Lucky To Be Alive

Purple Marguerites

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

KING LEAR ON THE HEATH
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The swarms are moving in. They pass
Through our breath and fog the glass of days
Completely. If they have bones, they use
Them to make music, a curious dry, music,
The sound of grasshopper wings in a still field.

We begin to write the opera they contain.
“I am more alive than you,” wail the flutes,
Lugging their way through storms and broken
Reed to light upon the quick scarves of the
Tongue and burst into colorful flame, capes
Unfurled, as if they were not paying attention
To how the story might go. They eat heroes
And heroines alike, spitting out the small bits,
Extinct and irrelevant but always catching us,
Making us regret their actions, passing us
With thick arms and buckets filled with fascinating
Treasures from the deepest parts of the sea.

Finally we are asked to walk among them,
Suspend belief, give ourselves over to their
Crackling displays that take language out
Of the senses violently, pulling our hair
To direct us in the direction they will have us
Go. We become weary meeting other people,
Looking for the light in their eyes that allows
Us to understand they have seen what we
Have seen, heard what they have heard.

From on high we can watch the doors of perception
Swing open and closed, millenniums of behavior,
Always similar to our own but finally crouching
Behind one another. As flies to wanton boys,
Are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.

We will leave the room quickly, dress without
Caring, only to be warm, find our way into the snow.
We will get into our automobiles, humming to ourselves
To keep some sanity and drive off into music, finally
Done with it, lucky to be alive.

_________________________

THE HIGH GOTHIC
—D.R. Wagner

And what is this then?
A tumbling captured by a harp
As it plays against the night
To form its own landscape.

We tell the tales. The symbols
Have their parade. The candles
Crowd to the sides of the nave and pulsate
As the breathing of angels might
As they gather our selves to the space.

I will tell you of the great spires
High above the cathedral roofs
Bouncing what small light is left back
To the precious moon. And we design
Dreams, oh we do, we do.

But they are not dreams for ourselves.
The centuries walk back and forth
Across them. The singing comes and goes
Within the choir and the sparkling from
The high altar stops us once again.
The moment itself before us, totally unexplainable.

_______________________

COURAGE AGAINST THE LION
—D.R. Wagner

He will rend your flesh from your bones
And show his red and bloody mouth
Below vacant eyes caught in the thrall
Blood brings to that mouth.

Courage then, for yours is the voice
The beast wishes for speaking.
We are the ones to tell the tale
Of its lordship of the jungle and
The steppes and the plains.

The lion in the desert. This is
His voice then. “Do not touch me.
Look upon my words and see that
My own blood pours from them.”

Yes they will heal and I shall be
Once again stalking along with death
As if we had nothing better to do.

All these words gathered here
For the sake of what could be a roar.

_________________________

TRYING TO FLY ONCE AGAIN IN THE WINTER
—D.R. Wagner

I have forgotten you
For over one hundred years now.

Here I am tonight once again
Dreaming of your thighs and your embrace.

I can see all the way over to the
Coast. The waves are growing
In size. Their edges have a glow
To them as they meet the shore.

I once had wings but it was at night
And it was cold. I could not fly
For long. I kept falling to the earth,
Picking myself up and trying again.
I could hear your voice.
Maybe I only thought I could
Hear your voice But I did fly.

The first stars are about to come
Out for the evening. One can see
Them dressing beyond the clouds.

I will climb back into
My bed and pull the covers
Up toward my head and I will
Smell you somewhere in this harp
Music that is playing in the dark
My room presents to me. Come here.
Kiss me. It is now
That you are able to hear this.

We shall meet the morning together.
We shall still be making love.
None of this will matter anymore.

______________________

THAT THE MOON
—D.R. Wagner

That the moon doesn't care for Spring.
That it doesn't fill itself out as an announcement
That a season is coming. It has its own games,
Water, the blood moving through mammals,
Huge hatches of insects making another music.

Still it shines brighter than all else in the night
Sky. It opens the earth itself in rain or clear
Light and gives names to the waking of the ground.

