IONS
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento
Crossing isthmi
swiping against borders,
ions splay entire
pulsing anatomy.
Zipping and aligning
towards narrow
openings in lumens,
bargaining towards opposites.
They dance sensually
flash independently—
We know nothing
of their past, or future.
Commissioning sense, motion
and particulate
geographic warmth
within us, they whirl.
___________________________
Thanks, Rhony!
Here's an addition to yesterday's calendar for this week: Friday (3/24), Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sac.) will host the opening of an art show featuring the work of B.L. Kennedy, 7-10 pm. Music is provided by Spoken Blues, and Bari also plans to have local poets talk and read poetry. All art that sells (and it's priced very cheap, he says) goes to help The Archives Group (T.A.G.) Project. Bari says, The major thing with the art show is to raise $$$ for T.A.G. through the sale of the art. The second reason is to celebrate 30 years in the Sac art/poetry community.
On Thursday, March 30, 6 pm at Luna’s Café, the first presentation workshop of THINK POSTCARD! takes place. The Mail Arts Project, one of Sacramento Poet Laureate Julia Connor’s projects, is part of the Poet Laureate program under the auspices of the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission. This event involves multi-artist and multi-media makings of unique Postcard Art, culminating in collaborative works that represent individual and collective efforts, with some to be part of a curated exhibition at a later date. But the real treasure is in the act of creating together. So please bring materials of a personal nature (small mementos, photos, found stuff, lists, receipts, yarn, special pens, etc. that can be used or affixed to the post card and sent through the U.S. mail; basic supplies will also be provided on site) to Luna’s Café, 1414 16th St., Sac. on 3/30. Bring an art partner or meet one there and create a one-of-a-kind art piece to be mailed to The Sacramento Arts Commission, 2030 Del Paso Blvd., Sac. 95815.
The list and scope of participants is all-inclusive; all are encouraged to take part, and it reflects the diversity of the Sacramento Nor-Cal area, already dubbed one of the most diverse in America. Open to all, we hope to reach and touch all levels of society in an all-encompassing art form common to us all and the human experience. Join us, please, and join the rapidly evolving list of people to put thought, text, and image into mail. The list is growing and includes such notable poet/text artists and visual artists as Julia Connor, Jose Montoya, Stan Padilla, Armando Cid, Steve Vanoni, D.R. Wagner, B.L. Kennedy, Vincent Kobelt, Xico Gonzales, Francisco Alarcon, frank andrick, Traci Gourdine, Ann Tracy, Art Luna, Mary Zeppa, Richard Hansen, Frankie Hansbearry, Alan Satow, Keely Dorran, JoAnn Anglin, Barbara Noble, and Victor and Pearl Selinsky, just to name a few.
Though the kick-off venue for the multi-month event will be at Poetry Unplugged @ Luna’s Café on 3/30, other venues will include the Crocker Art Museum, La Raza Galeria Posada, LAMP @ Sutter Hospital, SPC @ HQ and the Hart Center, Horse Cow Gallery, The Book Collector, and the Center for Contemporary Art, plus many colleges, schools and libraries in the greater Sacramento and northern California area. Can’t make it to a workshop? Create mail art at home and send it in! Blank postcards are available. Info: Anja Aulenbacher at Aulenbacher@cityofsacramento.org or 916-566-3986.
Speaking of Julia Connor, she (and Jim Anderson) write: Poets and fans of William Butler Yeats should not miss the opportunity this coming weekend to see Tied to a Dying Animal at the California Stage, 25th and R Sts., Sac., across the lot from the Sacramento Poetry Center. The title comes from one of his later poems, and the perspective of the playwright/performer is that of a mature Yeats looking back both biographically and poetically on his work and life. It is also a mature man's contemplation on aging and mortality.
The play is handsomely staged, and Rick Foster, who wrote the play, relies on Yeats’ own poetry to tell the story. To his credit, he portrays Yeats with understatement, so that the poetry really is allowed to speak for itself, and yet it is cleverly set in "recollective commentary" to reveal the transformations in Yeats' writing as related to his life experience. The recalled moments and persons are evocative, and informative biography, but never overpower the poetry.
We could not believe that an hour and a half had passed when this intimate visit with Yeats had ended. Not a slack moment in the evening. I highly recommend it, but it only plays this coming weekend: March 24 and 25 at 8 p.m. and Sunday the 26th at 2. A real Sacramento treat!
_____________________
DARK QUARK
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento
Far away is the sparrow’s call
again toward the undulating pitch
Bowing we are towards one another
the stark melody of transfixed limits
Tiptoed ticking twelve twosomes
we below like animals once more
Untidy insane and shredding all frothy
particulates that make us human.
