A Bum's Eye View

P. Green by Joseph Albers, 1971

—Poems by Neil Ellman, Livingston, NJ

P. GREEN
(Josef Albers, screenprint)

On a green planet
green with age
the birds
in their verdancy
sing a green lament

green air               
green clouds
green lava flows
and beaches greener
than the shadow of the sun   

how green the seas
the land
how fresh in spring
and raw in fall

when every life
is green
and greener still
is death

green rivers, lakes
green glacial ice                  
green the snow that falls
on a summer day
                                 
while from afar   
how blue
the planet seems.

 Singer of the Cosmic Opera by Paul Klee, 1923

SINGER OF THE COSMIC OPERA
(Paul Klee, lithograph)

In perfect pitch
she sings of creation
as if it were her own
never wavering
from her conception
to the stage where
she would die alone
a swan, a whore
a pitiful maid
rejected by an audience
that like the universe
whistles its disdain
and exits in a rush.

 Animals Devouring Themselves by André Masson, 1929
 

ANIMALS DEVOURING THEMSELVES
(André Masson, pastel)

They are what they eat
and what they eat is they
the hearts of their enemies
becoming their hearts
and their tongues
more able to speak the unspeakable
and question the will of their blood
and their eyes more clearly to see
from another point of view
deeper and farther
from the hunger in their craws
without ever knowing
that whatever devours itself
becomes itself
and nothing more.

 Tomorrow is Never by Kay Sage, 1955
 

TOMORROW IS NEVER
(Kay Sage, painting)
 
When tomorrow never comes
no resurrection, no messiah,
no apocalypse
no clockwork repetition of the tides
no reawakening of passions past
no reopening of old wounds
no new battlefields.

When tomorrow never comes
words of prophecy
are silenced by the darkness
of the sun eclipsed.

Always now, just beyond
Inevitability and faith
all things stay the same
all things languish, wither, wait
for the second coming of the sun.

  Black Fire by George Condo, 1961
 
 

BLACK FIRE I
(Barnett Newman, painting)
 
From red-hot
to orange, yellow, white
and then still hotter black
like a luminous star
that feeds upon itself
to quench its thirst for light
becoming flames so dark
they burn the tongue
and sear the heart
this life is little more
than light consumed
in the center of a fire.

 A Bum's Eye View by George Condo, 1985

A BUM'S EYE VIEW
(George Condo, painting)

From my perspective
with my point of view  
with myriad eyes
guttered as I am
under a cardboard sky
in the perpetual darkness
of my life
like an invisible black hole
in the contemptuous space
between the stars
I watch the passersby
oblivious to my place
In their brief universe
scattering pennies
for me to eat
when I want more
to feed my appetite—
in one end
and out the other
where I consume their world
and they become like me.

 Childhood of the Chosen One by Paul Klee, 1930
 

CHILDHOOD OF THE CHOSEN ONE
(Paul Klee, painting)

Before he could speak
the language of fish and foul
before he could bend
steel by and to his will
before he could raise the dead
and fly with the ease
of an albatross          
before he could spell
his name in clouds
he was just a child
who ruled his make-believe
of plastic toys and bottle caps
as if he were the king
who would rule the world of men
as if he were a child again.

 The Evil Genius of a King 

by Giorgio de Chirico, 1914-1915
 

THE EVIL GENIUS OF A KING
(Giorgio de Chirico, painting)

Every word of his a law
every law a mystery without a shape
the way of gods and kings
we were absorbed
into the language of his will.

No cause, no consequence
his genius in malevolence disguised
as poetry and love
the monarch did what he was
born to do
and we were meant
to do as we were told.

With neither reason nor excuse
without conscience or remorse
the king decreed that we shall
turn to stone, skin to bone
without complaint—
and so we did.

_________________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE STARS BELOW
 (Roberto Matta Echaurren, acquatint)
 
There is no reason in the sky
and even less below
but mere hyperbole and pretend
how the stars spawn gods
and monsters from shreds of light
shape myth from history
and myth becomes a faith
and faith dissolves to black—
no reason in the stars above,
below and in the eye.

_________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Neil Ellman today for his fine ekphrastic poetry!

The Stars Below by Roberto Matta Echaurren, 1965

Left Alone With Words

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

FINE VOICE

I am in fine voice today.
No vanity.
No need to sing.

My thoughts are under water.
I am swimming in a spiral.

Today I am part of my oneness.
What else am I made of—
What part truer than the other?

____________________

CIRCULAR DANCE OF WATER
(after a drawing by Angela Mark
in Red Owl Magazine, XXIII)

element of water
element of dream

swirl
of movement

bubbles of light
bubbles of air

energy
of being

element of spiral
nothing at either end

only the upward
downward

swimming
holding your breath

FIGMENT
(after a Wayne Hogan drawing)

a nude figure swimming in the black sea water of sleep,
a white glow moving in a slow direction, unhurried
and shimmering with dream distortion, afraid or not
afraid—

it’s hard to see from this dimension, treading the black
and drifting sky so far above—our own lost moon 
shimmering there—beside him—in that glassy water

______________________

A HISTORY OF TEARS

This dimensionless depth—this brimming pond—
a fringe of light encroaching, perhaps squeezing in.
What does she look for in this black water—her
own reflection?  She has become a silhouette. 
Maybe night redeems her.
                                   She steps in.  It is shallow.
She bends to splash herself, feel the slow ripples
begin.  The water pulls down, draws her into her
reflection.  She has been told she will meet herself
in the future.  Is this where it begins—this
small black lake of her own weeping?
                                                