No matter where we go, if the night is open,
Clear and the course of this spinning planet
Is open and not just showing off the stars,
There she is, her royal majesty, directing everything
From the top of the night, not caring who or what
Sees her light, the llama races or mischief
In the eyes of old magicians somewhere in Mexico.

Slipping through the fog above the Great Lakes,
Holding court before the Northern Lights,
It is still the moon, careless and reclining
On the whole of our sky with us always loving it.

______________________

ANGELS
—D.R. Wagner

The tips of your fingers.

I wish there may be nothing
Ever else to talk about
Than what is clean, the wind,
The rain, in its many waves.

This dance the snow entertains
Us with, as we laugh at its
Pure beauty. And the flowers!
Have you seen the flowers?

What color is the wind?

Hate and war and power have
Gone now. Shhhh...No one can
Know them any longer.

Oh you angels.

______________________  

Today's LittleNip:  

GAESATAE
—Caschwa, Sacramento

They stood naked on the battlefield
Except for their precious pieces of jewelry
Shedding the fabric of uniforms
To avoid entanglement with brambles

Throwing themselves into the bonfire of dedication
Giving service beyond the call of duty
They perished like water under the bridge
With no medals of honor to outlast them

These battles repeat throughout history
The War on Drugs
The War on Crime
The War on Poverty

Each drawing more Gaesatae
Who surrender only their clothing
Which their enemies proudly hang
High above from telephone lines.


(Happy Birthday, Carl!)

__________________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz), Sacramento

Today Is Your Lucky Day!

Lucky Horseshoes

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

AND THE DREAM WENT ON
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove


             Man had a wooden leg;
             It wooden work.
                     —My Father’s Favorite Saying

I dreamed my father got drunk
With Bill Veeck, the baseball
Rebel, and iconic owner
Of the Chicago White Sox.

Dreamed they woke up beside
The dumpsters behind
Comiskey Park, each wearing
The other’s wooden leg.

I know it was a dream:
My father was careful who
He drank with. And Bill,
Though he’d share a beer
With anybody, was leery
Drinking with folk south
Of the South Side.

I know it was a dream.
But somehow, these yellowed
Season passes in the mailbox,
And the note, “It was my
Left leg, and I want it
Back. Let’s do it again.
Love, Bill.”

____________________

AND THEN,

Mr. Calderon
spilled the coco-coloured coffee
over his yellow dress shirt
paisley tie
and light blue dress slacks.

Jimmy was in elations
since he thought
class would be cancelled
due to his philosophy instructor's gaffe
and lack of balance and concentration.

And then,
when the professor
arrived to class
in flop-flops
white t-shirt
and blue sweat pants,
Jimmy and Anabel
were happier than before.


—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

___________________

AND THEN #2
—Michael Cluff

And then,
Edgar methodically
put down
the phone
crusted with salt
from tears
and smiled
knowing someone
was out of pain
at last
at least.

The sun peaked
over the craggy crest
and today
decided to continue
moving upward
closer to heaven.

____________________

AND THEN #3: January 9, 5:31 p.m.
—Michael Cluff

The phone rang
right after Jacob's mom
called to check in with him.
They are so close
in all the right
and safe ways.

Casting was complete
and I had gotten
the role:
Abe Goldman
the father and dry cleaner
from Chicago via Hungary
of two daughters
one married
the other still not.

I was pleased
and surprised:
the solo sad moment
was when I realized
I would have to go
to several dry cleaners
to pick up my parcels.

The cost of many things
is too fluid
to ponder at times.

_____________________

AND THEN #4
—Michael Cluff

The coffee and copies
were not precise and perfect,
the staples were a tad too tight
and the wrong color of paper
was found by Mr. Fairman
upon his hourly inspection
of the office.

But he forgave
everyone except
Deanna, Mabel, Stephanie,
Natalia, Kiki and Rhonda
for not knowing
better.

Oh
Pablo, Amir,
Matsuo, Sven
and Lamar
in addition.

