The Cavern Without Explanation

Night-flowering Cactus

NIGHT-FLOWERING CACTUS

—Thomas Merton
 

I know my time, which is obscure, silent and brief


For I am present without warning one night only.



When sun rises on the brass valleys I become serpent.



Though I show my true self only in the dark and to no man


(For I appear by day as serpent)


I belong neither to night nor day.



Sun and city never see my deep white bell


Or know my timeless moment of void:


There is no reply to my munificence.



When I come I lift my sudden Eucharist


Out of the earth's unfathomable joy


Clean and total I obey the world's body


I am intricate and whole, not art but wrought passion


Excellent deep pleasure of essential waters


Holiness of form and mineral mirth:



I am the extreme purity of virginal thirst.



I neither show my truth nor conceal it


My innocence is described dimly


Only by divine gift


As a white cavern without explanation.



He who sees my purity


Dares not speak of it.


When I open once for all my impeccable bell


No one questions my silence:


The all-knowing bird of night flies out of my mouth.



Have you seen it? Then though my mirth has quickly ended


You live forever in its echo:


You will never be the same again.

_____________________

—Medusa

Their Ancient Music

Ship

WITH THE BEES

“We’re not working like this anymore.”
He pulled the tablet from out of my hands
And tried to smash it to the floor as if it were
Something rotten, something not worthy.

We were alerted that this might happen
By flocks of birds which tried to show us
By their flight patterns what this meant.

Just outside the compound there was
Machine gun chatter and then a ton
Of flash bangs exploded in the courtyard.

We ran.  I stopped to pick up the tablet.
It had more power than any of these crazy
Soldiers waiting to be destroyed by misinformation.

I reached for my side arm and saw it had turned
Into something far more formidable than a gun.
There were thousands of bees swarming around
It, as if it were the sweetest thing they had ever found.

I pushed my way past the gates and shouted
Something I cannot recall at the present time.
I could see the bees descend on their forces.

Bees give their lives when they sting anything.
We do the same thing as well.  Within a hour
There was no longer any sound but the contented
Hum of the hives.  Thousands of acres of almonds
Needed pollinating.  The flowers were full of great
Sweetness.  We pretended we did not understand
Any of what had occurred when the battle commenced.

We withdrew silently and carefully, holding the honeycombs
High above our heads, stepping over the plains of bodies.

_____________________

FINDING WORK

The silences have become caves
Or mines and I became distracted
There by words.  There I am able

To see them twist and combine,
To copulate letter by letter,
Forging meaning, arguing with each
Moment, bearing gifts for creatures
Who are barely able to see because
The night encompasses them.

Rivers of writers harvesting these
Silly words, believing they are stars,
Planets, moons populating what?

A book, an essay on planetary motion,
A poem about living in a remote
Village high in the mountains?

Finding oneself there upon waking in the
Morning without any sense of how
One travelled there.  Finding work
With a people who do not understand
Whatever one is saying.  Listening
For the silences, working in the deepest mines.

___________________

MAIN STREET, NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

I don’t know what they did.
We were sleeping soundly.
The rush was over, even the river
Didn’t seem in a particular hurry.

Later, I went down to the main
Street but nobody was out.  The whole
Place looked like it had been forgotten

About thirty years ago; even the
Markets were closed.  "A good
Place to Shop," said one of the signs.

I don’t think anyone is coming back.
There can’t be more than a few
Thousand people here now, mostly
Good folks, but enough idiots
To keep the police working.

I would love to stroll down
That street when something was there
Again, but all has been eaten
By time.  There is nothing but rust,
Bones, cars, and somewhere, a bakery.

Here

THE SONG ARRESTED

I do not like to come to these streets
Any longer.  It has become much too hard
To avoid seeing the ghosts who live there.
They are part of the buildings or
What’s left of the buildings.

It has never seemed like morning
Here.  The sun a messy egg yolk
Running through the alleys into the drains.

There was never a complete sentence spoken
Here that wasn’t filled with even more
Streets, circles spinning by, so close
To consuming one that the wheel hubs
Slice one’s clothing to shreds.

Paragraphs of shirts, chapters of trousers,
Even the tears are broken further.  Unable
To recognize any streets, any where.
There are no streets to come to.

Thoughts excuse themselves
Without knowing they have done so.
These streets are not consequences.
The drains become clogged.
They fill with a clouded water.

