past the numerous postings to Bob in the weeds; then keep going past Ron Peat’s new book, past fandrick’s computer blowing its brains out, past Richard, past the heli-pig (got anything to send him?). You’ll come to Terry Moore at the State Fair. First admire him and all the poets you can visit in the Poet-to-Poet section (and send us your link if you haven’t already). Then pass the Snake and his MANY, MANY Hot Links (over a hundred—stop and check out a few on the way), then you’ll come to instructions about how to access past poems, plus Medusa’s Rap-Sheet—a fancy/silly way of labeling our Archives. Finally, the end of the b-board (Medusa’s Ultimate Bottom) has our Life in Pollock Pines and Fellow Travelers on Planet Earth sections (thanks, D.R., for the phantastic photo!). Enjoy!—And don’t forget to send us photos, links, and where you’re being published. Medusa doesn’t want you to forget her bottom…section.

And thanks to D.R. Wagner and Katy Brown for today's contributions.

__________________

THE ROOM WITH THE ORACLE
—D.R. Wagner

First the light blinks on and then
It’s gone again like kissing
In the dark.

The evening is cool against the skin.
It touches music with its sensuousness
And persists until desire can be woken.

The rest of the evening seems abandoned
Even before one can live in it.
Objects bump into each other
Never leaving the place totally
Deserted. We feel free to wander
Here. There are mirrors and
Ways to travel the streets that must
Be discovered. One cannot ask
For directions except to try to win
Favor of a lovely woman or handsome
Man. They tremble as if surprised
Whenever we speak.

Never touching anything we proceed
To the edge. Perhaps if untouched
All will look this way forever.

__________________

THE CLOTHING OF THE MORNING
—D.R. Wagner

The room seems very tiny
As if it could not contain
such a deep sorrow so easily.

The hole extends through the floor
With drifts of dull colored lights
Waiting around the edges of the sore.

We can’t wait any longer. We have
Seen the loved ones taken away
Into the night and have chased
After them as far as this room.

We will find a way to enter the room.
We have already begun to learn
The speech of the guardians at the doors.

One of them asked if we have keys,
Another if we knew where the drinking
Liquid was kept. We told them yes
And led them to the desert edge.

Three of us entered the room
At that time. We could hear
The weeping. We must trust
That everyone is telling the truth.

And singing. Singing. And I am
Singing and I was wearing that same
Clothing the morning wears when
It has something to show to us
That is beyond compare and we
Know it. We wish to repeat
It each time we wear these things.

Having coffee near the dooryard
The moss-covered skull so green,
So beautiful, holding the whitest
Pearl in its teeth like the truth.

We can walk here once again. Messages
From flights of geese sent to the seasons.
We climb the little hill just near
The dingle and recognize everything.
So perfect is the singing we are
Able to invent new words against it.

__________________

PAIN IN ITS OWN CITY
—D.R. Wagner

They have left us alone.
The ice itself is quiet,
No shrieking or whooping move
Through it. Even the wind has left
It alone like the end of a story.

The skin begins to seem less
Of a barrier and more like chordal
Movements in an adagio for strings.
Suddenly there is plenty of room left to just
Sit with the others by the sides
Of the road and listen to the questions
Posed to us by the travelers.

We do not wonder any longer.
This place was once a city.
When we look now it still seems so.
We can see the ghost buildings through
The rubble, think the dark crows, swans,
The crying of the children, the kind of dreaming
Worth remembering. We have come too far
To leave this place now. Some still
Fight with each other for a place
To sleep or possession of a blanket.

We look toward the palace, wondering
What it will be like there. No one
Remembers being unhappy. Every room
Seems full and bound to memory
As waves to the flat sea surrounding
Us. Superstitions abound, collecting
Souls to form desires one can still
See as they take on faces, erase others
Or are erased themselves. They mingle
With their pain to give it form
To fill the places where the soul suddenly

Becomes empty and obvious, left
On a corner or in a doorway without
Any of its moments intact. They disrobe
And claim to be princes and high-ranking
Women who came here long ago and now
Possess all the things they see around them.

We see sand and those things that cause
Unhappiness. We wish them possibilities.
They truly think we are only songs.

__________________

CARGOES
—D.R. Wagner

Ginger and cotton,
Pistachio nuts, poppy seed,
Nutmegs and raisins,
Muslin, red and gold bolts.

A vocabulary of things.
Our conversation could not
Find words and did not use
Them when they could be found.