____________________

RIPPLES
—Caschwa, Sacramento

As we get older
The glass over mirrors
Transforms to dichroic
Ripple texture

Smooth is no longer
A visual possibility
It is now confined to
Rare oral sensations

Get used to vinegar
It will follow you
Like the Paparazzi
There is no escape

Don’t you like purple?
It so becomes you
It is written
You must embrace it

The Shakespeare and Beowulf
Logs are rekindled
For those who still have hearths
To share with their grandchildren

Prepare for life after death:
Keep your subscriptions current
Don’t share your passwords
And leave a forwarding address

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip:  

One hundred years ago, the British government sought to quell once and for all the widespread superstition among seamen that setting sail on Fridays was unlucky. A special ship was commissioned, named "H.M.S. Friday." They laid her keel on a Friday, launched her on a Friday, selected her crew on a Friday and hired a man named Jim Friday to be her captain. To top it off, H.M.S. Friday embarked on her maiden voyage on a Friday, and was never seen or heard from again!!!

Happy Fri/13! Watch where you step...

—Medusa

Raven Gets His Just Desserts

We Will Dance Again

Raven Dances

DANCING DICE
—Caschwa, Sacramento

A lady sat limply at the light rail stop
Tattered slacks baring tattooed ankles
Her focus fixated on 3 or 4 pair of
Different colored dice on the ground

If she was to have any luck at all
It would be with the right numbers
Coming up in the right order
She put her trust in those dancing dice

Trains and passengers came and went
Every 15 minutes, predictable people
Commuters, convicts, connoisseurs,
Posers, papas, patrons of the arts

Each with a cell phone or similar device
That disconnected them from light rail reality
And put them somewhere else
Apart from downtown and punctuality

The lady with the dice remained in one place
Rolling those same dice, watching results
Rolling those same trains, over and over
Everyone’s luck depending on those dancing dice.

______________________________

EMPTY DOMES OF DELHI
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

I kneel by the kitchen flap
fist made like triumphant, it loosens
drops small amount of flour
into the steel bowl. 

When there is water
there is no flour.
When there is flour
there is no salt.

Cold New Delhi air
chokes me awake.
I’m banging
on hotel room doors
asking for work.

One Rupee to press a pair
of jeans, means
masala—
will make food dance
on tongues.

When there is salt
there is no masala.
When there is masala,
there is no dall.

A blind beggar girl
on the silt covered street
gestures towards me
with her forehead,
pointing to my Rupee-lined pocket.

We all have a third eye.

I tell her a story about
beautiful flowers floating softly,
drifting in the sky,
sending their scent
to all of the little
girls of India.

When there is dall
there is no spoon.
When there is a spoon
there is no bowl.

The girl is holding
a small steel dome
empty, wanton of
soupy, spicy dall.
She and her bowl
enter my steamy kitchen.
There are no
missing ingredients
just
hungry mouths.

_____________________

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR
—Sibilla Hershey, Davis

When I was a child in Latvia,
during Russian occupation,
we held our breath at night
listening for the KGB knock
on the door, fearing deportation
to Siberia, from where
few ever returned.
My father’s brother
was deported from the apartment
on the floor below.
My father slept in the bathtub
to avoid detection
or rode the street car
at night to escape deportation.

Now, safe in America,
living in a rustic college town
on a quiet suburban street
where roses bloom all year long,
at age 76, I sometimes listen at night
for a knock that, according to statistics,
comes around at 4 a.m.
An unknown Agent
is said to deport, those selected,
to a place from where
no one returns.

_____________________

DISSOLUTION
—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

fall dissolves into winter
as nights grow longer
days shorter,
darker, colder . . .

sun
hides
behind
clouds,
mist,
fog . . .

winter
solstice
comes,
goes
and
then . . .

we become
aware of slightly
longer days, and somewhat
lighter evenings—mood shifts to hope, renewal . . .
spring time, summer warmth, longer days . . . happier times ahead.