(first pub. in Poetry Now, 1998)

RAIN STORY

It was only a glimpse, a high window,
a low light on
and her shadow passing back and forth.
        .
It was only a passer-by
hunching in the rain without a destination,
slowing.
        .
It was only a hallway outside a room
in which the occupant was never known
by any but the one with the key.
        .
The shadow of the woman
stopped her pacing
and looked out at the rain.
        .
Cars drove back and forth
catching the rain in their headlights
and splashing it with their wheels.
        .
The hallway had no drama to reveal.
Shadows played on the carpet from
the window light at the edge of the hall.
        .
Under the hallway doors lights were on or off.
Same thing with the transoms. Nothing much
going on around there, only dreaming and tall tales.

SWIMMING IN LOST TIME
(after "The Swimming Hole" by Thomas Eakins)

Six of them, in stillness and in motion,
in and out of the swimming hole,
the slow, slow day
perfect around them, time that is gone.

They are timeless. They are unaware
of this. They think of life as theirs,
no encumbrance, no place to fail, or die.
They yield themselves to the pleasure

of each other’s sameness, their nudity,
their separateness within
this closing hour. This is the only way
they can escape the rest of their lives :

This is a still of their existence—silent as
memory’s limitation, even the water-ripples
are silent around them, the sunlight
as it enters the green shadows.

_______________________

HAPPY

The way everything changes color
when you look at it again, like shades
of turning light on the second day of spring,

like old moods gone crazy, becoming
new things.  A boy holds a colored scarf
in his mind.   It flickers orange, then blue.

His small dog dances on hind legs.
The rain patters around them and bounces off
his green umbrella.

Under his feet the small lake forms
and invites him to splash.  His shiny yellow boots
stand upside down in the water,

and he is happy.  A mauve shadow
passes over and becomes a menace.
The boy is stuck in his puddle

and the small dog is trying to beg.
The boy holds a purple world in his hands
and looks for an opening in it.

His face is turned away to his new divining.
Somehow the day contains all this
on a single page; it flutters loose     then turns into

a small paper boat that drifts away…
like the wish… like the dream… 
like the thing come true in the small boy’s wish.

SPLASH, RIPPLE AND SOUNDLESSNESS

Shall I do
the trite thing,
the bright thing,
the right thing?
Shall I rhyme
with myself forever
or chime with the wrong sound
that never wanted me?
How shall I love
this or any other?
I am only the lonely lonely
repetition.
I am only the echo echoed thin.
I am in
the echo.
I am thin-
ning out.
I am the great out of the in.
I was never this thin.
I am haunt of Grandfather’s violin,
of Grandmother’s deaf-seeing,
her eye as music . . .
ah, the lake, the bank, the deer . . .
the loss as butterfly.
I am melted butter;
see me fly.
I am melted butter.
Mother melted away with me.
She gave me all these words to play with
when left alone with words.
I love them.
I play I play I play the words she gave me,
rub them into poetry,
mail them,
sail them like awful airplanes into dark childhood skies,
freeze my eye upon their vanishing.

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

STORY

You in your caves of light
and dark, swimming under-
water, holding your breath . . .

How deeply you entered
the breathing-holes of the sea
and, time-deprived, swam back . . .

______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's fine poems and pix, and a note that our new Seed of the Week is Exploding Paint Cans. (Yes, you read that right.) See what you can do with this surprising topic and send your poems, photos and artwork on this (or any other subject) to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs.

—Medusa

The Arts of Swimming, Choosing, Healing

Sacramento Poet Laureate Jeff Knorr, reading at

Sac. Poetry Center last Monday, July 6

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

STARTING ANEW
—Caschwa, Sacramento

I heard from reliable sources
That I was born
Came out of a wet womb
To be met by a rainy Friday
Sometime last century
Who’s counting?

Raised in Culver City
Where many popular movies
Were filmed without my help
I would later see limos
Use the avenues I did
Why wasn’t I rich?

Same day, same town
When Elvis and Nancy recorded
Their “Ain’t” song together
A motorcycle crash left me
In a coma for 10 days
Did I have a vision of them?

Got married, had a baby
House, car, dog, job, etc.
Had quite enough of
Overpopulated Southern California
Moved to Sacramento
Is this any better?

Got into writing poetry
Or at least letting it speak
To me and writing what I heard
Then I changed my byline
Like changing a pair of socks
Does it matter?

Started reading the SAK BEE
(Sacramento Africanized Killer Bee)
Polarized opinions, politics
“Facts” subject to correction
Online for those who love popups
Ghostwriters in the sky?

Giant black clouds are forming
Some locals are still lighting fireworks
Scientists are tracking an oceanic blob
With a 5% temperature differential
Well-funded candidates talk nonsense
Are we really that stupid?

We should take down all the flags
Their medieval origins led us to revolt
Greek democracy was meant to be a forum
For slave owners similar in design to HOA’s
Why don’t we all just stand and pledge our
Allegiance to helping those in need?