_____________________
Thanks, Rhony. And David Humphreys writes: James [Lee Jobe] is out of town, Kathy, would you please post this dog poem and dedicate it to clan of the dog for me?
SHILOH
—David Humphreys, Stockton
I lost the first poem I wrote about my dog maybe
four years ago. Don't know how it happened except
that it was so clearly out of his young buck cocky
prime I guess I was just a little put out by the
strutting sexual leer of it, dog ears all perked up
with his tongue lolling out in a wide laughing grin
mincing up to sniff out every passing feminine
bustle of attention, eyes rimmed in his handsome
mascara theater, plume tail curling up behind him
like a feather in a Musketeer's velvet hat. I must have
deleted it in some distracted irritation. Anyway, here
it is again, resurrected with all the odd details intact
as we both head out on our morning walk one more
time both of us a bit heavier than before even after
having traveled about 1200 miles further down the road.
________________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
Between Storms, & Poetry Events 3/20-26
BETWEEN STORMS
—Taylor Graham, Somerset
A week of snow, and then
it stopped.
We ventured out
to see how the world had changed.
A broken branch, black
cuneiform on a blank white page,
and farther on, the great oak
almost split in two
by the weight of weather.
We marveled at the quiet—
no birds, no scold of squirrels.
Only the tracks of a pair of deer—
parallel columns of dittos
across a field.
Then clouds pulled apart, the sun
cast shadows skysail blue
on the lee-side of drifts,
magnifying
every crystal facet.
In all this blinding whiteness,
we searched for sign
of a mythic passage, and found
our own footprints
melting
like a trail of breadcrumbs
to lead us home.
______________________
First Day of Spring, so Taylor Graham sends us a poem about snow—which seems to be what our Spring is like this year!
Another action-packed week, poetry-wise:
•••Tonight (3/20), Contance Carter reads at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Headquarters for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento, 7:30 pm.
•••Wednesday (3/22) is the monthly Hidden Passage Poetry Reading from 6 to 7 p.m. at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St. in Placerville. It's an open-mic read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.
•••Also Weds. (3/22), there will be a Poems-For-All Poets Reading at 8 pm, HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.) featuring Ann Menebroker, Crawdad Nelson, S.V. Taylor, Do Gentry, Rachel Hansen, Rhony Bhopla, Kimberly White, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, and readings of poems by Kenneth Patchen, Anatole Lubovich, and Charlie Macdonald. Info: 916-442-9295.
•••Thursday (3/23), Poetry Unplugged features Crawdad Nelson at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm. Free. Info: 916-441-3931.
•••Friday (3/24), Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sac.) will host the opening of an art show featuring the work of B.L. Kennedy, 7-10 pm. Music is provided by Spoken Blues, and Bari also plans to have local poets talk and read poetry. All art that sells (and it's priced very cheap, he says) goes to help The Archives Group (T.A.G.) Project. Bari says, The major thing with the art show is to raise $$$ for T.A.G. through the sale of the art. The second reason is to celebrate 30 years in the Sac art/poetry community.
•••Sat., March 25 will be the last day to register for the 5th Annual Pleasanton Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival which will be held on Saturday, April 1 at the CarrAmerica Conference Center, 4400 Rosewood Drive, Pleasanton. It's a full-day poetry event for writers of all ages, sponsored by the Pleasanton Cultural Arts Council (PCAC) and the City of Pleasanton. If you need to stay overnight, discounted hotel reservations are available. Festival brochure and registration form is on-line, available at: www.PleasantonArts.org.
•••Also Saturday (3/25), 7-9 pm, The Show (hosted by Terry Moore @ Wose’ Community Center, 2863 35th Street, Sac.) will feature The Straight Out Scribes along with Jammin' Jay Lamont (BET Comedian), and Chamber 7 from Monterey. Donation is $5. Info (and to get on the email list): T.Mo at 916-455-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com
•••Sunday (3/26) at 7 pm, Kabinet and frank andrick present an Alejandro Jodorowsky double-feature at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.): Fando and Lis, plus The Holy Mountain. Gratis Tarot readings included! (More about this later...)
________________________
Somewhere in my purple haze of cough medicine and Kleenex piles, I missed the new Sacramento Poetry Center blog. Check out sacramentopoetrycenter.blogspot.com for news and reviews! I've posted a permanent link to the right of this column ("SPC blog").
LIGHT
—Elizabeth Jennings
To touch was an accord
Between life and life;
Later we said the word
And felt arrival of love
And enemies moving off.
A little apart we are,
(Still aware, still aware)
Light changes and shifts.
O slowly the light lifts
To show one star
And the darkness we were.
