Peach Blossoms and Poems in Your Pocket

It's National Poem in Your Pocket Day!

—Photo by Sandy Thomas, Sacramento

I SPY THE THREE-COLORED PEACH BLOSSOM

—Kim Ku, 1488-1534

I spy the three-colored peach blossom

As it floats down the mountain stream.

A free spirit,

I jump in, fully clothed.

I scoop those flowers in my arms

And leap up and down in the water.

(trans. from the Korean by Kevin O'Rourke)

_____________________

IT IS THE THIRD WATCH

—Anonymous, 16th Century

It is the third watch. The girl

     in the bridal bedroom is so gentle,

     so beautiful, I look and look again;

     I can't believe my eyes.

Sixteen years old, peach blossom complexion,

     golden hairpin, white ramie skirt,

     bright eyes agleam in playful glance,

     lips half-parted in a smile.

     My love! My own true love!

Need I say ought

     of the silver in her voice

     and the wonder of her under the quilt.

(trans. from the Korean by Kevin O'Rourke)

_____________________

LOVE, WHY DON'T YOU COME

—Anonymous, 16th Century

Love, why don't you come!

     Why don't you come!

On the way did someone build

     a castle of iron,

     erect a wall within the castle,

     build a house within the wall,

     place a rice-chest within the house,

     put a box within the rice-chest,

     tie you up within the box,

     make the box fast with a pair of

     dragon-turtle locks?

     Why don't you come?

With thirty days in the month,

     surely you could save one day for me?

(trans. from the Korean by Kevin O'Rourke)

____________________

THE ANGRY BRIDE
—Anonymous, 16th Century

Six crock bowls the bride smashed

In a fit of temper on her wedding night.

Are you going to replace them, mother-in-law asked?
The bride replied: Your son has smashed beyond repair

The vessel I brought from home.

Weighed one against the other,

The balance would seem quite fair.

(trans. from the Korean by Kevin O'Rourke)

_____________________

WIND LAST NIGHT BLEW DOWN

—Anonymous, 16th Century

Wind last night blew down

A gardenful of peach blossoms.

A boy with a broom 

Is starting to sweep them up.

Fallen flowers are flowers still;

Don't brush them away.

(trans. from the Korean by Virgina Olsen Baron and Chung Seuk Park)

_____________________

Poems-For-All at The Book Collector in Sacramento

—Photo by Sandy Thomas

Sandy Thomas sends us photos to remind us that it's National Poem in Your Pocket Day; for more about that, go to poets.org/page.php/prmID/406 or see www.sacramentopress.com/headline/66892/How_to_celebrate_Poem_in_Your_Pocket_Day for Trina Drotar's article in Sacramento Press.

Actually, there will be a lot going on today! Poetry With Legs features WTF's co-editor Rachel Leibrock along with frequent contributor Sage Alejandra; there will be film, cake and champagne to be had tonight to benefit Sacramento's French Film Festival coming in June (www.sacramentofrenchfilmfestival.org); or if you're more adventurous, you could head up to Minden, NV for the Genoa Cowboy Poetry and Music Festival this weekend. Info on all this can be seen on the blue board to the right.

And last night Andy Jones wrote to say that he and Sacramento Poet Laureate Bob Stanley will be reading on the Wyatt Deck of the Davis Arboretum at UCD today at noon. Hosts: Rebecca Moos and UC Davis Arboretum.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

MOTHER'S SONG
—Anonymous, 19th Century

it's quiet in the house so quiet

outside the snowstorm wails

the dogs curl up noses under their tails

my little son sleeps on his back

his mouth open

his belly rises and falls

breathing

is it strange if I cry for joy

(trans. from the Inuit by Stephen Berg)

_____________________

—Medusa

Jeanne Wagner reads at the Sac. Poetry Center

Monday night, April 23

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

[Correction: yesterday's post mistakenly stated

that SPC's Fiction Night took place April 23, 

but it was actually held on April 16. 