 Albert Garcia also featured at SPC last week

—Photo by Michelle Kunert 

 BAX'S FIFTH SYMPHONY, 1st MOVEMENT
              Sir Arnold Bax, composer and poet (1883-1953)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

I call the allegro Baxist boogie-woogie
—something my own to call that jazziness
almost American as a fat smoked stogie—
but really it is, in syncopated leanness,
a cakewalk. Bax was not a man for meanness,
to minstrel out notes as might, say, Debussy
in blackface iterations. Nothing loosely,
glibly contrived, no racist snazziness.

No, this is Gottschalk elevated nine planes
beyond vatic. Grand jeté sprung over the void
Jack-be-nimble, comet and asteroid.
Dissonant flute and trumpet mute, with veins
of stopped-horn moto perpetuo in this cakewalk
surprise from a poet quite Wordsworth-like
—given to lakewalk.

_______________________

IMMERSION THEORY
           Bax’s Fifth Symphony, Movement Two
—Tom Goff

Keats wrote in his letters—in the film Bright Star
he proclaims it to Fanny Brawne—you don’t
swim out
into the lake to scoot or scud to the far
shore duck-quick, but to luxuriate without
doubt or care in the immediate lake,
for the sensation of water. Poetry,
music, it’s like that. Realize how naked
swimming was then, the bare glide, utter free
play of one’s limbs and sex in liquid. Why
Arnold Bax? Immersion theory. Drink in the live
dizzy cliff-edges at Big Sur where thrive
milk cattle on downslope, fly-footed clinging things.
It’s the yawn of seawall itself over ocean, in rings:
tremors from trumpet bells ripple the tilted skies.

Here’s Celtic California, sung polyphonic.
Green swales atop faults. Planes that shift.
Fog architectonics.

_____________________

BAX'S FIFTH, MOVEMENT THREE AND EPILOGUE
—Tom Goff

I love that Lewis Foreman* defends as epic
this symphony. He situates it right
among those works composed under icy Nordic
influence. Grand as Sibelius, but the light
through Bax’s own strong-tinted English filter.
Chorale first, through a glass darkly. Then leave
that behind
for tachycardia pounding allegro, tilter
hooving with leveled lance through yards of mind.
We know if we know Bax how the heart’s a ranger,
wants life that’s heady, that plants that heart in danger.
Anticipations, full-tilt-trombone-led
in bass notes, of passacaglia to come. Well, rise
and subside, you motive, rise and subside
dolphinbacked so the chorale can ride tridented!

Then, though, Foreman dissents from the Epilogue’s
logic:
how inexorably Bax winds through his dissonances
and dark straits, almost the ultimate anagogic.
Then a brief rapture, after the long anabasis.


*Bax’s biographer
 

Sandi Wasserman reads at SPC open mic July 6

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

LEARNING TO SWIM AT THE YMCA
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
 
Was a huge castle of a building,
Constructed by the WPA,
And with rooms that hadn’t
Been used, even opened
Since the early thirties.

You always knew
Where the pool was though:
Chlorine—much higher
That the recommended
Dose.  Would turn your
Hair to straw and a sickly
Green.  Eyes red for days.

And as we lived
In the center of the Illinois
Prairie, my parents
Knew I needed
To know how to swim,
And enrolled me
In lessons at the Y pool.

At dinner that night
After the first class,
My father asked “Who’s
The teacher?”  “Mr. Haddock.”
I am not making this up.
“Good man, lots
Of personality.”  Which
Back in those days meant
A fellow Kennedy Democrat.

“I don’t like him,” I whined.
“Why not?”  “He’s got a mean
Look.  And, and,” (never hurt
To try out a good dramatic
Snivel), “A whistle and
A clipboard.”  Had problems
With authority figures
Even back then.

But it was sink or swim
With my father, so I took
Lessons every weekday
That summer.  Advanced
From Tadpole to Minnow,
Then Fish, Flying Fish and
Finally Shark.  Had the Y
Triangle patches to show
For it all, too.  “Congratulations,
Kid, you made it,” taking my
Slightly wrinkled hand into
His for a manly YMCA shake.
“Great.  Can I join the swim
Team now?”  “We didn’t
Teach you that much.”

_______________________

THE ART OF CHOOSING 

A SWIMMING POND
—Kevin Jones

There were places to swim
In town.  But they had rules:
Nude shower before entering
The pool; no running; no
Jumping; no splashing; no
Peeing; no pantsing; no
Physical contact with
The opposite sex.

Surely there was a world
Elsewhere.  There was,
And in it were
The old strip mine
Ponds east of town.  The
Best was the blue water
Lake at Forty & 8 Park.
Our parents’ favorite.
Though the blue might
Simply have been
A reflection of the
Busch Bavarian cans
Parents had flung
Onto the bluff from
The beach over years
Of Sundays.  But  you
Never knew when
Somebody’s mother’s
Bridge club might show
Up unannounced for
A dip, and nobody
Wanted that.

So it was always farther
Along into the mines for
The next best pond.  Green
Water was the next choice,
If it sparkled a bit,
And moved in the breeze.
Brown would do, though
It would leave you with
A slimy scum, and two
Days’ worth of the odor
Of rot.  But grey water?
Never.  Ever.  We all knew
Even that much.

_______________________

SWIMMING CLASS, WESTERN 

ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY
—Kevin Jones
 
There was a rule, whose rule?
Who makes up these rules?
That men could not graduate
From the college without
Being able to demonstrate
The ability to swim fifty yards.

And so one of the few required
Courses was swimming, taught
In the outdoor pools of Western
Hall, and offered only spring
And fall semesters.  Those
Of you who know the Midwest
Know what this means.