A drape of fabric was more
Articulate than talking of its
Form could ever be. Rain
Was always welcome. It made
Great gestures that caused listening
From both of us. We undid
Mornings and stumbled to our beds
Describing with a sweeping hand or
By pointing at the moon behind
A screen of leaves showing only bits
And splatter of the night in
The trees. It was more than enough.
They were our cargoes. We took them
To bed with us, our heads swimming
With dreams even before we laid them down.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

The question becomes: what is the appropriate behavior for a man or a woman in the midst of this world, where each person is clinging to his piece of debris? What is the proper salutation between people as they pass each other in this flood? These are the things that concern my work today.

—Leonard Cohen

___________________

—Medusa

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

The Rainbow Sleeps

Fairy Display, Natomas Library
Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

A doe deer wandered off the American River Parkway
and onto Rancho Cordova High campus
They called animal control
who yellow-taped off the entire area
and evacuated students for their "protection"
as if they were saying,
"Hey deer you're not supposed to be here,"
as if she were to be placed under arrest for a crime
The deer looked at news cameras, puzzled
then defiantly continued to graze on a patch of grass
perhaps thought she'd stand up for her species
at the start of hunting season, saying
that deer aren't to be shot at as "game"
they just want to roam free
and be allowed to cross and walk on our streets
and co-exist with humans in peace...

—Michelle Kunert

__________________

Poets everywhere will be saddened to know that Alan Horvath, poet, publisher and d.a. levy bibliographer, passed away during a dialysis treatment yesterday. Alan was very supportive of the small press community, including Rattlesnake Press. Here is a link to help you learn more about him: poetry.about.com/library/weekly/aa090799.htm

Thanks, Michelle, for the photos and poem, and thanks to today's other contributors. Good to hear from Be Davison Herrera—and Tom Goff, Richard Zimmer and Taylor Graham are talking about our Seed of the Week: Broken Promises. Ironically, two of today's poems mention yellow police tape. Is this a sign of the times??

I don’t know about you, but Medusa’s whole bulletin board system which has evolved is working well for me. Ideally, here’s how it works: I hear about a reading a couple of weeks in advance and post it in the “More Than a Week Away” section. When the event becomes less than a week away, I post it directly on the b-board, along with some kind of pic or graphic to catch the eye. Instead of posting bios, I can link you to a blog or some other place where there are often poetry excerpts, maps, and other fun facts or pix in addition to the regular bio info. Plus, some of these sites (like La Bloga which has the interview with Michael Luis Medrano who is reading at La Raza this week) are great finds in themselves, and this is another way I can pass them on to you. Not to mention that I don’t have to worry that I’ve screwed up the info somehow!—you can go right to the source.

I sure do like the flexibility of all this, and it also leaves room for book announcements such as the recent ones from Swan Scythe Press and R.H. Peat’s new book, Abyss of the Moon, from Xlibris. But the system does depend, ultimately, on you. I lurk, listen, peek and beg to be included on people’s mailing lists in order to keep up with events, but I still might miss your happening. So send “stuff” (readings, workshops, book announcements—poet-phernalia, in other words) directly to me if you’re in doubt: that’s kathykieth@hotmail.com/. And, fer criminentlies, if you see an error in an announcement, lemme know! Infallible, I ain’t…


Rise of the Blue Moon:

Ron Lane sends us an announcement: the public is invited to attend a release party to celebrate the new issue of the Blue Moon Literary & Art Review (www.bluemoonlitartreview.com) on Friday, Sept. 17, from 7-9pm at the John Natsoulas Art Gallery, 521 First St., Davis. Blue Moon is not a new publication, but it's been on hiatus, and it's great to hear about its resurrection! The new issue features the winners of the Will Albrecht Young Writers Contest, as well as short stories and poems by frequently published authors from around the country. Guests will hear short, dramatic readings and have a chance to chat with local authors, including SnakePal/poet/photographer Ron Lane. Wine, soft drinks and appetizers will be served. For more information, call Scott Evans, Editor, at (530)902-0026.