_____________________

TIME STEP
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

dance while you can
with or without
in time or out
forward and backward
single file and double joint
along the river
up the road
around the bend
down to the lakes
across the deserts
hum while dancing
spread the fingers, linking hands
around the waist and arch of neck
dizzy with love
of dancing forward
out of time

______________________

DANCE AGAIN (for Aaron)
—Patricia Hickerson

We will be holding hands,
under the sun and planets
dancing for joy
down the avenue
up the alley
around the bend
dancing out of town
along roads
beyond houses
where horses, goats, sheep graze and nibble
where tomatoes shine
strawberries tumble.

We will dance again, yes,
circle the world, skim the seas
call out to each other at night
crossing the street from a theater
moon will light our faces.
There will be joy under the trees
in the bear caves and wolf dens
dogs and cats will scramble at our feet
all creatures our pets
as we dance across fields of mustard, poppies.

There will be a time, I promise.

_____________________

Thanks to today's poets, including Davisites Sibilla Hershey (welcome!) and Pat Hickerson (who's writing a lot about dance these days), plus Sacramentan Rhony Bhopla, back in the fold after some absence, and Washingtonian/ex-Sacramentan Janet Pantoja. About his poem, Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) writes that "The scene of this poem was downtown Sacramento on K Street, at the base of that multi-faceted building so beautifully captured in the photo you recently posted by [Davisite] Katy Brown."

Speaking of Katy Brown, she brought me the piggie picture postcard [see below] as a souvenir of one of her trips to England a few years ago. How did she know I'd get spammed?? Was she the spammer, or does our Katy have a special prescience? Is that the title of a poem? Can you even SAY "special prescience", with all that mush-in-the-mouth shushing...?

Sac. Poetry Center has a busy weekend planned, including Bellingham Review Editor-in-Chief Brenda Miller visiting tomorrow (Friday the 13th!); Writer's Brush on Saturday (not Monday, my error I briefly posted yesterday—thanks to Trina Drotar for the heads-up); and the Martin Luther King, Jr. reading on Monday. See the blue board at the right of this column for all the details.

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

SUNNY STAGE
—Patricia Hickerson

butterfly line
film of yellow chiffon
soft shoe of rhythm
girls dancing in the light
ripple of applause
wings lift
they fly up to the sun
wings wilt
they drop to the floor
their dance is complete
sun motes cover the stage
applaud the flight
the pile of sun

_____________________

—Medusa

Caption: "What's Spam, Mum? It's something on the Internet, darling!"

What's Behind Us?

Photo by Taylor Graham

SLEEPING STRAIGHT THROUGH
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

And then I try to reconstruct the dreams I didn't have
or don't remember. I used to dream amazing things,
then lie awake to make them poems. An ark, pitched
above the brink of flood. Runes, keys. I'd lie there,
dark, remembering. Insomnia, they
called it. There's help, they said. Stay awake
till midnight. Then, just sleep till the
alarm goes off. And then I
wake up, woozy, tilted
wrong. By dawn, the bed
so full of sleep,
there's no room
for my
dreams.

_____________________

LEAF
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Does naming an object
somehow alter or change it?

Coming to this place, in this
slice of time, I dare not move.
I was not summoned.
It is I who seek to know it.

I dare not be this sacredness—
for I hint of myself as already known
too much.

And so, I stand as in reverence for stasis
as I peer through its light,
neither touching nor knowing,
but feeling only sadness,
for my tongue has moved yet again.

_____________________

GREYSTONE
—Carol Louise Moon

This two-tone gray stone,
dead shadow of an egg
misleads me.

It sits tight and introspective
in its own omniscience

forcing my brain to bend
and squirm under the weight
of its own gray matter.
Or white matter. But, no matter…

This stone’s dull shimmer,
even before the great flood of tears,
draws me.
Yet I come no closer,
not wanting to intrude.

______________________

TUNNEL OF STRANGE ANGLES
(based on a photo by Viola Weinberg
that appeared on Medusa's Kitchen Monday, 1/9/12)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

The light somehow penetrates
this river of stone tunnel: a glacier,
all light on self-grinding glass, abrades
the cobblestone throughstreet flanked
either side by cobbled walkway. Follow me,
traveler, out this gateway arch, the light cries,
and I will guide you straight ahead smack
into a windowless stone wall (lovely dead end!),

or, if you turn right, into a temple-serene
false house, a second gateway
arch into another tunnel (how
often, cries this second tunnel, do you get to
reenact your birth-canal struggle out,
once forward, then retrograde
into another far-from-eager mother?)