And the class would gather,
In our Phys Ed Department
Required purple Speedos
(The school colors were
Purple and gold.  Just like
The title of the school song.
I could sing it for you
Even now, but you’d
Regret it), watching our
Instructor, recruited from
The university of Alaska, he
Told us; we believed him,
And why not, check the pool.

He carried a small hatchet on
A cartridge belt.  If it failed
To break the ice on one
Swing, we’d go inside and
Play ping pong for the hour.

Remembering it all now, I
Realize that the sight of
Thirty guys in a United
Nations of sizes and shapes,
Playing ping pong in purple
Speedos, is only slightly
Less frightening than
The prospect of
Drowning under the ice.

________________________

THE LAST MERIT BADGE
—Kevin Jones

Just couldn’t seem
To nail it.  Last one
For Eagle Scout:
Lifesaving.
Failed the YMCA course.
Could have been
A too-enthusiastic
Demonstration of
Artificial respiration.
The volunteers
Complained. 
Their ribs.

Failed the summer
Camp merit badge
Class (First Scout
In history to fail
A camp merit
Badge class).
Might have been
That I didn’t really
Want to spend
Time in the
Boathouse with the
Lifeguards picking
Stems and seeds.

Finally.
Passed the Red Cross
Class at North East
Park pool.  Old,
Filtration system,
Not good, water
Yellow, so things
Went quickly.

Last task: rescue
Drowning victim
Volunteer Susie Rae.
Not the best of
Lifeguards, but she
Made up for it in
A style we’d later
Come to appreciate
On Baywatch.

I saved her.  Gallantly,
And in several separate
Ways.  Got the badge,
Got the Guard certificate,
But somehow, Susie Rae
Never spoke to me again.

 Taylor Graham's Loki in her Elizabethan Collor

—Photo by Taylor Graham

AGE OF DISCOVERIES
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

It started as a tick bite in the armpit. Now
Loki wears an Elizabethan collar like a 16th-
century superhero—or does it suggest
the Art of Healing still has gaps to trip over,
as my dog trips around the house. Don’t
call her “cone-head.” This courtly collar
is stylish, if primitive. It prevents her licking
the wound. It also keeps her from her
water bowl, and maybe even sweet, deep
breathing in the heat of July; causes her
to bump into door-frames, trees, furniture.
My lady-dog peers out through half a plastic
bubble and learns the art of swimming
through what was once dry land, her home;
her known world.

 16th-Century Superhero

—Photo by Taylor Graham

DOG SENSE
—Taylor Graham
                 for Loki
 
She doesn’t ask why she must wear
a lampshade on her neck. It radiates forward,
so her face is a lightbulb aimed at sky.
An e-collar, veterinary device to keep her
from licking the inflamed, itching
tick bite. Or maybe it’s a punishment
from the gods. What she can’t understand
she bears staidly, her eyes deep
as the wells where women gather to mourn
their losses. She knows, with heart
and all six senses, what she knows. And
here’s another mystery, why we won’t let her
jump into the back of the truck
while we reconfigure it—the last place she
saw her pup alive. How could
she fathom why her golden puppy died?
The postmortem gave no answer.
It remains an itching puzzle begging Why?
The stuff of Greek tragedy, her eyes.

 New pup Trekker (aka Troll)

PHOTO OF THE PUP
—Taylor Graham
 
His shadow is bigger than he is. Nothing strange about that, the sun’s low, first morning of his life here. He’s so proud of the tiny stick he’s carrying. You can’t even see it in his mouth for the shadow. That’s life—he’s got it all ahead of him, learning about pebble, lichen, twig. He disappears in the shadow that’s life, just a fiber on the texture of earth, pattern in the picture moving.

 Trekker and his Shadow

—Photo by Taylor Graham

CHILDHOOD

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
 
Long ago we kids
flattened cardboard boxes,
jumped on top.
Holding hands we bumped,
glided, spun, careened
down summer hills—
the hill
laughing more with us
than AT us.

___________________

IN A JAPANESE GARDEN
—Claire J. Baker
 
Waterlilies open.
Wind blurs
reflections.
Waiting
for no wind.

Watching ripples
ripple
and return,
we breathe
in circles.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

GOOD FORTUNE
—Claire J. Baker
 
the setting sun
cradled in
a V-shaped limb:
a wishbone
that got its wish.

___________________

Our thanks to today's contributors for this hearty breakfast buffet! Today is the Barnes & Noble To Kill a Mockingbird Read-a-Thon, celebrating the release of Harper Lee's new novel. For info, see 

www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/july-13-mockingbird-monday.

This is a busy week in NorCal poetry! Check it all out by scrolling down to the blue box (under the green box) at the right.

___________________

—Medusa

John Bell, reading at SPC last Monday

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

Scroll down to the green box on the left

for what's happening at the Sac. Poetry Center

tonight!

Stirred For A Bird

Peregrine Falcon

(Anonymous Photo)

THE WINDHOVER


—Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
 

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
      

      dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
      

      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding


High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing


In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
      

      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
      

      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding


Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
      

      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion


Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! 

