Lots of readings this weekend:
*Poetry Unplugged tonight at Luna's, 1414 16th, Sac, 8-ish
*PWJ Publishing presents the Skyway Poets, featuring Joy Harold Helsing and her new book, Confessions of the Hare and other old tales, in a reading on Saturday at 7 p.m. at Art, Etc., 122 W. Third Street, Chico, California. 530-895-1161. Other poets include Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Audrey C. Small, Sally Allen McNall, Lara Gularte, Ann Doro and Kathleen McPartland.
*Poems-for-All Saturday night at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sac, 7:30: Frank Andrick, Michelle Tea, Rachel Savage and Rachel Leibrock.
*Sunday's Pomo Literati (two-hour quarterly radio program) hosted by Frank Andrick: KUSF 90.3, SF (www.kusf.org); 2-4 pm. A plethora of poets, live or on tape. It's Frank Andrick's birthday bash!
*Sac Poetry Center presents Brad Buchanan (see my earlier posting) at HQ (25th and R, Sac), 7:30 pm. on Monday. Here is another wee sample from Brad:
QUIET ALERT
—Brad Buchanan
Not sad, but crying,
the baby is signaling
her newfound needs—
the world’s in a holding
pattern, and knows it.
We work the angles
of blankets and breastfeeding,
tilt at the windmills
of burping, navigate
the pink circumference
under a diaper,
discover the truth behind
rumors of new uprisings
from the south,
decode the morsels
that drop from her mouth,
and then relax all the way
back to delight
seeing her eyes open,
quiet, alert.
___________________
Thanks, Brad!
Meanwhile, I continue to perserverate on the genocide of mosquitos. Herewith is an ode of my own:
MOSQUITOS OVER THE WATER
—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks
hover in the twilight: land
on the meniscus of the dark
pond, then lift off again—lift
without getting caught, without
being pulled under by watery
claws that tug at small feet: under-
tow that drags them, tries to suck
tiny pontoons down into its teary
darkness, its black, watery arms. . .
Mosquitos in the twilight float
like random thoughts: drift over
the water like seagulls ready to nest:
drift and wander in gathering night:
weightless, random meanderings
![]() |
at the end of the day. . .
_____________________
And thanks to all of you who attended last night's rattle-read by Master Poets Susan Kelly-DeWitt and Victoria Dalkey. The joint was jammed, but Man! can those ladies write (and read!). Medusa was so proud...
Coming up tomorrow: The Snake doubles his staff!
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
Join us at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento tonight for the release of chapbooks by Susan Kelly-DeWitt (The Land) and Victoria Dalkey (In the Absence of Silver). Both of these nationally-acclaimed poets (and local poetry icons) will be reading and celebrating the publication of Rattlechaps #12 and #14 from Rattlesnake Press, beginning at 7:30 (free). Refreshments and a read-around will follow; bring your own poetry or somebody else's.
Davis poet/publisher/raconteur James Lee Jobe writes the following:
I'm very much looking forward to this reading. I haven't heard Ms Dalkey read in years, not since the SPC had its readings at Dukes. Below is a poem I wrote at a Dalkey reading at Dukes in the 1990s. The other feature was the mother of that artist who used to go with Patrick Grizzell. I have forgotten their names. Both poets had marijuana poems that night, and the image of these two sweet, mature ladies getting high wandered into my poem. The open mike after the
featured readers was particularly horrid.
SOME LINES AT AN OPEN-MIKE READING
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
Old women smoke marijuana in the alley, their breath
horrid,
their armpit hair is long and braided, decorated with
jewels.
Their hair and eyes are the night sky of Egypt! Their
little feet
are petals from jungle flowers, picked by bored
monkeys!
Here, on stage, a poet reads some endless lines, and I
don't care.
In my mind I join the women in the alley, it is
sunset; just look at the sky.
________________________
Thanks, Jim! Watch for more from The Jobester in the near future, starting with a reading Sept. 9 (more about that later) and a rattlechap in early 2006.
—Medusa (whose alley days are over, I'm afraid...)
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
Did you get sprayed? Did the crop dusters buzz over your head last night, dumping their derring-do on the mosquitos? On the spray map, it looks like they just missed my house—theoretically (though I did hear the planes). One wonders how many of us are "toast"—is it really just the hapless mosquitos?