A Starry Night Teen Showcase Oct. 24:

A Starry Night Poetry Series features Brad Henderson this Sunday. Then, in October, the series will present its First Annual Teen Poets of San Joaquin & Sacramento Counties Showcase (2010), with guest host David Voytek, on Sunday, Oct. 24 from 2-4:30pm at the Lodi Public Library, 201 W. Locust St., Lodi. Eighteen readers (ages 13-18) will be pre-selected to read 1-2 poems, five minutes per poet. To participate, see www.astarrynightproductions.com/poetryseries/poetryseries.htm

__________________

don't know much
about real lunacy
time is passing without my history
politics (like economy)

is pounding spaces classically
so where's there
from here now
guess clocks ticking
will stop nowhere


—Be Davison Herrera, Corvallis, OR

_________________

OPHELIA
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Ophelia—her promised romance
turns to a bitter cup of dismay.

Her mind troubled—clouds take
demon shapes—the rainbow sleeps.

Her lover’s once honeyed words—
now like bells jangled out of tune.

She wears a garland of lilies and
daisies—flowers of pain and desire.

Nearing the glassy waters of a brook
she stumbles and falls into the water.

Dry clothes holding her up—strangely
she looks like a pretty mermaid.
.
Chanting old tunes, garments heavy with
water—she’s pulled to a muddy death.

Happiness no—hope neither—once like
a fleck of fire—now like withering grass.

___________________

BRUSSELS IN SEPTEMBER
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

International Peace Congress, 1848

How far you traveled, Elihu, to see all these
ruddy British faces from across the Channel.

You know them from little upper rooms
and overcrowded halls in London, Liskeard,
Aberdeen—rowdy gatherings
as if farmers had driven their herds inside
to hear you; air so close you could hardly
catch breath to speak.

Here you recognize Friends in sober garb,
men who took you into their homes
and talked peace long into the evening.
Here they all are, in Brussels,
stepping off the train within cannon-range
of some battle or another,

such a press of greetings and arranging
for carriages. Opening-speeches
just hours away. English and Scots, French
and German, Dutch—so many languages
hoping to be understood.

How far you traveled to bring them
all together here, as the afternoon lingers
on its promises of peace,

and the shades pass over Ypres
and Waterloo.


(from Walking With Elihu)

__________________

BROKEN PROMISES
—Taylor Graham

In a rental kitchen
with cracked linoleum,
there’s no guarantee that scalding
water will give coffee beans
the zing of espresso, no promise
that a smear of peach preserves
will sweeten a roast
to remind you of brighter days.
Pacing from oven to sink,
you stop

to stare out the window,
where a robin—
should a robin even be here
this time of year?—feasts
on fat red pyracantha berries.
A migrant
perfectly at home.

__________________

NEXT BLOCK OVER
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

A right turn, and a right
turn, and a right turn from
my front door, and my
me-figure will make a U figure,
reach the shabby duplex
where a wanted-in-Louisiana
child molester holes up,

rifle in hand, rifle with power
to dismember a full-grown elk,
fell a mature sycamore.
Sheriff SWAT teams
park armored vans
across the street from us,
on the asphalt poured
hottop for school buses.

The cops extract long thin
countercharms meant
to nullify the bad warlock’s
steel-jacket magic. They
tape yellow crime scene

across our taken-for-granted
tall fir tree. I’ve walked my dogs
every square foot of sidewalk
this deranged man has trod.
He occupies my block as with
iron grappling hooks, he won’t be
dislodged from the garage.

Night. Now the sheriff-wizards,
the lookie-lous gone,
fling canisters stuffed with
magic herbs that smoke
(all right, tear gas) through
stoutly shut panes. Shatters
clatter, shards in sprinkles.

Nora and I, stepping out
onto our back patio, and little
Tippy, sniff the gas and scurry
back inside, a five-second exposure
choking, stinging, flooding
the holes in our faces with the caustic.

Now I know what Civil War
soldiers meant when first
“seeing the elephant”: they’d
scent “a whiff of the grape,” making
no reference whatsoever to fruit,

unless, when the poor teary-eyed
bastard, fleeing the intolerable
garage, triggered the rifle
into his own throat, he tasted
a swallow of something—grape,
maybe, but surely one cluster,

the fruit hybrid, tasting
neither sweet nor bitter,
knowing no decay, giving no
nourishment, the offspring
of shame grafted upon erasure
fallen bough and all
in one windshear…

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE LAST POEM IN THE WORLD
—Hayden Carruth

Would I write it if I could?
Bet your glitzy ass I would.

___________________

—Medusa

Photo by Michelle Kunert

As Days Constrict

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

SEASONAL CHANGES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

At once the season changes. Every tone
of light is on another plane. The day
constricts. A shiver in the air finds bone.
Trees shudder and release the birds
that flutter out and briefly fly away.