      

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion


Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
      

      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

_______________________

—Medusa, noting that there is a commentary on this poem on Poetry Foundation that you might check out at www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/guide/182786#guide

The Day The Rain Forgot To Stop

Doorway, Locke, CA

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

FOR JO JO

At night
when the
when the
paintings
are quiet

I come
I come
I come out
to dance
in front
of them

bent body
bent in the
in the dark
in the paintings
lights lights
lights lights
go on lights
go on and off
as cars pass
pass in the night
I come I come
out to dance when
the paintings are quiet

I am the pattern
I am the pattern
I am the pattern
turning in the dance
bent in the dance
the night is full
of me the night
is full of the
painting the paintings
look our at the
pattern dancing
dancing dancing
dancing patterns

I come out
I come out
out in the night
to dance in front
of the paintings


(first posted on Medusa's Kitchen in 2010)

_______________________

BRITTLE STARS

I’ve seen photographs of the brittle
Stars.  They are deep water starfish
Living hundreds of meters below our
Air world.  They move like serpents across
The floor of the oceans.  They Samba.

The batucada eats into the nerves.
The legs of the starfish look like early
Animation.  They feel around the spines
Of the purple sea urchin and into the
Places where every move is a dance of death.

They have seen the heavens and watched
The fall of the angels from the far heights.
They have seen the martyrs tossed into
The sea attached to ropes and heavy weights
To die and rise to the highest throne in crazy
Glory.  They have consumed those bodies
Themselves and felt the course of celestial
Beauty course through their brittle forms
Nearly crushed by the great depths.

They number thousands of species, each
With a voice that calls across time and seas,
Heavens and impossible-to-fathom depths
Where their spiny legs worship those far heavens
From which they will always remain outcasts.


(first posted on Medusa's Kitchen in 2012)

Evening Light Over Russell's Workshop
  

UNDOING THE PACKAGES

Certain words remember when
I lost them.  This is disturbing to me.
I’m not talking about things
Like your name.
I’m talking about running my hands
Up your thighs and knowing
Your sex as if it were
The lion's skin, as if I could
Speak for stones,
A pink stain on my shadow.

The words laugh.  They have
Seen what they were to me
Previously and I am now unable
To undo their packages,
Make them run naked beside
The water.

“What have you brought to town
This time, my boy?” they say.
“Ice screeching as your trumpet
To the clouds in your special
Way of talking?  You call that poetry?"

“Why don’t you just pretend to talk?
You have forgotten so many words
You made us speak for you, you sleepy bird.”

“Just look at yourself.  You are
Hungry once again for what
Is inaccessible, for nouns
That make you see the one
Who will say. "Oh there you
Are.  Come to me now.
Can’t you tell how much I love you?
Or have you plumb run out of words?”

 Ironworks, Walnut Grove, CA

THE LITTLE CABIN

The rain forgot to stop.
It really didn’t have anything
Else to do but it kept acting
Like it did.  It had a lot
Of gray to keep it company.

Nothing seemed of consequence
To the rain.  It was acting
As if I had deserted
Some friend of his and that
It wanted to teach me some
Kind of lesson.

Okay, there was a woman with me.
I didn’t really want to talk
About her.  She was very beautiful.
Even the rain noticed her
And let some sun come across
The ridge and make her hair
Look even lovelier than it had looked.

She made me light up, too,
And I wondered what the rain
Had in mind.  I hardly knew her
But I already had something in mind.
If it wasn’t for the rain I would
Have acted on it.  But it was raining.

I pulled her close to my side and raised
My umbrella over her to keep her
A little more out of the wet.
“Why did you bring me here, again?” she asked.

I told her about the little cabin
Again and that it was just
About a quarter mile ahead.
We could make a fire and lie
On the big bed getting warm and dry
And look out of the windows at the rain.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she said.

I’m not going to talk about her any longer.
Let’s just say the rain was very interested
In her and stayed just outside
The window and watched the fire
With its phantoms and stories.

“When will the rain stop?" she asked.
The rain heard that and beat harder
Against the window,
Really wanting to come in
And be something else besides rain.

 Drawbridge, Walnut Grove

NOT A SUITE

This has nothing to do with love.
Wait.  Who am I kidding?
I can taste her lips on mine.
It’s like the "Children's Gallop and
Entry of the Parents" in Tchaikovsky’s
Nutcracker Suite, but has nothing
To do with the music.

Wait.  Who am I kidding?
Her breath, her breasts,
The way she rolled off of me
And slid her backside into
The curve of my body.

This probably is happening because
I can’t force myself to fall
Asleep and it’s too late to play
Guitar or sing anything.

How about I remember your heart?
How about I remember when I had
A body?
How about this entire thing
Becomes a flight of birds?
And I’ll just lie here in my bed
Trying to count how many birds
There are before the clouds
Roll in again, occluding
Everything I ever wanted
To say.

I’m sticking to the part
That has nothing to do with love.
Except for that beautiful bit
Where Tchaikovsky came
Rumbling in the door and took me away.

 Night Coming Over James' House

CARD GAME

I found the place where all the words
That ever hurt people lived.
They were a lot different here.
They didn’t say anything, just grunted.
They seemed tired of their job
And its responsibilities.  I noticed
They played cards a lot but
I didn’t understand the games
They were playing.  I watched them
For a long time.  The place they lived
Was actually pretty nice and had
Very good lighting.

I didn’t say anything to them.
I knew what they were capable
Of and I surely didn’t want
To start anything.

They pretended to not even
Know I was there.
Finally one of them said:
“Go fuck yourself, you stupid idiot.”