My feet disappear.  I become
A ghost.  I become the buildings.
I become the labyrinth.

I do not like to come to these streets
Any longer.  They have become much
Too difficult to navigate.
They have become myself.

____________________

A FRAGMENT FROM A DESTROYED JOURNAL

Where the meanings are
Left out in the street
To find their own way home,
Distressed by their inability
To recognize anyone who 

Had anything to do with their discoveries.

Once, on the top of a mountain
Streams began from florid
Displays of weather, snow,
Sleet and freezing rain.
Then rivulets and finally streams,
Cutting canyons where entire
Groves of trees might hide
For hundreds of years.

I see you standing by the curb
Looking at the debris wash past.
Your hair wet with rain and plastered
To your head.

___________________

CRUMBLED

They hacked their way through
Miles of jungle to establish this place.

They cut stone, brought their best
Artists here to carve stone,
Decorate the walls with stories
So that all might remember
How powerful their civilization
Had become.  The trees lifted
Even higher than their temples.

They were filled with Howler
Monkeys and birds with brilliant
Plumage.  These creatures made
Their own songs, more powerful
Than Copal smoke rising from
Windowless rooms and broad
Plazas.  Above all, rain triumphed
Over the place, burying it in the mists.

Now we have come and time,
Wicked in its deliberations,
Asks us to find these places
Once again.

Monkeys walk in these rooms,
Looking for fallen fruit and insects.
The rain has continued for almost
Two weeks now without letup.

We stumble through these crumbled
Palaces and believe we hear crying
In the night above the night music
Thousands of creatures bring to
This place.

We can no longer wear our clothing.
The rain has washed it away,
As it washed our homes away.
We stare through dissolving eyes.
All who lived here return here.

We see their shades move among
Us.  They trade maize with us
For cheap telephones and electronics.
We can hear their ancient music
Through our headphones.  We fall
To our knees.  The rain continues.
 

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Poetry witnesses what is near and far as an astronomer sees from earth to star.

—B.Z. Niditch

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's poems and photo enhancements, and with thanks to B.Z. Niditch for the LittleNip

Rabbit Mandala

So Much To Love

kk's daffodils

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE FACE OF YOUR GARDEN
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
　
The sun rises with a look of kindness,
and you wake me with three kisses.
The first is the kiss of the morning dew, light, sweet,
damp, and cool, your lips so young, tender, delicious.
Next is the kiss of total abandon, of passion at sunrise
while the rest of the young world still sleeps.
Your body is so warm, the very center of you
is moist and open, calling me home.
And finally, the kiss of death, my mortality defined by yours,
both of us reaching back for all we missed, hopes lost.
Three kisses, nurtured in the garden of your heart,
growing in the soil of our life together.
The face of your garden is your face,
the same.

___________________

ADVICE
            (for William Lee Jobe)
—James Lee Jobe
　
Did I fail to show you
how God lives inside
every sunrise?
Even the plain ones.
Especially the plain ones.
Did I fail to teach you
how frail are these
flesh containers
that hold us?
How precious
is each moment
we spend inside them?
Lightning can strike twice.
The earth itself can fail you,
right where you stand.
There is no such thing
as luck, good or bad.
I know you are a man now,
but be careful, my son,
please be careful.
Life can indeed
swallow us whole,
without so much
as a thought.
Without so much
as a glance.

____________________

THE LAND I CREATED FOR MY INSANITY TO DWELL IN
—James Lee Jobe
　
Look at this place I made
just for you!
Every morning the dawn is a gift,
just when you tire of the night.
A bold and painted sunrise,
a magpie signing in an oak.
Every day is full of music
and magic; God's love!
And when the day has been long enough,
the rich black night returns.
A night like velvet, like a panther, and the stars
are the medals for your uniform.
Here, the monkeys of your better nature are free,
and the trees where they play are endless and green.
Here, cows and chickens and ducks gather together
in prayer at the appointed times,
Here, the farm is alive with the blessings
of a kind and forgiving god.
Dance, sing,
or form a new country.
Build yourself
a Tower of Babel.
Then settle down with a good book
in a chair by the fire.
I have created this world for you
to live in!
A world
all your own!
 