Then time resumes its count, shifts back in place.
Summer continues, canceling what was there:
a touch of winter in some kind of race,
something to mock the lack of words:
which season choose, with no time to prepare?

___________________

Broken promises: life is littered with them. Spring seems to promise eternal life, but now the leaves are starting to fall, to “turn” on us. The political season is choked with promises that we know won’t hold up. I remember how duped and betrayed I felt when I found out there was no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny. Life and our relationships with others (including our kids!) are full of promises we don’t—and maybe never could—keep. And maybe that's okay! Write about the broken promises in your life for our Seed of the Week and send ‘em to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.


The Fall '10 Issue of CONVERGENCE is online!

Look for work by Myles Boisen, Marlene Burns, Vince Corvaia, Tim Keane, Paul Lewellan, Paul Nelson, Sophia Pandeya, Francis Raven, April Salzano, and Jasmine Dreame Wagner in the Fall 2010 issue: www.convergence-journal.com/fall10

In addition, Editors' Choice pages and photos throughout the website are updated monthly, so stop by often. The site currently features new work by poet Michelle Johnson (on Linville's page), photographers Myles Boisen, Allyson Seconds, Tom Lux, Baxter Jackson, Katy Brown, Keith Moul, and artist Marlene Burns: www.convergence-journal.com


SOLO NOVO 2011/Wall Scrawls

Solo seeks poems that “scrawl on a wall” to tell others This is life on Earth! This happened! This became us. Solo seeks strong narrative, striking images, passionate voices and pauses when it all made sense or didn’t. Take on the hard stuff. Take on poems that need to be. New submission deadline is October 30, 2010: www.solopress.org/Solo_Press/Home_Page.html


Workshops!

•••Starts TONIGHT (Tues. 9/14), 8 sessions, 6-7:30pm: New Voices (free poetry writing workshop) at Valley Hi/Laguna Library w/ Sac. Poet Laureate Bob Stanley. Reg: 916-264-2920

•••Starts Tues. 9/21 thru 11/9, 2-5pm: Writing Your Memoirs w/Nick Rotondo, El Dorado Hills Sr. Center. Free, but must pre-reg: 916-358-3575.

For more upcoming workshops, click on Workshops/Retreats under SNAKE ON A ROD on our b-board, or check eskimopie.net

__________________

REARRANGING LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

She is a long way from time and home
in a summer room with breeze-lifted curtains

and restive shadows. Bent to a task of memory,
she sorts through long-forgotten clothes—

lifting them from an old travel-trunk she
had thought would remain closed. But tonight

she wants the things of her other self.
In the fidgety light, she moves like a

dream-walker, trying on all those outgrown
years—the tiny balcony open to the night.

__________________

THIS LONELINESS
—Joyce Odam

I borrow grief for these old journeys.
Grief is heavy but will sustain me
with experience and

advice for slow, cold nights ahead
when there is none to know
or care

that I am going anywhere.
Yes, grief is what I need
to take along

as an offering to each new place
where nothing can
assuage this loneliness

for somewhere that is home.

___________________

THE RELIABILITY OF DOORWAYS
—Joyce Odam

Through doorway after doorway
life enters—lingers—continues—

the sunlight slanting over the floor
like a path inviting you through,

here and there a chair—empty
or filled with someone reading,

or sewing, or only resting—testing
an impulse to simply let time pass,

while the hours change the look
of time, and the slow dust

settles, and a clock ticks softly
to assert its dependability.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

JOURNEY
—Joyce Odam

Oh, but I shine for distance
which must follow me
as I go down its
straight-away
its curve
and its
horizon
I am the
mark at the
beginning and the
end…I am the map between…

__________________

—Medusa

Thanks, Joyce and Katy, for helping us with our "movin' on".

A Bird With Soft Feathers

Enthusiastic fan at the 2009 Fair Oaks Chicken Festival

FOR GETTING AWAY
—JoAnn Anglin, Sacramento

Use the firescape, Z-stepping down
the brick outer wall, essential

as a skeleton, a clean way to leave
via window to window. And

with landings for moments to gulp
air, recalibrate grips. Reconsider

temptation of plunge into air.
If only we could take ourselves

this way: descend via logic,
measured, away from what burns,

not linger to snatch another heated
yearning, lifted in shimmering warmth.