I sat down at their table and learned
How to use the cards the same way
They used them.  They remained silent.

________________________

Today's LongerNip:

I WROTE ALL OF LEW WELCH’S POETRY

Today I told Larry that I wrote
All of Lew Welch’s poetry.

You did not, he said.
Yes, I did, I answered.
So I told him some of Lew’s poems.
That doesn’t mean you wrote them, he said.

He couldn’t do it very well, I said.
He never knew why that was,
So I wrote them all for him.

Did you just give them to him?
Yes, I said, all of them,
But not all at once.
Didn’t you ever notice how I talk?
I sound just like Lew Welch.

You’re crazy, Larry said.
Lew Welch is a great poet.
That’s what you think, I said.

Do you know what happened to him? Larry asked.
Yes.  He killed himself up in the mountains.
Why? he asked.

What would you do if someone else
Wrote all your poetry for you?

_______________________

—Medusa, thanking D.R. Wagner for this morning's tasty breakfast, and noting that Sac. Poetry Center's Artist's Gallery will be presenting the visual artwork and photography of Gerry "GOS" Simpson tonight from 5-8pm at SPC, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Free! His work will be on display through July 24.

 Yucca Behind Garden

  

Kissing Carol Ann

—Poems by Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO

MONDAY MORNING

Lying in bed
on a Monday morning
I watch my wife towel off

after showering and think
why can’t I be that towel
rolling over her knolls

basking in her garden
rather than rising
and going to work.

_______________________

WIVES AND GIRLFRIENDS

A good reason to get married,
Tim told me before he died,
is you need a driver to take you

home from a colonoscopy.
When cancer runs in the family
and three relatives have had it

colonoscopies become frequent.
You get used to drinking the potion
the day before the exam but

depending on the test results
you may get the same day,
driving yourself home isn't

the wisest thing to do
no matter how long you may live.
A wife will take you home, Tim said.

A girlfriend might do it once
but then she will find someone else.
Tim had reasons to know.

OLD PEOPLE

These are old people
retired and driving slowly
from small apartments
in economy cars
getting out on canes
and walkers with
hearing aids you can see
attired in the best
Goodwill has to offer
arriving between 1 and 3
weekday afternoons
at Mid-America Buffet
eating their fill for $5.00 off
piling their plates with
chicken, meat loaf
salads galore, veggies
from childhood
green beans, carrots
eaten in a rush as kids
listening to Fibber McGee
and Molly on the radio
eaten slowly now
by folks who make it
on crackers and snacks
and one meal a day
this one for $5.00 off
at Mid-America Buffet.

_____________________

COUNTRY DOCTOR

A doctor for decades,
he provides services
not available nearby.

Clients drive miles
from farms and towns
seeking his care.

He is always busy,
assisted by two nurses
six days a week.

He loves animals
and feeds tramp dogs
and feral cats daily

in the open field
behind his office.
If he sees a bug

in his office
everything stops
while he carries it outside.

Only then does he return
and relieve another client
of her fetus.

____________________

IN CERTAIN MATTERS OF THE HEART

It's a matter of the heart,
the doctor says,
and he can fix it
with catheter ablation.
"It works miracles," he says,
"in certain matters of the heart."

He's been a cardiologist for years.
"Take my word for it," he says.
"You'll be sedated. Won't feel a thing."

No excavation in my chest, either.
Instead, he'll make little holes
in my groin and snake tiny wires
to the surface of my heart
and kill the current that makes

my heart race like a hare
at times and mope
like a turtle other times.
He's never lost a patient.
"You'll be fine," he says.
"Trust me."

Nine out of 10 ablations work.
I'll save hundreds a month, he says,
on medications. No more Multaq.
No more Cardizem. And I'll never
have to wear a heart monitor again.

"Shall we give it a try?" he asks.
"I've got an opening
two weeks from Monday.
It's an outpatient procedure.
You'll go home the same day,
rest for a week and then resume
your usual activities, even bowling.
Do you like bowling? My nurses do.
I prefer woodcarving."

"Okay, Doc," I tell him.
"I'll give it a try, but tell me,
where were you 40 years ago
when the kids were small
and I was young, like a bull,
and a different matter of the heart
dropped me like a bullet.
Are you sure my heart's still ticking?
Where's your stethoscope?
I haven't felt a thing in years."

IT'S NOT FOR THE USHER TO ASK

Many churches today
have a food pantry that never
had a pantry before.

I attend a church like that.
Some folks are well-fixed,
others poor, most betwixt.

Some had money before
but not enough now to pay
the mortgage and then buy food

so the pantry helps them
the same way it helps clients
it has helped for years.

Some folks in the pews quietly
support the pantry with
checks and canned goods

enabling the nouveau poor
to stand in line with the
forever poor on Mondays.

A neighborhood baker slips
into the church Sunday mornings
just prior to the end of service

and quietly stacks his trays
of unsold bread in the dark foyer.
He says nothing and disappears.

No one seems to know
who he is but the hungry
love his bread and word

of its excellence has reached
the woman who leaves church early
and always grabs two loaves

of French baguettes and is
out in the parking lot long
before anyone else and

drives off in a red Mercedes.
Perhaps she’s on unemployment,
low on food stamps or is still

making payments on the car.
It’s not for the usher to ask.
I simply hold the door.

____________________

ANOTHER MASS SHOOTING

Another mass shooting.
This time a young white man
shoots nine black people
in a South Carolina church
during a Bible study.