Time flies on silver wings, that's for sure...]

Heartbreak Spring

Novelist Bill Pieper reads at SPC's

Fiction Night Monday, April 16

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

HEARTBREAK SPRING

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
 

the child lies in bed

hearing songs from the birches and maples

birdwing flutters against the leaves

the smells of eastern Spring

Grandma’s garden comes alive in the backyard

moon vines climb the playhouse lattice

and wait for warm night to blossom wide

forsythia petals clump the yellow corners

cherry trees at budburst

mother bird hides in the fat bush by the porch

yesterday the child peeked in, parted the thickness

it shook, a baby fell from the nest

the child cringes in memory

hides under the covers

may the barberry hedge prick her knees

may the sun burn her cheek

may the wind scramble her hair

she has killed a creature from another species

a little bird like herself

at the mercy of Spring         

_______________________

FORECLOSED

12 January 2012

—Kim Clyde, Sacramento

The lot

Takes up nearly half the semicircle

Where I live.

The crotch of the dog leg

If you will.

The owners

Foreclosed upon early last summer

Don’t visit to check the mail anymore.

Nor do the dogs escape

To visit me

Late in the night.

The north end fence

Spans the walk way

Down the side of the garage

And is guarded by a

Stone raccoon

Its boards perforated

Like tear-out paper

In a student notebook.

The squatters

So diligent

Have not given up

This shelter

But have instead taken down

The south end fence.

It is better hidden

In the overgrown

Landscape.

I have not seen them

The only tenants

I can remark upon

Are the rats

Living in the crawlspace

Under the add-on

Where the home gym lived.

Overlooking

The Koi pond

And waterfall.

The pond,

Empty now

Held the fascination,

Of humans

And quadrupeds

Alike.

I recall a gunshot

Ringing out

In the wee hours

Once.

The owner

Shot a raccoon

Who came to fish.

His dogs fought it off.

Must have been a pretty good shot.

None of the dogs got hit

With the bullet

That killed the ‘coon.

Its remains

Are still there

In the grass

By the fence

Where the squatters

Gain access.

The Koi are gone now.

The pond is dry.

They were left behind

But somebody finally got ‘em.

Big feast.

The squatters are quiet.

I guess I don’t mind them

Invisible as they are.

But being humans

I know the potential

Of their habits

And find

I prefer the prospect

Of the

Four-legged critters.

________________________

 Loki

—Photo by Taylor Graham

ZEN GARDEN

—Taylor Graham, Placerville
 

We settle into warm, fragrant-

itchy grass, my puppy and I. A breeze

stirs air heavy with April

pollen, hum of bees and promises

of nectar; stirs

green seed-heads and the soft

sable guard-hairs over puppy-ribs.

No undercoat at all, yet.

Hardly any flesh. So thin—

bowlfuls of puppy-kibble disappear,

transform to energy, un-

sprung spring synapses of sheer

mischief. She'll never

grow into her choke-

collar, her ears, her whimsy, while

this morning I'm heavy

as clay under heat of a sudden full-

spring Tuesday. But that's OK.

My puppy lolls, tongue lazy

among grasses, for-just-a-briefest

moment, this Zen garden.

________________________

DANDELIONS, DAISIES

—Taylor Graham

I

love her—I

love her not. Each weed

I pull, she grabs and dashes

off,

pure

puppy. How

shall I ever get

things in order, for instance

my

mind

this April

day, so warm and drow-

sy, thoughts, weeds, and puppy at

play?

_______________________ 

FROM HARMONY TO HARMONY

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Ivan has enjoyed

spring fever since 1973

always wears surfer shorts

and tongs to work

when neutral dress shirts

heavy drab oxford leather shoes

and subtle ties were preferred

by the power-

ful-of-it people.