___________________

Thanks, JoAnn, and thanks to the rest of today's contributors! This is a VERY busy week in NorCal poetry—check it out on the b-board (skinny blue box on the right of this column). And it’s Dancing Poetry time in SF on Sat. (9/18), from noon-4pm, when Artists Embassy Int’l presents the annual Dancing Poetry Festival, a unique and colorful combination of dance and poetry. Come hear prize-winning poems read by the poets, and the three Grand Prize winners will be danced by Natica Angilly’s Poetic Dance Theater Company. That’s at the elegant Florence Gould Theater in the California Palace of the Legion of Honor Museum in Lincoln Park, 100 34th Av. (near Clement). Go to www.dancingpoetry.com for info and tix—use the menu on the left side of their website for “DPF Tickets” as well as the 2010 Winners list. This year, Laverne and Carol Frith from Sacramento both have prize-winning poems, as well as SnakePal Claire J. Baker from Pinole.

Don’t forget the upcoming Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize; deadline is a week from Tuesday (Sept. 21). The Cultural Action Committee of Davis, Downtown Davis Business Association, Armadillo Music, and the John Natsoulas Center for the Arts are proud to announce a poetic tribute to the reluctant leader of the Beats, Jack Kerouac, with the Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize. First Prize is $200, Second is $100, Third is $50. For more info, go to culturalactioncommittee.com/2010/07/the-jack-kerouac-poetry-prize

Carl Schwartz sends us a poem about Fair Oaks Blvd. Speaking of which, don’t miss the Fifth Annual Fair Oaks Chicken Festival this weekend; go to www.fairoakspark.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=127&Itemid=188 for details. As you may know, when we think of Fair Oaks, we think of the many “wild” chickens that roam the streets, the sidewalks, the parks in the Fairest of Oaks where Rattlesnake Press was born and raised. Alas, I don’t see any formal poetry scheduled for the Festival, but there should be inspiration a-plenty!

___________________

FAIR OAKS & CARLSON
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Maybe you’ve been there?

The light changed to red
and all were poised ready
to go in different directions
at different speeds, tension

high, looking more like kids
playing tug-a-war than
educated drivers dedicated to
the orderly flow of traffic.

In fact they were kids, some
with their own kids, with
college degrees, piles of
memories, anxious to keep
movin’ on, to keep up with
the latest styles.

By the time the light changed
to green a large delivery van
was seen slowly completing its
turn. Everyone was stuck like
a sea star under vicious tides,
barely inching along on a route
that would always be in doubt.

___________________

love’s look touched my silent heart and taught it to sing
—bob buckenmeyer, lincoln

love’s look touched my silent heart and taught it to sing!
its touch i felt but i could not see a thing;
my eyes looked everywhere to find this spring,
but i saw only buds and blossoms cling

to branches, as nature displayed her love
in its new life fling so her wind might rove
throughout her buds and kiss them into flowers,
as her silent heart beats out its song of love!

___________________

love is a bird with soft feathers
—bob buckenmeyer

love is a bird with soft feathers
that nests within the human heart
and chirps warm tunes without a word
and never stops once loving starts,

why its sweet sound calms the daily storms
when winter rides through with snow unkind,
and its soft call warms sleet and snow,
humbly soothing the bite of swift wind,

then its warmth wakes up the night so dark
and gives the human world new sight,
as dark’s shadows genuflect in flight,
since the light of love new life sparks!

__________________

RETROSPECT
—JoAnn Anglin

At 30, I recall a phrase from the forbidden
Erskine Caldwell novel. I blush. I say, ‘Oh.’
Did I say it out loud? Understanding flows in
like a found dollar, a rainbow, a surprise gift.
One day, I realize what my son was up to at age 12.
On another, the malice of my ex-husband is clear.
What I thought ineptitude had been intended harm.
So many discoveries come late, if at all: grasping
the double entendre of an old movie, appreciating
the patient kindness of a neighbor, now dead.
Small illuminations, little prickings of history.
Some enter, some take another path, like an earring
that silently falls through the grate, perhaps to be
fished out later, perhaps to sink into the substrate.

___________________

Today's LittleNip(s):

The barnyard rooster
tries to act like a lion
by preening his feathers.

—Kikaku


This rooster
struts along as though
he had something to say.

—Anonymous

__________________

—Medusa

Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Allow Yourself

Photo by Jane Blue, Sacramento

ARS POETICA
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Allow yourself one poem a day.
Speak sadly of this.
Taste its meaning.