At trial, defense attorneys
will try to prove
the shooter was insane
as the defense in Denver
tried to prove after
the shootings in
the movie theater;
as the defense
at Sandy Hook
would have tried had
the shooter survived.

Don’t execute the shooters.
That would be inhumane.
They had to be insane.
Instead, let them roam
among strangers
in the penitentiary.
Peers will decide what
punishment fits the crime.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER

Back in 1957, kissing Carol Ann behind the barn
in the middle of a windswept field of Goldenrod
with a sudden deer watching was very special,
let me tell you. Back then, bobby sox, poodle skirts
big barrettes and ponytails were everywhere.

Like many farmers, Carol Ann's father had a giant radio,
a console occupying the living room, and every
Saturday night the family would gather 'round
with great big bowls of ice cream and listen
to the Grand Ole Opry. It was beamed
“all the way from Nashville," I was often told 
since I was from Chicago and I sometimes wore
a suit and tie so how would I know.

One time I asked Carol Ann if the Grand Ole Opry
was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of country music
and she said not to say that to her father. Instead
I should tap my foot to the music and let him watch me.
Otherwise, I’d best be quiet and say “yup,” “nope” or
“maybe” if he asked me any questions which she didn’t
think would happen. "No need to say much more,"
she said, and after a few visits I understood why.

Over time, I learned to tap my foot pretty good because
when I’d come to visit, her father would insist I have
my own big bowl of ice cream. I liked the ice cream but
not so much the Grand Ole Opry. After all, I’d been weaned
on Sinatra in the city. Big difference, let me tell you.

But in 1957 kissing Carol Ann behind the barn
was all that we could do until I found employment.
Only then, her father said, could we get married.
There were no jobs in town, however, for a man
with horn-rimmed glasses and degrees in English.

Yet the weekend drives from Chicago were worth the gas
my Rambler guzzled because kissing Carol Ann brought
a bit of heaven down behind that barn, especially on
summer nights when darting fireflies were the only
stars we saw when our eyes finally popped open. It was
the Fourth of July every time with sparklers twinkling.

Now, 55 years later, Carol Ann sometimes mentions fireflies
when the two of us are dancing behind the cows at dusk
and coaxing them into the barn for the night. I’m still not
good with cows despite my John Deere cap, plaid shirt
and overalls which proves, she says, that all that kissing
behind the barn in 1957 took the boy out of the city
but not the city out of the boy.

“Hee Haw” is all I ever say because I know why I’m there.
I'm there to tap the cows on the rump until we get them
back in the barn so we can go back in the house and start
with a kiss and later on come back downstairs
for two big bowls of ice cream.

____________________

LOVE AND SLAUGHTER

Sheep are by a goat while
cattle are like swine, prodded, yet
cattle go by hammer while
swine are by the hind leg hung
then swung about to spigot.
Quicker, infinitely cleaner, is
the hacksaw of sweet Susan's laughter.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

MAYBE THEY'LL TAKE A LUNCH

Jack says God doesn’t exist.
No one has ever seen him.
God says Jack exists and
He can’t wait to meet him.

__________________

—Medusa, thanking Donal Mahoney for his fine poetry today, as well as those anonymous photographers whose work appears on the Internet, reminding us of the true Art of Swimming!

  

By The Frog Pond

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
 

MORNING OF JULY 3

Morning as an open door
of a post office of red eyes
in a poem's acceptance
like a love letter
embracing the sounds
of an all-night taxi
with the driver
reciting my Beat poem
traversing a dead-end street
consoled by daydreams
in the pulse of the neon city
wishing to walk with butterflies
under the Japanese lanterns
by the Frog Pond
eating almonds
near a quiet peace garden
hearing the smooth notes
sounding out its alto sax jazz
of my once-owned whistled tunes
sharing my spinach croissant
on the park bench
with a mourning dove
awaiting a good wash of rain.

____________________

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

When vast clouds waver
before the raindrops
and the wind moves the sea
you realize a day's velocity
crashes when your city shrouds
its sudden thunder to move you
by the gazebo's bandstand
to a magnetic memory
of the mountain's path
and every bird is a turtledove
in the giant sky
when the landscape painting
of Van Gogh is nebulous
yet visible in a flick of daylight
only seen on an absent canvas
remembering the last reading
you gave on the stage
was Hamlet in a foreign tongue
words rise between worlds
like your Pyrrhic victory in chess
before the last act
behind the curtains
only weighed you down
as a theatrical pawn,
recalling you played Bach
in a smooth jazz version
wholly from despair
shivering between shadows
impressed in the cathedral
by raising up
your middle finger
to catch the grasshopper
who appears on the keyboard.

JULY 2

The scales of ambushed notes
wail from a lost blown horn
higher than any shout-outs
augmented on celestial memory
after a night dream of the planets
as a poet sleeps on blue grass
by adolescent arms
on nameless hands
now under a leafy Evergreen
wishing for jazz music
from his burning sax
beside the park bench
in the windy countryside
suddenly a rain shower drops
on his weathered horizon
in a presence of lightning
reflected by shoots of flowers
the storm's shadows rise
underneath a sunrise
near a musician's notes
the dawn enlightens us
with a presence of thunder
heard above the clover.