(Do you feel yourself
shrink, my beloved, as I debirth you?
Whose is the labor now, I ask?)

Oh, and if you turn a hard left you’re
back outside and under my hottest light,
says the light. And headed—as you are,
whichever of these three true-false ways
you take—God knows not when or to what
or for why.

________________________

INSTRUCTIONS TO ONE COMING AFTER
—Taylor Graham

Hair wild with all the words wind makes
as I wake up with last night's dreams
on my tongue, ears loud with voices
you might not hear—the sound of rain,

of each drop becoming current,
hair wild with all the words wind makes
and a rushing inside the mind.
There are three rivers in my eyes,

pieces of a portrait, mirror
to be shattered and rearranged—
hair wild with all the words wind makes,
a portrait to be thrown away.

Our footprints melt: what's behind us.
Find the compass-rose of azimuths,
then walk. Do you see my rivers?
Hair wild with all the words wind makes.

_____________________

Good Morning, friends, and thanks to our cooks for today's Medusa fare. Some items of note:

•••Jennifer Pickering and Trina Drotar will be appearing on Capitol Public Radio TODAY at 10 am to talk about the upcoming Writer's Brush event at Sac. Poetry Center next Saturday. Go to www.capradio.org/programs/insight/ to hear it online. Jennifer has also been very enterprising with her artwork. Go to shop.cafepress.com/jennifer-pickering to purchase ups, magnets, prints, tiles and T-shirts that feature her work, or go to fineartamerica.com/art/all/jennifer+pickering/all for prints and cards. Her paintings are part of Writer's Brush and will be shown at SPC Jan. 7-29, and she will have a showing at the Red Dot Gallery in Sacramento (www.redotgallery.com) in April. PLUS, her artwork will be on the cover and featured in Blue Moon Literary & Art Review (www.bluemoonlitartreview.com) in the coming weeks. Busy gal, and an inspiration to us all!

•••This Sunday, Jan. 15 is the next deadline for WTF from Rattlesnake Press. See www.rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html for details.

•••The latest issue of Canary is out. See hippocketpress.org/canary

•••See www.newsreview.com/sacramento/myth-still-magical/content?oid=4715870
for Kel Munger's review of Swan Scythe Press's latest chapbook winner, The Measured Breathing by Michael Hettich.

•••Sac. Poet Laureate Bob Stanley writes: I have a highly esteemed publisher who is considering having me edit an anthology of poems about wine, and the California wine world in particular. He's asked to see some poems as examples, and I wondered if you would be willing to contribute a poem that touches on any aspect of wine, and allowing me to include it in my proposal. If you want to write something new, please do, but older or previously published work is fine as well. The poetic traditions of wine go back a long way, and whether or not you believe that Li Po died in a drunken boating accident, I'm guessing that many of you will have a poetic angle of your own. Feel free to draw from your personal experience—joys, fears, politics, agriculture—whatever bubbles up to the surface. Please send me something by the end of the month (at stanleybob2010@gmail.com) if you're interested, and I'll keep you posted if this project has "legs."

•••916 Ink, a new Sacramento nonprofit, is helping local youth write and publish their original work, and the group needs volunteers to help young writers this spring. If you’re a writer who likes to work with kids, consider becoming a volunteer for 916 Ink. The commitment is 2 hours every week for an 8 week session, plus a three hour training on either Jan. 16 from 6-9 pm or Jan. 18 from 4-7 pm at the Salvation Army in Oak Park.

This spring, 916 INK is working on three projects:
1. High school students from mid-February to the end of April on Wednesdays from 4-5:30 pm.
2. Third, fourth, and fifth graders from mid-February to mid April on Wednesdays from 2-4 pm.
3. "Tweens" from mid-April to the end of May on Thursdays from 4-6 pm.