_____________________
THE BITTER WORLD OF SPRING
—William Carlos Williams
On a wet pavement the white sky recedes
mottled black by the inverted
pillars of the red elms,
in perspective, that lift the tangled
net of their desires hard into
the falling rain. And brown smoke
is driven down, running like
water over the roof of the bridge-
keeper's cubicle. And, as usual,
the fight as to the nature of poetry
—Shall the philosophers capture it?—
is on. And, casting an eye
down into the water, there, announced
by the silence of a white
bush in flower, close
under the bridge, the shad ascend,
midway between the surface and the mud,
and you can see their bodiesred-finned in the dark
water headed, unrelenting, upstream.
___________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Taylor Graham, Somerset
A week of snow, and then
it stopped.
We ventured out
to see how the world had changed.
A broken branch, black
cuneiform on a blank white page,
and farther on, the great oak
almost split in two
by the weight of weather.
We marveled at the quiet—
no birds, no scold of squirrels.
Only the tracks of a pair of deer—
parallel columns of dittos
across a field.
Then clouds pulled apart, the sun
cast shadows skysail blue
on the lee-side of drifts,
magnifying
every crystal facet.
In all this blinding whiteness,
we searched for sign
of a mythic passage, and found
our own footprints
melting
like a trail of breadcrumbs
to lead us home.
______________________
First Day of Spring, so Taylor Graham sends us a poem about snow—which seems to be what our Spring is like this year!
Another action-packed week, poetry-wise:
•••Tonight (3/20), Contance Carter reads at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Headquarters for the Arts, 25th & R Sts., Sacramento, 7:30 pm.
•••Wednesday (3/22) is the monthly Hidden Passage Poetry Reading from 6 to 7 p.m. at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St. in Placerville. It's an open-mic read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.
•••Also Weds. (3/22), there will be a Poems-For-All Poets Reading at 8 pm, HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.) featuring Ann Menebroker, Crawdad Nelson, S.V. Taylor, Do Gentry, Rachel Hansen, Rhony Bhopla, Kimberly White, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, and readings of poems by Kenneth Patchen, Anatole Lubovich, and Charlie Macdonald. Info: 916-442-9295.
•••Thursday (3/23), Poetry Unplugged features Crawdad Nelson at Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8 pm. Free. Info: 916-441-3931.
•••Friday (3/24), Luna's Cafe (1414 16th St., Sac.) will host the opening of an art show featuring the work of B.L. Kennedy, 7-10 pm. Music is provided by Spoken Blues, and Bari also plans to have local poets talk and read poetry. All art that sells (and it's priced very cheap, he says) goes to help The Archives Group (T.A.G.) Project. Bari says, The major thing with the art show is to raise $$$ for T.A.G. through the sale of the art. The second reason is to celebrate 30 years in the Sac art/poetry community.
•••Sat., March 25 will be the last day to register for the 5th Annual Pleasanton Poetry, Prose & Arts Festival which will be held on Saturday, April 1 at the CarrAmerica Conference Center, 4400 Rosewood Drive, Pleasanton. It's a full-day poetry event for writers of all ages, sponsored by the Pleasanton Cultural Arts Council (PCAC) and the City of Pleasanton. If you need to stay overnight, discounted hotel reservations are available. Festival brochure and registration form is on-line, available at: www.PleasantonArts.org.
•••Also Saturday (3/25), 7-9 pm, The Show (hosted by Terry Moore @ Wose’ Community Center, 2863 35th Street, Sac.) will feature The Straight Out Scribes along with Jammin' Jay Lamont (BET Comedian), and Chamber 7 from Monterey. Donation is $5. Info (and to get on the email list): T.Mo at 916-455-POET or fromtheheart1@hotmail.com
•••Sunday (3/26) at 7 pm, Kabinet and frank andrick present an Alejandro Jodorowsky double-feature at HQ (25th & R Sts., Sac.): Fando and Lis, plus The Holy Mountain. Gratis Tarot readings included! (More about this later...)
________________________
Somewhere in my purple haze of cough medicine and Kleenex piles, I missed the new Sacramento Poetry Center blog. Check out sacramentopoetrycenter.blogspot.com for news and reviews! I've posted a permanent link to the right of this column ("SPC blog").
LIGHT
—Elizabeth Jennings
To touch was an accord
Between life and life;
Later we said the word
And felt arrival of love
And enemies moving off.
A little apart we are,
(Still aware, still aware)
Light changes and shifts.
O slowly the light lifts
To show one star
And the darkness we were.