____________________

IMPROVISATION

Keyboard whispers
a smooth jazz
bewilders and reminisces
on a string of roses
over riffs of fever petals
in language of desert flowers
rising again on funerals
of celebrating a poet's birth
on morning glories of doves
in the crowns of Evergreens
by silent memory of sixty wounds
on a long round table
of a child who was different
than the others
and lived for clumsy art
silk pastels and made-up comedy
yet we still hear four cathedral bells
struck by the lights of city square
waiting for someone to match
its eternal saving candles
now gone out on empty ravines
of the wounded and wandered
in the hunger of the desert
when the night wind gathers
prayers of unknown incense
on a deserted astonishing grave
where wild roses suddenly grow
as handfuls of ash are scattered
over unwavering sand
at first light of day that gives
us peace by a labyrinth
of branches in a hyacinth warmth
at the name of the sea
which gazes at us
reaching for a shell
at a shadow of stone
birds climb the hill
at noon in a quandary
when life is at a standstill.

WHEN OUR STILL LIFE

When our one still life
of Vermeer
we still long for
is no longer there
on the walls
of the museum
gone for repairs
hidden from our view
or moved
by fears
or taken away
the colors matter
on such a day
the space is empty
though we walk
side to side
there's no time
to decide
at a limited
walking tour
so I do not ask
but mask my eyes
as the crowd scatters
or we bask
by another exhibit
in the open-window air
to compose these lines
with a quick passing
poetic prayer.

___________________

ALONG HOLLYWOOD BLVD.

Outside the squirrels
hide in the leaves
of Evergreen branches
on the hillside
a solitary singer
offers her blue Monday
tune in a raindrop
moistened by the language
planted from her tongue,
it is a time of morning silence
when our initials
are hung over
by the summer rosebushes
on a rubbed-out signature
in pure gestured breathless fire
the wind rushes to the memory
of a young poet's nature
in the wilderness woods
dressed by a motionless hour
near passer-by processions
of soccer stars on summer floats
along the corner
as a child with a new compass
wishes to be easily assured
to live in tourist pictures
from a pretense and charade
on a cash in Hollywood
and Vine lines delivered by
finely dressed actors for hire
on Los Angeles admired time.
 

IT WAS A JULY DAWN

It was a sunny July day
Harry was missing
surely Harry was at the pier
everyone first said
fly fishing at the bay,
but his rod was there
but not him,
surely Harry was out
for a swim,
we went to the dock
every hour on the clock
and it was dark
had Harry been eaten
by a shark
we all tried not to panic
but to comfort one another
to everyone in town
Harry indeed was a brother,
was it a latent sadness
from a parental storm
or hapless form of madness
that let him not conform,
whatever common gossip
on every busybody's lip
perhaps Harry
was simply on an acid trip
or just a blip
on the T.V. screen
when Harry wins
a writer's international prize
monetary award
and life-long sinecure
what a surprise in town
as Harry returns to fly fish
down on the shore,
he treats me for a meal
at The Fried Dish next door.

_____________________

SALLY TOLD ME

Sally told me,
as mom and dad
social worker,
the school shrink
chaplain
reminded her,
"We cannot get
inside her head
so in other words
think,
do not drink
or make your own bed
or you'll wind up in the clink",
this does happen,
received a call
from a locked unit
on this writer and poet
who was a fighter
for others' human rights
to live and perhaps
in her collapse, to live,
she was taken away
one day in June
without her fellow
she as an actor Desdemona
in a graduation play
who loved an Othello,
now made into a loner
in her tiny room
could not cut her nails,
others worry
if all should fail
she could forgive herself
at least,
and now after therapy
would be released.

AS MANY STREETS

With maps
to many city streets
on the Atlantic dock
by four oceanic gulls
who seem to rise
by a motorboat rig
on their webbed feet
to laugh on the East wind
screaming in swelling echoes
a musician in sailing boots
country straw hat
and an old searsucker suit
watches the tourist ships
under open-air sheets
not yet aware of the clock
or the time to play
a smooth jazz on sax
not in a panic
but remaining suspended
on a sleepwalker's box
with melon fruit drinks
having a late-night picnic
rehearses in a retreat
before his summertime gig
after four days of hiking
or bicycling
on tall grass
over mountains
or on the long pass
for an excavation of art
and artifacts summoning us
for a path of adventure
with Eddy our tour guide
covering common grounds
too luminous in the sun
by caves where we hide
for a rest as we run into
a visiting chorus
by the side of a fountain
near the cactus
offering to sing arias
of Aïda for us
remembering how
Verdi's opera
changed our vacation
into a new metamorphosis.

AT THE NORTH SHORE

Here at the north shore
the ultimate wild rosebush
embraces dark blue waters
as a jazz musician's rave
spills out a voice of phrases
near the white sand
covered by a sea wind
spraying us on our blanket
with brooding waves
welcomed on our bodies
with a greeting to sister sun
between summertime friendships
and the splashing gulls
morning waits
for the young poet
on the coast to dive
from a solitary dock
on the home harbor
waiting for his kayak
to take him on a voyage
settled in his last word.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

YOUR LYRICS

Unknown words
seep in your ears
but like Van Gogh
a painter's shapes
his thimble of fears
a poet is often unaware
of hieroglyphics
until his symbols
of his enigma
became the grammar
of his poem's lyrics.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch for his lively poems and his patience with these anonymous Internet photos of champion swimmers as we continue to celebrate our Seed of the Week: The Art of Swimming.