All the writing for 916 Ink culminates in a book publication for the youth who participated (printed on the Sacramento Public Library's new book machines) and a celebratory young authors’ reading in June at the downtown Galleria.

You can learn more about 916 Ink at www.916ink.org  They were recently highlighted in the Sacramento Bee's Book of Dreams. You can also email Katie McCleary at 916ink@gmail.com if you have questions.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip(s)

PIRATE PERCH
—Taylor Graham

High in the oak,
a nest
overlooking
everything—

a feathered crest,
hooked beak,
hawk.


COUNTRY LANE
—Taylor Graham 

This row
of mailboxes
beside
an empty road,

each box
waiting
for good news.

____________________

—Medusa

 Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

And Then...

Owl

—Photo by Joyce Odam

THE GRIEVANCE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

I go to the vast window
with its scenery that falls away.

I have no cat—even though
birds avoid my gaze and disappear.

I hold the curtain back with my shoulder
and watch the day—how it shortens

and grows chill. I should turn away,
but something holds me here . . .

_____________________

THE SAD WINDOW
—Joyce Odam

Turning to my small window, I see the view:
a boring wall for me—a scrap of sky for you.
From what bleak difference now do we stare—

I, at shadow creeping over brick—
you, at night that comes down thick.
What do we care, Love, what do we care?

Wall is for safety—sky is for roam;
you at your distance—I, at home
with brick and shadow. I don’t cry.

In this division, why compare:
you in your nowhere—everywhere—
only one of us left now, tending this goodbye.

_____________________

WINDOW LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

Ah, light, you have found me, caught me
dreaming out the window, distracted,
with a moody, non-look on my face.

You have caught me
dangling by my threads—
mobilic in your warm and tender strands,

you have found me dancing to myself
in pleasant echo
of your flickerings,

swaying to the light… swaying
to the light… yearning
to be drawn right through the glass.

Oh, light, you have saved me from
the pulling of these rooms
with their deep corners.

I have come to your bright window
to be done with winter
with its cold shadows and dispiriting intent.

______________________

IN MUTED WINDOW LIGHT
(based on Sir William Orpen's
"Sunlight", c. 1925)
—Joyce Odam

What has adoration to do with a woman
in muted window light—pulling her
stockings on, or pulling them off:

It is the pose of her body in that light—
the mystery of her attention to
her own beauty,

as though disregarded, as though no one
is watching: not the artist:
or the reader of this:

or the brooding man in a dark room’s chair
who thinks of her, as if she is real
to his thinking.

She is only in the slow, seductive art
of dressing—or undressing—leaning
back—one leg lifted in the air—

the soft light approving and lingering.
And she will do this for as long as
anyone is watching.

______________________

THE WINDOW AT SUNSET
(based on G. H. Rothe's “Bougainvillea”)
—Joyce Odam

Sensitive to light, you stare through
the crimson leaves and reddened flowers

on the window. Your eyes refuse
to withdraw from the eyes

of your reflection. You put your hand
to your mouth and kiss the scent

at your fingertips. On which side
of the glass do you exist?

Your shoulders merge with the
crimson-lighted leaves—even the sky.

You float within yourself
and all but disappear among the flowers.

______________________

THIS WINDOW FULL OF STARS
—Joyce Odam

This window full of stars, and gray clouds
moving, and shift of prayers—or perhaps just
angles of old light, still fading into the end of
itself—this long day, taken like the others into
slow eternity.

Why do I mourn it as if it were the last one. . . . ?

Soon the window becomes black, and I tire of
looking through it into such a cold dark sky, and
I turn back to my dark room—turn on the lamp,
and become a small and equidistant square of
light to the immense, unnoticing night.

_______________________

Thanks, Joycey, for today's tasty stew! (Poets lie, you know. She really does have a cat, despite what it says in her first poem.)

Our Seed of the Week is And Then... What happened next? Did the pirates get away? Did the baby go to sleep? Is this a story, or a tone poem, or just musings about life? What comes after "Then"...? Send your SOWs to kathykieth@hotmail.com; no deadline on the little suckers—and see Calliope's Closet up under the Snake on a Rod in the green box next to this one for previous SOWs. And while your browsing the green box, check out our Form to Fiddle With this week: the Septolet. Hm...