_____________________
THE BITTER WORLD OF SPRING
—William Carlos Williams
On a wet pavement the white sky recedes
mottled black by the inverted
pillars of the red elms,
in perspective, that lift the tangled
net of their desires hard into
the falling rain. And brown smoke
is driven down, running like
water over the roof of the bridge-
keeper's cubicle. And, as usual,
the fight as to the nature of poetry
—Shall the philosophers capture it?—
is on. And, casting an eye
down into the water, there, announced
by the silence of a white
bush in flower, close
under the bridge, the shad ascend,
midway between the surface and the mud,
and you can see their bodiesred-finned in the dark
water headed, unrelenting, upstream.
___________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Sunday, March 19, 2006
These Cowards, These Champions
BEASTS BOUNDING THROUGH TIME—
—Charles Bukowski
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
_______________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Charles Bukowski
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
_______________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Aaa-CHOOO!
FUTILITY
—Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
_________________
Today would've been Wilfred Owen's 113 birthday, had he not been tragically killed in war. In his preface to the collection of his poems that included "Futility," he wrote: "Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful..."
Speaking of war, the Snake 9-wrassling continues, hampered by the hacking and honking that accompanies my chest cold. I'm starting to get letters—where the hell's that Snake-varmint? I think people suspect we've hijacked their poems, with no intention of ever publishing them at all! Put your minds to rest; the Snake will emerge. He's just having a little trouble slithering out of hibernation this cold, cold spring...
Meanwhile, Richard Hansen writes: Friends, The Poems-For-All exhibition continues through the end of the month. If you'd like to come take a look this weekend at the many (over 500) covers for books in the series, the gallery will be open from 12 to 4 pm on both Saturday and Sunday. Asylum Gallery | PFA exhibition | 25th & R Streets, Sacramento. Plenty of free poems-for-all chaplets to take away.
Tonight (3/18), Bob Stanley and Larry Uklai Johnson-Redd appear at Underground Books, 2814 35th St., Sac., 7 pm. Info: 916-737-3333. Or...
Also today, travel to Modesto for a poetry reading featuring Licensed Fools at Mistlin Gallery on J St. (between 10th and 11th) in Modesto, 4 pm. See Medusa's Monday post for more details.
And tonight (3/18), 7-9 pm, travel to Palo Alto to hear The Straight Out Scribes Experience: poetry, spoken word and conscious rap, featuring V.S. Chochezi and Staajabu, 910 Moreno Avenue, Palo Alto. Donations will be gratefully accepted to support the legal case of Mumia Abu-Jamal. Info: 916-452-1290.
Stephenie VanCamp Jones sends us two poems:
BRIEF WONDERLAND
—Stephenie VanCamp Jones, Pilot Hill
—Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
_________________
Today would've been Wilfred Owen's 113 birthday, had he not been tragically killed in war. In his preface to the collection of his poems that included "Futility," he wrote: "Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful..."
Speaking of war, the Snake 9-wrassling continues, hampered by the hacking and honking that accompanies my chest cold. I'm starting to get letters—where the hell's that Snake-varmint? I think people suspect we've hijacked their poems, with no intention of ever publishing them at all! Put your minds to rest; the Snake will emerge. He's just having a little trouble slithering out of hibernation this cold, cold spring...
Meanwhile, Richard Hansen writes: Friends, The Poems-For-All exhibition continues through the end of the month. If you'd like to come take a look this weekend at the many (over 500) covers for books in the series, the gallery will be open from 12 to 4 pm on both Saturday and Sunday. Asylum Gallery | PFA exhibition | 25th & R Streets, Sacramento. Plenty of free poems-for-all chaplets to take away.
Tonight (3/18), Bob Stanley and Larry Uklai Johnson-Redd appear at Underground Books, 2814 35th St., Sac., 7 pm. Info: 916-737-3333. Or...
Also today, travel to Modesto for a poetry reading featuring Licensed Fools at Mistlin Gallery on J St. (between 10th and 11th) in Modesto, 4 pm. See Medusa's Monday post for more details.
And tonight (3/18), 7-9 pm, travel to Palo Alto to hear The Straight Out Scribes Experience: poetry, spoken word and conscious rap, featuring V.S. Chochezi and Staajabu, 910 Moreno Avenue, Palo Alto. Donations will be gratefully accepted to support the legal case of Mumia Abu-Jamal. Info: 916-452-1290.
Stephenie VanCamp Jones sends us two poems:
BRIEF WONDERLAND
—Stephenie VanCamp Jones, Pilot Hill
Even if only
for a blink of an eye,
she stared with childlike wonder
at the majestic trees
dusted with snow.
What looked like sugar,
tasted of ice.
For a few brief moments
the yard was a wonderland
and time stood still.
for a blink of an eye,
she stared with childlike wonder
at the majestic trees
dusted with snow.
What looked like sugar,
tasted of ice.
For a few brief moments
the yard was a wonderland
and time stood still.