Today he is as happy

as ever he can be

even though he is

three-piece-suited

tight brown belted

and neck-choked by

perfect dimpled paisley cloth

that joins collar to waist

in a Freudian blatant way.

He is interviewing

for a new position

somewhere overlooking

the shifting blue to green

to brown sea

far from the pollen that does pollute

his internal system but comes from plants

and flowers that pepper and delight his soul.

_______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas, the images and the rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

—Wallace Stevens

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors! And be sure to check out the new Poetry Now at sacpoetrynow.com—new format, new editors, and very accessible.

Scott Evans with the latest issue of Blue Moon Review

at SPC's Fiction Night Monday, April 16

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Spring Fever

—Photo by Joyce Odam

IN THE MYSTERIOUS GARDEN

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

The shadows conspire to hide the children.

The children laugh, we cannot find them.

We look behind trees.

Muffling wet leaves sound like whispers.

The timid flowers blend away

in a misleading direction.

The whole garden

listens.

We hold our breath,

until we know

there never were any children,

and there never was such a garden.

___________________

 LOST IN THE OWL’S EYE

—Joyce Odam    

Here at the owl’s eye

I walk around

look through the trees at trees

for the children who came

to play in the leaves and the shadows.

They got lost in the wavery green.

Now they are lost in the black.

The forest is too deep for them.

Now it is too deep for me.

I go in,

my eyes widening with night-suns

and the owl’s eye turns and turns.

I can hear the children

beyond the next depth

laughing and calling to each other

in the night.

I can see wisps of them

float through the

disappearing centers.

The owl’s eye contains them

and deepens when I enter.

                                

(first pub. in Yankee, 1974)

__________________________

THE SMALL WOODS

—Joyce Odam

There is a woods that keeps its wilderness,

a fallen tree-log stretched over a stream

where children like to cross. Swift water

glints beneath. Trees fleck golden in the air.

The tree-log settles above the rushing stream.

Nothing sinister here.

Gold trees dapple the air.

The sky is blue. Leaves drift down.

There’s nothing sinister,

the daylight lasting from dawn to dusk

with sky that’s blue forever, leaves drifting down,

and nothing but play to do.

The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,

the children serious, centered, alone,

with nothing but play to do.

The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,

the children serious, centered, alone,

with nothing but play to do—

exploring time, and life, themselves—

serious children.  Centered.  Each alone

on the log-bridge, the gurgling water close beneath

as they enter time—and life—themselves,

the small, still woods keeping its wilderness.

                                                      

(first pub. in Song of the San Joaquin)

 

—Photo by Joyce Odam

A MEMORY OF TREES
—Joyce Odam

Somewhere trees of dark design

droop into sorrow to refine

the art of losing leaves and time . . .

the art of losing leaves and time

drooping with sorrow to define

the dying trees of dark design.

 

________________________

STARLINGS

—Joyce Odam

In brand new trees the starlings dart

among the branches—black as

polish—darkly shining—

small energies of busyness,

quickly following each other

from one small tree

to another

in the parking lot—over

the parked cars and the cars

that muscle into and out of

each tight space, one tree for each,

as if put there for starlings to claim.

And in one tree, a small finch rests

a moment, then flies off,

as if slow eyes release it.

Cars come and go—glad for the trees

—glad for the parking spaces,

busy with busyness.

And overhead, two seagulls soar in slow,

broad circles, not disturbing

the flat blue sky, unbothered by

their silent glide. How easy it all

seems—this spring day,

tempered by rain—

intermittent—hard and soft rain—

with occasional far thunder rumblings,

unthreatening,

The new trees are beginning

to turn a tremulous, soft green

and are full of starlings.       

________________________

Thanks, Joyce, for today's fine poems and photos! 