_______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

AT A WINDOW
—Joyce Odam

You
open
a window,
look out upon
the moonlit hour—
wish you were not stricken
with mundane obligations . . .
the night floods in with sympathies.
You are released . . . into what power?

_______________________

—Medusa

Last Leaf

—Photo by Joyce Odam

Good Morning—

Photo by Viola Weinberg

BEAUTIFUL SOLITUDE
—Viola Weinberg, Kenwood, CA
               
               (for Monsieur Edw. Cahill of Montparnasse)

There is no romance as rightful as that found, unbound
walking in a strange city in ringing silence, there is no
love greater than a poet falling in love with a place
where no one speaks her language and it’s raining

I know the sultry nights, the marbled stones, the absinthe
of dreaming in beautiful solitude, the intoxication of gas lights
breathing evenly along a small street off the avenue where you
have penned a word with blood red lipstick on a matchbook

taken from the drunken hand of a Russian sailor in a tiny
bar called Le Cave, where the vodka flows and everyone
is laughing, living and dying in the same breathless moment
and you don’t feel beautiful, as much as wondrous and invincible

I know the sense of being utterly alone, as if in a womb
unimpenetrable, an unflinchable tower of the heart pulsing in you
a city that was always waiting for you, as if this city is your
true mother and not that poseur you remember from a spanking

This place never grows old in your imagination, or even
in a waking hour when the spirit of all you wished for as
a girl has faded, and a dirty floor calls your name or
when dinner, banal and inconsequential, is still uncooked

Trust me, this romance will outlast the miasmic linoleum of tattered
wishing although, by its very nature, it is mysteriously shellacked
by desire, because this city, this poem of your nature, this is more
honest than any impetuous promise or bond, this, ma cheri, is fact

____________________

INSOMNIA
—Viola Weinberg

4 a.m. and your face appears
like winter shedding petals or
snow coming down on a tree bough
quiet, weightless, ephemeral sapphires
bobbing in the night skies, your life force
lighter by the moment, slipping, away
from the warmth, forever out of my
grasp, child of mine, outlived by
your mother’s grief, your aching mistakes
a hob knit chain of downward spin
a broken song of beauty left in broken notes
left and gone, my little baby, a beauty
so seemingly unconstrained, so full of life
now missing from life’s puzzle, everywhere
and anywhere, everywhere and nowhere
somewhere, you may be a pink streak of daylight
come home, come back, and end this endless night

_____________________

FOUNDLING
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

He claimed no memory of how he came.
Did he take first breath on wind-steppe,
or door-step scrubbed on Mondays?

His language was a mystery, how he
worked his mouth around the sweet taste
of birdsong. No word for himself.

Sans identity or accent—so many incognitos
this world offers. Did he run his fingers
through a she-wolf's mother-ruff, listening

into her grumble-croon-deep sleep?
What kind of dreams?
He wept at the Tombeau de Couperin,

as we watched through window-glass,
a futile means of capture.
He slept curled into the piano like

a warm shoulder. Which of us
can name his own true parentage?
Maybe music was his mother.

_____________________

LUNAR ECLIPSE
—Taylor Graham

But where is the moon, I want to know.
It's right there, in the rabbit's eye.
It's passing over the dismal downs.

I don't find that on the map.
The moon is a silver pushpin that holds
the calendar together on the wall.

The world through corrective lenses.
Moon is a joy-song in Medieval script
limned on disintegrating parchment.

But I was looking out the window.
Do you see those thin strands dangling
with tickets and tokens like jewels?

Tonight the sky is too heavy to see.
The moon is a deep-blue pond
waiting for earth to get out of its way.

Is it important that I see the eclipse?
Everything's held up by the pond.
Watch where you step, you might fall in.

