Lucky Thirteen

Somebody noticed that Susan Kelly-DeWitt will have Rattlechap #12 and Victoria Dalkey will have Rattlechap #14; where, they asked, is #13? #13 is me, self-publishing. I decided to deal with the

shouldIpublishmyselforshouldIwaitforsomeonewithmoreprestigetoscoopmeup?

question by putting out a book or two and seeing how I like it. I do like the total control and the immediacy; we'll see if I can live down the stigma of vanity publishing.

Anyway, Why We Have Sternums is Rattlechap #13.1, which means that future kkieth books would be 13.2, etc.—and no rattlechapper has to have the dreaded #13! Here's a sample; this poem won the California Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc. Executive Board Award: Jumping Ship, for 2005:


THE HEART IS A RASCALLY TRUANT
—Kathy Kieth, Shameless Hussy, Fair Oaks, CA

One day it purrs along with the program: lump-
thumps cool acquisescence: mutters a mantra of

yes-yes: signs on all the dotted lines: never once
tugs at its arterial leash. Then suddenly one day—

maybe a Saturday, after the leaves are raked, or
a Tuesday, say, just before lunch—the brash

little truant just takes off: jumps ship: violates
all its contracts and makes a brollyhop onto

foreign soil: vacates the premises and defects for
some dancehall trollop or a bait shop in Tahiti

or maybe a motorcycle: decamps and vanishes
into a whole ‘nother life, taking all its bloody

lump-thumps and broken promises and trailing
arteries along for one helluva bumpy ride…


_______________________

The book is at The Book Collector, or write to me and I'll send you one. (And may your heart jump ship in some pleasant port-of-call...)

I hope you're reading poor Medusa now and then; I like getting up in the morning and sending poetry out onto the airwaves. Let me know if you're picking it up. And the "endless march of days" is, well, endless, so send me poems and other poet-phenalia. Guaranteed publication—hell, ya can't beat that!

kk

VYPER and Wiley Coyote

VYPER, the new teenzine of poetry and art from Rattlesnake Press, is looking for poems and art from kids 13-19. Send us something by this Thursday, June 16. Kaitlyn Sinclair from Oregon sent us this gem:

WE WATCH
—Kaitlyn Sinclair, Eagle Point, OR

The Wiley coyote
around the canyon
his motorized legs
hot on the sound of
MEEP MEEP!

But what’s wrong this time?
He cycles the air for a few seconds,
looks around dramatically
and splats on the rock
just inches from the river.

Stars orbit his head,
but sure enough the nest scene
he’s back at it with a bucket of black paint
and some railroad tracks.
Too late---

We already know what happens yet still we watch in anticipation
at each falling anvil, each stick of TNT.

We watch his hopeless tiptoe and pathetic grin
with the question in the back of our minds:

What if Wiley coyote caught the roadrunner?
What if he lit the right end of the fuse?

________________________

The new Rattlesnake Reviews are out; contributors' copies and subscriptions will be out by the end of the week. If you just can't wait :-) go down to The Book Collector, or meet me at the Urban Voices Poetry Series tomorrow (South Natomas Library), 7pm, Donald Sydney-Fryer.

Medusa

Chaos is Only Theory (except in my office...)

Happy Birthday, Colette! Colette Jonopulos, co-editor of Tiger's Eye: A Journal of Poetry, has a Big Birthday today. Here—have one of her poems, on me:


YOU ASKED ME TO WRITE OF NOTHINGNESS
—for JoAn, who still doubts

Parked at the base of the butte, I empty my pockets
into the car’s plastic console—a receipt from Baja
Fresh, dimes and pennies, a business card from
Wheel Works bicycle shop, a paper clip. Up the

slope of the butte, past ferns and Douglas-firs, the
trail spatters mud onto my pant legs, the climb a kind
of penance for too many hours seated at my desk, the
whir of imagination stilled by television. Massive

boulders, the color of winter, lead upward, their white
and black veins—a child’s directionless crayon pressed
deep into rock. Sky widens at the summit—the god
of effort satisfied with gasps for breath. I’m offered

a 360 degree view of farmlands—flat sheet of blue
to the west, football stadium due north, the campus
a blur of brown where learning comes while seated
in plastic chairs under florescent lights. From here

it is easy to assume order, that humans are loyal like
dogs, chaos is only theory, what we write will last
beyond our promised disintegration, the sweet
emptiness of our becoming. There is comfort in rock’s

warmth, the coupled sway of wildflowers, this
persistent nothingness I’ve stumbled over. Far below,
the copper coin has stopped spinning in its plastic
tray, Lincoln facing right, flat on his side, and silent.

___________________

The Tiger has been inspired by the Snake to set up its own blog: tigerseyepoet.blogspot.com. Check it out.