One day a poem will taste sadly to you,
test your crying, taste your tears.
Sweet tears for sadness,

one tear a day for sad remembering.
Tell someone,
or keep it to yourself for savor.

Savor one poem a day.
Write it yourself.
Do not give it meaning.

Let it grate—or soften
your hurt meaning.
Let it linger where it hurries—

to—or away. Let it go, then.
There is nothing to say in a poem.
Allow this.

Wing it
with falling if you
fall inward. How will this matter?

Do not ask a question.
Questions have no answers.
In a word is a poem. Begin it.

___________________

—Medusa

Yesterday's Moments Tremble

Richard Hansen and Annie Menebroker
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE DAY THE HOUSES CAME IN THE MAIL
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

Art work from Sweden, representational,
but houses; they are houses, sort of imposed
upon one another. I can't tell doors from windows.
Well, one is distinctly a window. It's blue. And
around the houses, blue on all sides. That's
what it's trying to be in this city, blue; a lengthening
of light drawing itself onto the sidewalks. Rows
of light, a garden of light, planted this late morning
in a mood of desperation. Are these houses many enough
to hold a lot of selves? Can the flat image
enter them?
What holds it together? Can a small spot
of dark be removed from the light and be re-
placed with yellow sun-tulips?

__________________

Lots going on in NorCal poetry this weekend; see the b-board for details. Among the many offerings: today you could travel to Grass Valley to hear the Women's Writing Salon, or to Davis to hear Louise Nayer read from her book, Burned. Tomorrow, travel to SF and hear Ann Menebroker and Bill Gainer read with Art Beck and A.D. Winans at Bird and Beckett Books and Records, or up to Lincoln to hear Taylor Graham read from her new book, Walking With Elihu. (And thanks to Annie and Bill for today's poems, and to Art and Katy for the pix!)

Tule Review editors Theresa McCourt and Linda Collins remind us that deadline for submissions to the Winter issue is Sept. 30. Tule is now 50-60 pages and perfect-bound, with an anticipated publication date of January, 2011. They consider "poetry of all styles and forms from both local and far-flung places, as long as the poems are strong and well-crafted." For the new, complete submission guidelines, go to www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org/tulereview.htm/. And
go to Medusa's SNAKE ON A ROD, click on Up-Coming Deadlines and Local Presses That Want YOU! for more submissions opportunities, as well as Submissions Etiquette for Publishing Virgins (and the rest of us)—a quick review of how to mind your manners in that department.

Katy Brown is a fan of the poetry section of the Guardian (www.guardian.co.uk/books/poetry); she sends us this article (even though they're not really haiku): www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/sep/09/streets-atlanta-haiku-advertising

__________________

AN AUGUST MOON
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

She asked,
how can you sleep
on a night like this?

I can’t.
I’ll wait on the porch
under a thin blanket.
Listen to the night sounds—
for the screen door to whisper,
her footsteps
to wake
whatever stars
still nap...

Sleep can find us
in the morning
when the cats
come
to play...

__________________

THE FUTURE OF HISTORY
—William S. Gainer

Everyone went back
to living,
like it was the only
thing to do,
left the memories
to the past,
forgot about what
happened...

as if
it never did...

and yesterday’s
moments
tremble...
knowing they are
the future
of our history...

wishing
they weren’t...

__________________

THE HEAVY MONEY
—William S. Gainer

Even when he’s trying
not to be
an asshole,
he still is
an asshole.

Is it something
he needs to unlearn,
relearn,
or just is?
The heavy money is on—
just is.

It’s been going on
for so long
that most people
don’t even ask his name
anymore,
just refer to him
for what he is,

“You know,
your friend—
the asshole...”

_________________

THE FOREVER
—William S. Gainer

When I was a kid
I could fly.

I remember it like it was
yesterday,
being launched,
over their heads,
looking down into those faces
and out into the forever...

With time gravity
becomes heavy.
They tell you,
you need to
touch the concrete,
to walk,
to follow them
wherever they are going—
even if
in different directions.

It’s been sixty years,
they’ve all gone now,
the ground has become
an old friend,
but lately
I’m having trouble
keeping my feet
there—

It’s coming back,
I’m not scared...
I used to fly...
The forever
tells me
I will
again...

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

NEEDING TO
—William S. Gainer

Sometimes
you just need
to believe
the lie—

even when she says,
I’m sorry...

__________________

—Medusa

Photo by Art Beck, San Francisco