_____________________

ELDERLY
—Caschwa

The news item said
An elderly man died
In a house fire caused by
Cigarettes discarded outside

One source said he was 60
Which is pre-MediCare
Teetering on the threshold
Of being elderly
If one’s life is not cut short

Perhaps the story’s author
Was one of the younger folk
Who left burning butts
On the lawn to be blown
To the house, sparking the fire

Revolution is in their blood
Defiantly they disprove the actuaries
Who carefully count the days of our lives
Driven by an overwhelming impatience
They hasten the end.

_____________________

HOOFIN' IT
—Caschwa

At first it seemed like
Such a nice machine

Then the cataclysmic converter brought doom
There was a rebellion of the slave cylinders
Mr. Clutch lost his gear at the airport
Both air bags were deployed to a war zone
The undersized spare was beat up by bullies
That old antenna couldn’t stay erect long enough
And the universal joint was confiscated by narcs

So today it’s just me
And my cheap shoes
Plodding along

_____________________

Thanks to our Master Chefs today: Taylor Graham (you can catch a glimpse of our famous TG at Poetry Off-The-Shelves in Placerville this Weds.—see the blue box at the right of this for details); Viola Weinberg, Sacramento's first (with Dennis Schmitz) Poet Laureate who now lives in Kenwood; and Carl Bernard Schwartz (Caschwa), whose botanical bonanza is the new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page. As you may have noted on our Kitchen post yesterday, Kathy Kieth's Hotmail acct. was hijacked on Saturday night; many of you were amused/horrified to receive ads for Viagra, Moroccan restaurants, and other such nonsense. I'm sorry about that, and the problem has been solved, so you can go back to using the Hotmail address at kathykieth@hotmail.com. If you're uncomfortable with that (even though the baddies have been expunged), write to me at kathykieth@yahoo.com

Anyway, some interesting things did come out of the hacker-spamming: I heard from some old friends, including Colette Jonopulos, who has moved to Denver! Viola Weinberg sent us poems and pix, bless her. Charlie Mariano had an intriguing take on the whole thing: use it to inspire more poetry (of course! Whatever else would a poet do??). And Carl Schwartz wrote the hackers a poem; see today's LittleNip.

This other poem by Carl attempts to ask our Question of the Day on Sat/Sun: Can one EVER have too much Beowulf?


BEOWULF REWRITTEN
—Caschwa

This version was adapted for the modern TV audience:

Beywatch, hero of the Heats in Savannah Naval Yard, comes to the help of Rover, the king of the Great Danes, whose dog house has been under attach by a human being known as Geraldo.

After Beywatch slays him, Geraldo’s mother attacks the dog house and is also met with poor reviews. Beywatch goes home to Savannah and becomes king of the Heats.

After 50 seasons, Beywatch defeats a gargoyle, but is fatally injured in the battle. After his death, his sponsors bury him within a TV tomb in the Heatland.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip (dedicated by Medusa to spammers everywhere): 

Baby Boomers too rigid
To sit on their hinds
Lose some of their boom
Before losing their minds

Can that boom be restored
With one little pill,
Or will Destiny control?
It is all in God’s will


—Caschwa

_____________________ 

—Medusa

Photo by Viola Weinberg

Wear Me Like Rain

Rain

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

STANDING ON THE COMPASS ROSE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The entire world below my toes
Rises up and off I go
High above the lands of snow
When all beneath me cold winds blow
And I finally relax, enjoy the show.

The greatest gift is to die
And our form mutates, comes apart and flies
Our selves back together in a new sky

Where what we were and now are
So far away from changes and we cry
To see ourselves so totally new and sigh
Once again at our strangeness and why
Such a thing could happen yet again.

You will wear me like rain
For I will be the rain.
You will dress yourself in pure light
For I shall be pure light.
You will call me by a name
And I again will answer,
Come to your side and see
The sun just begin to rain
Storm, you running on ahead of me.

_____________________

Friends, it appears Kathy Kieth's Hotmail account has been hacked. I'm so sorry, of course—but DO NOT click on the link they will give you, and for now, write to me at kathykieth@yahoo.com. Ah, the world of cyberspace has its robbers, too...


—Medusa