Enough editorializing. We need some whimsy. Here are some poems about toast from The New Oxford Book of Children's Verse.
THE TOASTER
—William Jay Smith
A silver-scaled Dragon with jaws flaming red
Sits at my elbow and toasts my bread.
I hand him fat slices, and then, one by one,
He hands them back when he sees they are done.
THREE LITTLE GHOSTESSES
—Anonymous, English
Three little ghostesses
Sitting on postesses,
Eating buttered toastesses,
Greasing their fistesses,
Up to the wristesses,
Oh, what beastesses
To make such feastesses!
POEM ON BREAD
—Vernon Scannell
The poet is about to write a poem;
He does not use a pencil or a pen.
He dips his long, thin finger into jam
Or something savoury preferred by men.
This poet does not choose to write on paper;
He takes a single slice of well-baked bread
And with his jam or marmite-nibbed forefinger
He writes his verses down on that instead.
His poem is fairly short as all the best are.
When he has finished it he hopes that you
Or someone else—your brother, friend or sister—
Will read and find it marvelous and true.
If you can't read, then eat: it tastes quite good.
If you do neither, all that I can say
Is he who needs no poetry or bread
Is really in a devilish bad way.
_______________________
Here's hoping your poems today are written in jam, or something else savoury...
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
SEVEN SISTERS, 1919
—Victoria Dalkey, Sacramento
They thought they were wood nymphs
those girls in Isadora frocks.
Alice and her six sisters,
gossamer scarves trailing
through tall trees
in shafts of sunlight.
They sang as they spun
around in the trees and dreamed
of dances in Walla Walla
and halls of flowers
at the county fair.
Oh it was rare
the way they turned
and tumbled in the air
white arms raised
as they spun around and sang
their old Greek song.
_____________________
Victoria Dalkey’s poems have appeared in Abraxas, bakunin, Birmingham Review, Cimarron Review, Napa Review, and other small press publications. Her chapbook, Twenty-Nine Poems, was published in 1999 by Red Wing Press. Since 1976, she has written reviews, interviews and feature articles about art for The Sacramento Bee. Come celebrate the release of her latest chapbook, In the Absence of Silver, from Rattlesnake Press at The Book Collector (1008 24th St., Sac.) this coming Wednesday (August 10), 7:30 pm.
The Sacramento Poetry Center sponsors an open mic tonight, Open Mic with Lemonade, hosted by Bob Stanley at HQ for the Arts, 25th and R Sts., Sac., 7:30pm.
And one week from today (8/15) is the next deadline for Rattlesnake Review. Send 3-5 poems by snail (4708 Tree Shadow Place, Fair Oaks, 95628) or e-mail (kathykieth@hotmail.com). No cover letters, no simul-subs, no previously-pubs. The Snake also publishes artwork and photographs, and interviews, reviews, and articles, too (please query first for the prose stuff). More later in the week about exciting additions for the next issue!
—Medusa (hi, Sammie!)
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
The Hallmark greeting card website says today is Friendship Day. Gorgons are not known for their loving personalities, but Medusa carries a huge pack of gratitude on her back for all her friends, many of whom are reading this today. Thank you. The Snake thrives because of Friends.
It is also Joyce Odam's birthday, a perfection of serendipity! Joyce is my friend. I'm very proud to say that. She has a beautiful spirit.
Joyce is also a dear friend of Sacramento poetry. She is a wonderful poet and teacher.
Joyce is also a friend of the national/international poetry scene, having published widely over the past XXX years, both her own poetry and several outstanding literary journals.
Write to Joyce, or call her today and say Happy Birthday. Last year at this time, we made a big hoopla about her 80th; another year is an even bigger milestone. Celebrate it with me!
And here's Joyce's cogent comment on the current heat storm:
RUNNING THE FAN ALL NIGHT
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
So it's midnight now—
a hot summer night—
neighborhood sounds
fading in and out the window,
the noisy fan making wobbly circles,
the two crows
hanging from it
trembling with vibration.
So much is loud in summer:
the sleepless,
the dead,
their thoughts fusing.
So much is spilled across a page of white paper:
the fact of midnight—a hot summer night—
neighborhood sounds
fading in and out the window.
__________________
Love to you, Joyce. And thanks.