___________________________
As I stand here
spectacular
I stare up at the nighttime sky,
the constellations consume me.
I can't help but wonder
who else may be watching
the same evening canvas
spread out before the world's eyes.
Could you and I
currently gaze at the spectacular halo
that surrounds the silver moon
and imagine the sailor's delight
the very next morning.
the constellations consume me.
I can't help but wonder
who else may be watching
the same evening canvas
spread out before the world's eyes.
Could you and I
currently gaze at the spectacular halo
that surrounds the silver moon
and imagine the sailor's delight
the very next morning.
Could you and I
trace the same stars
with our index finger, and leave behind
smudge trails on the frosty window
that stands between us and the
horizon far away.
Could you and I
make the same wish, right now and
wish for the same wish
without words?
—Stephenie VanCamp Jones, Pilot Hill
_____________________
Thanks, Stephenie!
—Medusa (who's even snottier than usual—hack hack paTOOOOie...)
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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Friday, March 17, 2006
Some Irish Voices for St. Pat's
MIDNIGHT FLOWERS
—Eavan Boland
I go down step by step.
The house is quiet, full of trapped heat and sleep.
In the kitchen everything is still.
Nothing is distinct; there is no moon to speak of.
I could be undone every single day by
paradox or what they call in the countryside
blackthorn winter,
when hailstones come with the first apple blossom.
I turn a switch and the garden grows.
A whole summer's work in one instant!
I press my face to the glass. I can see
shadows of lilac, of fuchsia; a dark likeness of blackcurrant:
little clients of suddenness, how sullen they are at
the margins of the light.
They need no rain, they have no roots.
I reach out a hand; they are gone.
When I was a child a snapdragon was
held an inch from my face. Look, a voice said, this
is the color of your hair. And there it was, my head,
a pliant jewel in the hands of someone else.
_______________________
Tonight (3/17), celebrate St. Pat's Day by driving up Hwy. 50 and taking the El Dorado Hills exit for the Our House Defines Art poetry reading at 7 p.m. Featured readers are soon-to-be Rattlechapper Irene Lipshin, plus Homer Christensen and Wendy Patrice Williams, followed by an open mic. There is no charge. Our House Defines Art Gallery & Framing is located at 4510 Post St. in El Dorado Hills Town Center (next to Ralph's). It's a lovely gallery and a wonderful setting for a reading. Check it out!
Snake Pal, Rattlesnake Review columnist-in-residence and Rattlechapper (Living With Myth) Taylor Graham is one of the spearheads behind the Our House readings. She lives in the wee town of Somerset, over there in south El Dorado County. Coincidentally, The Sacramento Bee Metro section today has an article about the Pioneer Union School District's 28th Annual Festival of Oral Interpretation, wherein 4th-8th graders from the district gathered last Wednesday in Somerset to recite poetry, either their own or others', and receive a rating (it's not a contest), a certificate and a lapel pin. The Snake heartily applauds such attention to poetry for the little ones! It must be in the Somerset water...
THE SATYR'S HEART
—Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Now I rest my head on the satyr's carved chest,
The hollow where the heart would have been, if sandstone
Had a heart, if a headless goat man could have a heart.
His neck rises to a dull point, points upward
To something long gone, elusive, and at his feet
The small flowers swarm, earnest and sweet, a clamor
Of white, a clamor of blue, and black the sweating soil
They breed in...If I sit without moving, how quickly
Things change, birds turning tricks in the trees,
Colorless birds and those with color, the wind fingering
The twigs, and the furred creatures doing whatever
Furred creatures do. So, and so. There is the smell of fruit
And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird
Crying, and the sound of water that does not move...
If I pick the dead iris? If I wave it above me
Like a flag, a blazoned flag? My fanfare? Little fare
With which I buy my way, making things brave?
No, that is not it. Uncovering what is brave. The way
Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone,
And there they are: the armies of pale creatures who
Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.
_____________________________
LEDA AND THE SWAN
—William Butler Yeats
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
—Eavan Boland
I go down step by step.
The house is quiet, full of trapped heat and sleep.
In the kitchen everything is still.
Nothing is distinct; there is no moon to speak of.
I could be undone every single day by
paradox or what they call in the countryside
blackthorn winter,
when hailstones come with the first apple blossom.
I turn a switch and the garden grows.
A whole summer's work in one instant!
I press my face to the glass. I can see
shadows of lilac, of fuchsia; a dark likeness of blackcurrant:
little clients of suddenness, how sullen they are at
the margins of the light.
They need no rain, they have no roots.
I reach out a hand; they are gone.
When I was a child a snapdragon was
held an inch from my face. Look, a voice said, this
is the color of your hair. And there it was, my head,
a pliant jewel in the hands of someone else.