Don't forget the VYPER deadline June 16 (Thursday)—the teenzine of poetry from kids 13-19. Send 3-5 poems to kathykieth@hotmail.com or dphunkt@mac.com, name, address and age. Artwork, too.

And keep writing. What we write will last beyond our promised disintegration...

Medusa

Like Mountain Snow

Take some time today with Ryokan:

In the distance
frogs croak in the mountain rice fields,
The evening's single song.

~~~

Unable to sleep,
I hear the voice of a young deer
Rising from a mountain ridge.

~~~

The branches that will be used for this
autumn's firewood are still blooming.
Please gather some summer grasses, wet with dew,
and come visit me.

~~~

Not much to offer you—
just a lotus flower floating
In a small jar of water.

~~~

In the pond near my hut
the lotus flowers, covered with dew,
Bloom in a row.

~~~

The willows are in full bloom!
I want to pile up the blossoms
Like mountain snow.

_____________

Medusa

RR's R-in-R: BLK

Rattlesnake Review's Reviewer-in-Residence, B.L. (Bari) Kennedy, has been part of the Sacramento poetry scene since his arrival from the Bronx 'way back when. His SpiralChap, Been Born Bronx, celebrates some of that in poetry and picture-poems.

Bari currently hosts a reading series at the South Natomas Library at 2901 Truxel Road in Sacramento; that series will continue this Wednesday (6/15) at 7pm with Donald Sydney-Fryer reading, among other things, Clark Ashton Smith.

Here is a poem from Bari:

PERSONAL POEM

Out maps of mouth
Words pour

Down evening sidewalk
Cracks to create sameness

I chant to change rules
Of empty space

Bitch language
Of heart
Crippled by my silence

Bari also wants us to know that, as Reviewer for the Snake, he needs books, CDs, etc. to review, so send them to him at 2619 Q St., #9, Sacramento 95816.

One other quick thing: the reading at The Book Collector that was scheduled for tomorrow (Sunday 6/12) afternoon (Arthur Winfield and Kit Knight) has been rescheduled for sometime in the future. Tonight's reading (James Lee Jobe) is still happening; tomorrow's is not.

Medusa

Your Feet Show It

When I was a youngster, the only poets I knew were Poe (force-fed by schoolbooks) and Longfellow. My mother would launch into 'the forest primevil' (the only line she knew) every time she saw a redwood. And there was always that old saw, "You're a poet and everyone knows it; your feet show it—You wear LONGFELLOWS!"

It's only in the last couple of years that I've come to appreciate Longfellow for the wonderful poet he was, not only for his narrative ability (and subsequent HUGE income), but for the way he could buckle down and play with sounds. Below is "The Sound of the Sea". (Well, okay, of course I'm a sucker for anything that has to do with the sea, selkie that I am...)

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
_________________

Is that cool, or what???

Have a good weekend, mateys. I'm still digging out from the typhoon of Snake 6.

Medusa

The Hansens: They Don't Make 'Em Any Better

Mary Zeppa's reading last night was excellent! Mary is such a fine reader and poet; the packed house at The Book Collector was totally charmed! Of course, that was due in part to Richard Hansen.

Richard is a very solid contributor to the poetry scene in Sacramento, not only providing a venue for readings (and lately it seems like there is a reading at TBC every week!) but by serving on the Board of the Sacramento Poetry Center. Unfortunately, Richard has had to resign from the Board due to his plate spilling over with other activities. It's obvious, though, that Richard has a great love for our poetry community, and will continue to serve in many capacities—not the least of which is providing a Home for the Snake. Thanks, Richard and Rachel, for putting a roof over the head for the Rattlesnake Reading Series and books. (Go on down there and say hey to R & R and little Ru—and while you're at it, pick up a copy of Snake 6 and of Mary's The Battered Bride Overture, now available.)

Here's a poem from Tiger's Eye co-editor Colette Jonopulos. Tiger's Eye: A Journal of Poetry is always looking for submissions, both for the journal and for its bi-annual contests. Visit them at www.tigerseyejournal.com or contact them at tigerseyepoet@yahoo.com for more information.

Into the Woods

The wood nymphs, decked with

daisies trim. John Milton

He studies her toughened

heels, small feet that

brought her to these woods,

this tent of old-growth

trees weary from months of

rain and lack of light. “So

rough,” she says to tree’s

flared trunk, the tips

of her fingers raw from

touching. He wants to lay

an altar in front of her, a silken

scarf or striped prayer

shawl, pine needles gathered

at its center, blue fire

ringing its edges. He watches

her eyes (the color of bark),

her tensed legs prepared to

flee his cage of furtive need.

He does not know her

boundaries, the words that

might unravel her hair, so

he captures resin droplets,

smears the balm along the

smooth blade of her

shoulder, curve of her hip,

course edges of her heels.

—————————————

Thanks, Colette.

Medusa