—Medusa
Rattlesnake Press is as proud as can be of its two latest rattlechaps, both of which will be released at a reading at 7:30 pm this WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 10 at The Book Collector, 1008 24th Street, Sac. One is Victoria Dalkey's In the Absence of Silver, and the other is Susan Kelly-DeWitt's The Land. Susan has been a magnificent force on the local scene with her USC Extension workshops and her wonderful poetry, and she publishes widely on the national level, as well. Here is a sample from Susan's new book:
DOGWOOD, SPRING, 2003
—Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Sacramento
How to stay sane in such a heartbroken spring
when the dogwood blossoms fly apart, a shrapnel of white petals,
when bodies fester in a blistering dune far away
and bread has run out and oil fires smolder,
when the Archer shrouds his bowstring in a black cloud
and hundreds of flares mimic lethal night suns,
when lizards carry the only grains of news across vast deserts
and stories creep like ants out of the scorched gardens.
You open your eyes to the morning brilliance
and even the ordinary flowering of April seems like a lie
by men in command, who manipulate the repulsive puppet
strings of absolute power deep inside the earth,
just as you feared.
___________________
Thanks, Susan! (More about Victoria's book later.) Also premiering on August 10 will be VYPER!—the journal for teen poetry, on which Asst. Wrangler Robbie Grossklaus has done a very fine job.
The 19th annual Focus on Writers Contest, which is sponsored by the Friends of the Sacramento Public Library, awards cash prizes for short stories, poems, articles, first chapters of novels and young-adult books. Submit up to five unpublished manuscripts ($5 per manuscript); deadline is AUGUST 31. Info: www.saclibrary.org or 916-264-2880.
PWJ Publishing presents the Skyway Poets, featuring Joy Harold Helsing and her new book, Confessions of the Hare and other old tales, in a reading on AUGUST 13—that's next Saturday—at 7 p.m. at Art, Etc., 122 W. Third Street, Chico, California. 530-895-1161. Other poets include Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Audrey C. Small, Sally Allen McNall, Lara Gularte, Ann Doro and Kathleen McPartland. Take a ride up that way and check into what our north-Valley friends are up to...
Jane Blue has sent me a terrific picture of a local Medusa! Don't forget that the Snake prints photographs, too. Next deadline is 8/15.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
Taylor Graham took the challenge to write a sestina about emus, though she says,
"I tried my darnedest to get that bird into the poem, but you know how a sestina is, it goes where IT wants to go..."
AN EMU FEATHER FOR A LADY’S HAT
—Taylor Graham, Somerset
She took a class in millinery once,
and kept all manner of satins in a box,
and grosgrain ribbon, and silk flowers.
She had a wooden statue of a head
without a human feature, but it fit
her hat-size and sat upon a shelf.
She lined her hats up on that shelf
and brought them down and wore them once.
But somehow they never seemed to fit
the next occasion. Bonnet or pillbox,
they so briefly graced her head,
then withered like so many flowers.
But fashions change like flowers,
brief as exotic birds. Her shelf,
now empty, gathered dust above her head.
All the finery she cherished once
went down to the cellar in a box
with a lid that didn’t fit.
And yet, she’d have a perfect fit
if she knew how I keep my flowers
in a mountain meadow, not a box.
I line up hiking boots along the shelf
and haven’t worn a hat, not once,
except in summer to shade my head.
But here’s the family album: head
of household (Father) always fit
and work-tanned; snapped here once
tending his urgent flowers.
And here’s Mother, posed before a shelf
of knickknacks, with a music box
from Italy. And here I am with a box
turtle in my lap, blond head
hatless, sitting on a granite shelf
and dreaming new adventures, or a fit
of temper, or imagining flowers
that bloom more than just this once.
What happened to her shelf of hats?
Her head as if wreathed in flowers,
the once-forever sealed in a box?
_______________________
Hats off—with or without emu feathers—to JTG.
By the way, Colette Jonopulos wrote to Medusa, extolling Hatch's limerick of yesterday, but wondering where the X-rated ones are. Mean lady that she is, she also enclosed a picture of the Oregon coast, enshrouded in cool, damp fog. Let's start the day with a little Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of my faves; try to think about cool places as the Fahrenheit creeps back past 100°:
A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun,
the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming.
So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming,
Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again.
But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage,
Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from Fragments: August 4, 1856
_________________
Don't forget the Cleos' Summer Showcase tomorrow; check earlier Medusas for info.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.