_______________________
Tonight (3/17), celebrate St. Pat's Day by driving up Hwy. 50 and taking the El Dorado Hills exit for the Our House Defines Art poetry reading at 7 p.m. Featured readers are soon-to-be Rattlechapper Irene Lipshin, plus Homer Christensen and Wendy Patrice Williams, followed by an open mic. There is no charge. Our House Defines Art Gallery & Framing is located at 4510 Post St. in El Dorado Hills Town Center (next to Ralph's). It's a lovely gallery and a wonderful setting for a reading. Check it out!
Snake Pal, Rattlesnake Review columnist-in-residence and Rattlechapper (Living With Myth) Taylor Graham is one of the spearheads behind the Our House readings. She lives in the wee town of Somerset, over there in south El Dorado County. Coincidentally, The Sacramento Bee Metro section today has an article about the Pioneer Union School District's 28th Annual Festival of Oral Interpretation, wherein 4th-8th graders from the district gathered last Wednesday in Somerset to recite poetry, either their own or others', and receive a rating (it's not a contest), a certificate and a lapel pin. The Snake heartily applauds such attention to poetry for the little ones! It must be in the Somerset water...
THE SATYR'S HEART
—Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Now I rest my head on the satyr's carved chest,
The hollow where the heart would have been, if sandstone
Had a heart, if a headless goat man could have a heart.
His neck rises to a dull point, points upward
To something long gone, elusive, and at his feet
The small flowers swarm, earnest and sweet, a clamor
Of white, a clamor of blue, and black the sweating soil
They breed in...If I sit without moving, how quickly
Things change, birds turning tricks in the trees,
Colorless birds and those with color, the wind fingering
The twigs, and the furred creatures doing whatever
Furred creatures do. So, and so. There is the smell of fruit
And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird
Crying, and the sound of water that does not move...
If I pick the dead iris? If I wave it above me
Like a flag, a blazoned flag? My fanfare? Little fare
With which I buy my way, making things brave?
No, that is not it. Uncovering what is brave. The way
Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone,
And there they are: the armies of pale creatures who
Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.
_____________________________
LEDA AND THE SWAN
—William Butler Yeats
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
______________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
______________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Thursday, March 16, 2006
In And Out of Bed
LOVE IN A WARM ROOM IN WINTER
—James Wright
The trouble with you is
You think all I want to do
Is get you into bed
And make love with you.
And that's not true!
I was just trying to make friends.
All I wanted to do
Was get into bed
With you and make
Love with you.
Who was that little bird we saw towering upside down
This afternoon on that pine cone, on the edge of a cliff,
In the snow? Wasn't he charming? Yes, he was, now,
Now, now,
Just take it easy.
Aha!
_____________________
Lots to do tonight: Keely Sidira Dorran and Bri Pruett read at Poetry Unplugged, Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, 8 pm. Free. Info: 916-441-3931. Or...
Also tonight (3/16), La-Rue, Rob Anthony and Flo-Real read at Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way, Sac., 8 pm. $5; open mic. Info: 916-922-3468. Or...
Also, at 7:30 p.m. the Nevada County Poetry Series will present the poets Jack and Billy Shields, Drew Dellinger and Judith Hurley Prosser. These poets will be reading from their works concerning the interplay of man and nature and the influences that interplay has on the environment and the human spirit. Tickets can be purchased at the door for $5 general, seniors and students, and $1 for those under 18. Refreshments and open-mic included. The show will be in Off Center Stage (the Black Box theater, enter from Richardson Street) at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. For more information call (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384.
Speaking of Grass Valley, Molly Fisk writes from neighboring Nevada City: The line-up at Squaw looks great this summer (the Community at Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop) and I encourage any of you who haven't had a chance to work this way "live" to check it out. I modeled Poetry Boot Camp on the Squaw workshop's idea of writing every day for a week, just because the process had so changed my own writing. This year's teacher-poets are Sharon Olds, Bob Hass, C.D. Wright, Dean Young, and Harryette Mullen. I've worked with the first four and found them all to be good—and very different—teachers. I'm looking forward to meeting Harryette. (I'm going up to visit, not attending this year.) The dates are July 22-29th, and the contact info is http://www.squawvalleywriters.org/poetry_ws.htm. So if you're looking for a place to get juiced with your writing, I recommend it! Meanwhile, since it isn't summer yet, how about signing up for the Internet March Poetry Boot Camp, 3/26-3/31? There are still some spaces available. [Ed. note from kk: I don't have a contact number for Boot Camp handy, but I'm sure you can find it under "Molly Fisk" on the 'Net. Or I'll find it for you—I have it around here, somewhere...]