It's Spring, so what are you going to do about it? Sleep on a park bench? Clean out your house? What does the young man's fancy turn to? Our Seed of the Week is Spring Fever: Tell us all about how this infirmity affects you. (I'm on a crusade to clean out every weed in the garden—spring always brings out the Mother Earth in me.) Send your spring poetry sprouts to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though—check out Calliope's Closet under the Snake on a Rod in the green box to the right of this for all the many past SOWs we've tackled; see if any of them tickles your spring fancy. 

Thursday is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and Trina Drotar has written about it for Sacramento Press. Go to www.sacramentopress.com/headline/66892/How_to_celebrate_Poem_in_Your_Pocket_Day

________________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE WET TREES

—Joyce Odam

The trees are turned deep with wet light.

It has been raining.

        Am    I    awake . . . ?

All night I go among them, marveling.

The moonlight engulfs them.

I am surrounded by soft and shimmery light.

          Am    I    asleep . . . ?

I awaken to the sound of rain beginning.

________________________ 

—Medusa 

 —Photo by Joyce Odam

The Vitality of Imagination

Armstrong Woods

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

PRIMITIVE ENTOMOLOGY

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

A hollow stump—I look closer.

Not hollow, but

honeycombed to its ancient

woodgrain. Gray. No,

silver with sound. Not humming,

infinitesimal vibration

of wings. Thousands. Silver

spurting from the stump, a swelling

chorus without words,

insect rapture rising from a ruined

choir, the stump-core.

Termites erupting too fast too many

to count. Seeking what?

Life. Famished to eat the world.

Renewal. From dead

wood, a silver jet of Spring,

that crazy dance we all

must join in.

___________________

PATIENCE
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

black sky, hazy, cool, swaddles stars

leaves shimmer jade, cerulean

breathe pale against the night

new leaves on an old tree

canopy still broad green in summer

tonight, new leaves

buds a week ago

open like folded paper

notes passed in class

origami birds

two years ago

our love was new, rhapsody

I wrote my love to you

under this tree

tonight, I watch the leaves

my love coiled, longing, hoping

day after day, we’re apart

____________________

FRUSTRATION
—Ann Wehrman

the position was not offered

“They didn’t think you could do the job”

I underplayed my successes, and worse,

confided that it’d been a difficult decade

navigating secondary education credentialing,

a Masters program and an internship in community college

I left out many details of the difficulty

though they would have made a good story—

regardless, the committee decided against me

the irony is that for sixteen weeks preceding

I did do it, at their school; I did teach

called in at the last minute, temporary assignment,

could I take it?  Yes, oh yes!
start the next day, no materials written, text unread

I plunged in anyway,

forced myself awake at 4:30 a.m.

no coffee, hoping my aging bladder would make it

through the ninety-minute commute on public transit

cold, some days raining

one day, rain and wind so strong that power failed

yet I showered in the dark

flagged down the first bus in that storm

umbrella flapping inside out, cold and wet

I caught that 5:30 bus, then the 6:20 train,

then waited downtown, boarded-up windows

everyone but me smoking, leaving no clean oxygen

don’t look anyone in the eye, hold your own

I waited at the station, then caught the next, 6:50, train

ghost-eyed stragglers propped into corners

tough guys with bikes

kept my eyes open and to myself

gritted my teeth, lifted sixty plus pounds

books and binder in my sopping wet

rolling backpack off the train

walked fast to make it through the doors

down the steep stairs before the train pulled out

rolled steady and fast, kept walking in the cold

finally, the gym; ducked into the women’s bathroom

hot water, a mirror, a clean toilet

found myself in the mirror, rearranged my face

as a teacher, not an urban survivor

smoothed my hair, put away extra scarf and sweater

that no teacher would need

since teachers all have cars

put on lip-gloss, took a deep breath

dragged backpack to the coffeehouse

where my students gathered before 7:30 class

where I lost myself talking with them,

warmed up with hot coffee

then we walked to the nearby classroom

others filed in, each with a story—

sixty-year-old who took his chemo treatments

mornings before class

ex-Army man whose haunting memoirs earned him A’s

the warm, the pregnant, the scholarly

the rebellious, the funny, the beloved

my students who, in that class, like all classes

made it worth it

 