By the way, Nevada City Poet Molly Fisk will be reading at PoemSpirits in Sacramento Sunday, April 2 at 6 pm. A radio host and essayist on Grass Valley’s KVMR, Molly has published widely and received grants from the California Arts Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and others. She teaches Writing to Heal classes, poetry critique workshops, and an Internet Poetry Boot Camp. The reading will be in Room 11, Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues. Info: Tom Goff or Nora Staklis, 916-481-3312; JoAnn Anglin, 916-451-1372.
Speaking of Interviewer-in-Residence JoAnn Anglin, she read my mind. Well, actually, she preceded me—she wrote to tell me that she has already interviewed Staajabu (see yesterday's post) for the next Rattlesnake Review, due out in June! See why I have columnists? They make the wheels go so much more smoothly while I'm over here, day-dreaming out the window, circling upon my star...
____________________
THE SLEEPWALKER
—Nelly Sachs
The sleepwalker
circling upon his star
is awakened by
the white feather of morning—
the bloodstain on it reminds him—
startled, he drops
the moon—
the snowberry breaks
against the black agate of night
sullied with dream—
No spotless white on this earth—.
____________________
DISILLUSIONMENT OF TEN O'CLOCK
—Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
__________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—James Wright
The trouble with you is
You think all I want to do
Is get you into bed
And make love with you.
And that's not true!
I was just trying to make friends.
All I wanted to do
Was get into bed
With you and make
Love with you.
Who was that little bird we saw towering upside down
This afternoon on that pine cone, on the edge of a cliff,
In the snow? Wasn't he charming? Yes, he was, now,
Now, now,
Just take it easy.
Aha!
_____________________
Lots to do tonight: Keely Sidira Dorran and Bri Pruett read at Poetry Unplugged, Luna's Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, 8 pm. Free. Info: 916-441-3931. Or...
Also tonight (3/16), La-Rue, Rob Anthony and Flo-Real read at Gwen's Caribbean Cuisine, 2355 Arden Way, Sac., 8 pm. $5; open mic. Info: 916-922-3468. Or...
Also, at 7:30 p.m. the Nevada County Poetry Series will present the poets Jack and Billy Shields, Drew Dellinger and Judith Hurley Prosser. These poets will be reading from their works concerning the interplay of man and nature and the influences that interplay has on the environment and the human spirit. Tickets can be purchased at the door for $5 general, seniors and students, and $1 for those under 18. Refreshments and open-mic included. The show will be in Off Center Stage (the Black Box theater, enter from Richardson Street) at the Center for the Arts, 314 W. Main St., Grass Valley, CA. For more information call (530) 432-8196 or (530) 274-8384.
Speaking of Grass Valley, Molly Fisk writes from neighboring Nevada City: The line-up at Squaw looks great this summer (the Community at Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop) and I encourage any of you who haven't had a chance to work this way "live" to check it out. I modeled Poetry Boot Camp on the Squaw workshop's idea of writing every day for a week, just because the process had so changed my own writing. This year's teacher-poets are Sharon Olds, Bob Hass, C.D. Wright, Dean Young, and Harryette Mullen. I've worked with the first four and found them all to be good—and very different—teachers. I'm looking forward to meeting Harryette. (I'm going up to visit, not attending this year.) The dates are July 22-29th, and the contact info is http://www.squawvalleywriters.org/poetry_ws.htm. So if you're looking for a place to get juiced with your writing, I recommend it! Meanwhile, since it isn't summer yet, how about signing up for the Internet March Poetry Boot Camp, 3/26-3/31? There are still some spaces available. [Ed. note from kk: I don't have a contact number for Boot Camp handy, but I'm sure you can find it under "Molly Fisk" on the 'Net. Or I'll find it for you—I have it around here, somewhere...]
By the way, Nevada City Poet Molly Fisk will be reading at PoemSpirits in Sacramento Sunday, April 2 at 6 pm. A radio host and essayist on Grass Valley’s KVMR, Molly has published widely and received grants from the California Arts Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and others. She teaches Writing to Heal classes, poetry critique workshops, and an Internet Poetry Boot Camp. The reading will be in Room 11, Unitarian Universalist Society of Sacramento, 2425 Sierra Blvd., 2 blocks north of Fair Oaks Blvd, between Howe and Fulton Avenues. Info: Tom Goff or Nora Staklis, 916-481-3312; JoAnn Anglin, 916-451-1372.
Speaking of Interviewer-in-Residence JoAnn Anglin, she read my mind. Well, actually, she preceded me—she wrote to tell me that she has already interviewed Staajabu (see yesterday's post) for the next Rattlesnake Review, due out in June! See why I have columnists? They make the wheels go so much more smoothly while I'm over here, day-dreaming out the window, circling upon my star...