____________________

sitting by my window

waiting for you

loving you for the life

that flows from your heart

compassion in your voice

eyes that betray your love

I tremble for your kiss

greedy, unable to wait

I envision your lips

touch them softly with mine

—Ann Wehrman

____________________

MEMORIAL

—Caschwa, Sacramento

The beloved deceased had been a multi-tasker

Extraordinaire, leaving the Age of Specialization

Sitting still in a dark corner of history

To properly recognize his accomplishments

A funeral procession was engineered,

Synchronized, calendared, and refined

Nineteen cars, all different makes,

Models, years, classes, colors, engines,

Some metric, some standard

Each racing ahead in the darkness

High beams boldly lighting their separate paths

No tail lights or turn signals to follow

Would they all converge at the cemetery?

Would any be lost or call in late?

A busload of commoners awaited the answer. 

___________________

NAME IT LATER

—Caschwa

(Sometimes we need to gather

More facts, more data

Before giving something a name)

This is the poem I was going to write

After remembering just what is was

I was trying to say, to convey

There is always that piper to pay

But they don’t wear change belts

They confront you with black belts

I challenged my spell check to

Provide me a maitre d’ and it

Gave me Waiter Dee, tee hee

Why does the keyboard have

Two Enters and no Exit?

And Caps Lock is a key.

Personal ad:  Single, double chin,

3-piece suit, 4-wheel drive, off at 5,

Seeks perfect mate

 

____________________

Thanks to today's cooks. You can catch a glimpse of Taylor Graham if you go to Poetry in Motion in Placerville tonight! And Cynthia Linville has a new book of poetry out: The Lost Thing, from Cold River Press. You can purchase it there (www.coldriverpress.org/HTML/lost%20thing.htm) or on Amazon (www.amazon.com/gp/aw/s?i=stripbooks&field-author=Cynthia Linville). Or there will be a book release at Shine (1400 H St., Sac.) on Saturday, May 5, from 2-4pm, and you can get a copy there. 

There are retreats, and there are retreats. May 24-27 is the weekend of Writing Away Retreats in Colorado, which will include manuscript consultations, discussions and ample time to work in an isolated location that includes meals and all the bells and whistles you would expect for such a pricey endeavor. Info: www.writingawayretreats.info 

Closer to home is the Gold Rush Writers Conference May 4-6 at the Leger Hotel in beautiful, quaint Mokelumne Hill, off Hwy 49 just past Jackson.  Monika Rose writes: It's only $175 for the full weekend, including a picnic supper at novelist Antoinette May's home, buffet lunch, a banquet dinner with guest speaker, Mystery novelist Carla Black, and 4 workshops with noted scholars and writers, networking with other writers and editors—plus so much more. If you just want to come for the Poetry Clinic on Publishing and Marketing Poetry on Saturday, and add in the banquet dinner and speaker fees, as well as the open mic time afterwards until wee hours, then that is $55.00. The weekend will start with an open mic at the Mokelumne Hill Library which everyone is invited to attend, whether or not they are going to the retreat. Go to www.goldrushwriters.com and contact Antoinette May to reserve your space.

July 28 is the deadline for the 8th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest, presented by Poets Club of Lincoln and sponsored by the Lincoln Library and Friends of the Lincoln Library. All ages, including a "Young Poets" category. Download the rules at www.libraryatlincoln.org (click on "poetry"), or call Alan Lowe at 916-408-1274.

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

TRAVEL GUIDE

—Caschwa

Calico, California

A barren ghost town

Tourist attraction

Prospering from the

Vitality of imagination

Cartagena, Colombia

Another tourist attraction

Where prostitutes shed

Their calico dresses leaving

Nothing to the imagination

______________________

—Medusa

 Salt Point

—Photo by Cynthia Linville