____________________
THE SLEEPWALKER
—Nelly Sachs
The sleepwalker
circling upon his star
is awakened by
the white feather of morning—
the bloodstain on it reminds him—
startled, he drops
the moon—
the snowberry breaks
against the black agate of night
sullied with dream—
No spotless white on this earth—.
____________________
DISILLUSIONMENT OF TEN O'CLOCK
—Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.
__________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The Ides of March
I RISE WITH AN EFFORT
—Philippe Jaccottet
I rise with an effort and look out
at three different kinds of light—
that of the sky, that which from up there
pours into me and vanishes,
and that whose shadow my hand draws on the page.
The ink might be mistaken for shadow.
The sky descending takes me by surprise.
One would like to believe we suffer
to describe the light from above;
but pain is stronger than flight
and pity drowns everything, shining
with as many tears as the night.
____________________
SWIFTS
—Philippe Jaccottet
At the stormy moment of dawn
at the apprehensive time
these sickles in the corn
Everything suddenly cries higher
than any ear can climb
____________________
THESE WOOD-SHADOWS
—Philippe Jaccottet
These wood-shadows, timid, patient,
lighter even than the grass
that survived the winter,
are the discreet, faithful,
barely perceptible shadows of death
Always in the daytime
circling our bodies
Always in the open field
these tombstones of blue slate
______________________
RIGHT AT THE END OF NIGHT
—Philippe Jaccottet
Right at the end of night
the wind rises
and the candle goes out
Who is there to keep watch
before the first birds?
The river-cold wind knows
A flame, an inverted tear:
a coin for the ferryman
______________________
WEIGHT OF STONES
—Philippe Jaccottet
Weight of stones, of thought
Uneven balance
of mountain and dream
We still live in another world
perhaps the interval
_____________________
Philippe Jaccottet, critic, essayist, editor, translator and poet, was born in Switzerland in 1925. These poems were translated from the French by Derek Mahon, and appear in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, ed. by J.D. McClatchy (Random House, Inc., 1996).
Be sure to pop over to South Natomas Library tonight to hear Urban Voices Jim Cardwell (an Oroville poet whose work will appear in the next Snake) and Sacramento poet/publisher Crawdad Nelson. Festivities last from 6:30-8 pm.
DISTANCES
—Philippe Laccottet
Swifts turn in the heights of the air;
higher still turn the invisible stars.
When day withdraws to the ends of the earth
their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand.
We live in a world of motion and distance.
The heart flies from tree to bird,
from bird to distant star,
from star to love; and love grows
in the quiet house, turning and working
servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand.
_____________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
—Philippe Jaccottet
I rise with an effort and look out
at three different kinds of light—
that of the sky, that which from up there
pours into me and vanishes,
and that whose shadow my hand draws on the page.
The ink might be mistaken for shadow.
The sky descending takes me by surprise.
One would like to believe we suffer
to describe the light from above;
but pain is stronger than flight
and pity drowns everything, shining
with as many tears as the night.
____________________
SWIFTS
—Philippe Jaccottet
At the stormy moment of dawn
at the apprehensive time
these sickles in the corn
Everything suddenly cries higher
than any ear can climb
____________________
THESE WOOD-SHADOWS
—Philippe Jaccottet
These wood-shadows, timid, patient,
lighter even than the grass
that survived the winter,
are the discreet, faithful,
barely perceptible shadows of death
Always in the daytime
circling our bodies
Always in the open field
these tombstones of blue slate
______________________
RIGHT AT THE END OF NIGHT
—Philippe Jaccottet
Right at the end of night
the wind rises
and the candle goes out
Who is there to keep watch
before the first birds?
The river-cold wind knows
A flame, an inverted tear:
a coin for the ferryman
______________________
WEIGHT OF STONES
—Philippe Jaccottet
Weight of stones, of thought
Uneven balance
of mountain and dream
We still live in another world
perhaps the interval
_____________________
Philippe Jaccottet, critic, essayist, editor, translator and poet, was born in Switzerland in 1925. These poems were translated from the French by Derek Mahon, and appear in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, ed. by J.D. McClatchy (Random House, Inc., 1996).
Be sure to pop over to South Natomas Library tonight to hear Urban Voices Jim Cardwell (an Oroville poet whose work will appear in the next Snake) and Sacramento poet/publisher Crawdad Nelson. Festivities last from 6:30-8 pm.
DISTANCES
—Philippe Laccottet
Swifts turn in the heights of the air;
higher still turn the invisible stars.
When day withdraws to the ends of the earth
their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand.
We live in a world of motion and distance.
The heart flies from tree to bird,
from bird to distant star,
from star to love; and love grows
in the quiet house, turning and working
servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand.
_____________________
—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. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
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