___________________

HOSANNA
—James Lee Jobe
　
Sunrise, when I just couldn't bear
one more moment of darkness.
Hearing my mother, on into her eighties,
singing softly to herself, far off-key.
The day when I knew
that I would survive.
Hosanna.
A fawn asleep, a cat at play,
long shadows late in the day.
Hearing my son, a man now, singing
a soft song with his guitar, lovingly.
The night that I leapt anyway,
though I could not see the bottom.
Hosanna.
She is born! Of flesh She lives!
She suffers and loves, even as we do.
She lives in the face of a child,
born in grace as we all are.
She walks across this earth, this valley,
eased by the wind, in faith.
In faith.
Hosanna.
Sunset, when the day had worn me
to the bone, tired, beaten.
Hearing a choir take up a song of praise,
proudly singing the names of God.
When time no longer mattered, young or old,
I have lived this life indeed.
Hosanna.
Hosanna.

Somewhere Spring

—Photo by Katy Brown
 

PLUMERIA MORNING

—Lynn M. Hansen, Modesto

On the sunrise side of the island
long rays of dawn-light
color buoyant clouds
a soft hibiscus pink, orange.
While I am yet nestled in my dreams
you, awakened by the raucous call
and response of red junglefowl cocks,
go to gather plumeria blossoms.

In solitude you wander over landscape
manicured to perfection by immigrants,
approach each plumeria tree,
bypass the youthful buds and blooms
whose pungent odor perfumes the morning,
leave those fresh beauties to others.

Instead your eyes select the fallen,
scattered around the green carpet at drip line
like clothing discarded in haste,
mature flowers whose throats are sunshine yellow,
petals edged in pink, a few tinged brown.
Each one radiates a subtle fragrance
diluted by time.

Collection complete, with mending kit
needle in hand, you carefully thread
each blossom into a wreath of surprise,
a lei of the fallen plumeria,
gift to me as I rise,
before we break fast,
taste Love's toast and tea.

______________________

FOR THE EDGES

(in the style of Maya Angelou)
—Sophia Smidth, Davis

The heavy, human, padded, plodding steps,
Musical and familiar,
Press in on the moist earth,
This immeasurably soft enormous ball,
From all directions
To mold a surface
Packed down and smooth
With the sheen wear and weight.

But the one o’clock wind
Throws sand
And later pushes down bit after bit of water
Wherever it pleases
To disturb the predictable placidity
Of formed trailways.

Feet are awakening to the smell of wet earth,
Disheveled with or without the permission
Of those who call it their own
And care to notice when it’s
Sloppy and uncontained,
Before the ball of a foot rolls again.

Gather for Fire
On dirty knees
And pieced pine trees
We crouch to touch
The flicks of warmth
Because we gather for fire.

Shins face the rest
To greet this speech
With open hands
To which we pressed
The warmth of touch
And endless breath
That fiercely burns the hours.

We know the taste
Of salt and cells
And heal our cuts
With time alone
Rejoice at dusk
And cheer for dawn
Because we gather for fire.

____________________

FLY ON
(in the style of William Butler Yeats)
—Andrew Chiang, Davis

I can smell dewy mists as they pass by me,
And the caress of cloud tendrils as I soar along.
I can hear the whistle of air flying free,
And resounding in my bones its wild, unbarred song.
And when the grey frown full of anger, arrives
Upon clouds I will see a young storm arise.
I will hear keenly and up close from where thunder derives
As swift lightning strikes forth, cutting proud men down to size.
Resulting from storming, and raining, and morning will come
Warmth bitter remembering the darkness before
Climbing light, shining bright, warming what was once numb
And I will stretch my wings out and fly on forever more.

____________________

A TRAIL OF LEAVES
—Andrew Chiang (in the style of Yeats)

There was a trail of leaves that flew down the river bend
A wagging wiggling tail of greens that came from who knows where.
That weaved its way through rocks and deer legs from river’s end to end
Until it reached a hidden cave, a shadowy secret lair.
Within that cave it shown so bright illuminating contours deep
A string of vibrant minty leaves, a scent of freshness in the dark
That awoke that hidden place from isolated lonely sleep
And gave upon it something special—a new life, a brilliant spark

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

I LOVE BLUEBERRIES

—James Lee Jobe

I love blueberries, loud music, and the sweet, salty taste of a woman's body. And I love that first glimpse of a new sunrise and the smell of the deep pine forest. I love rich poetry and long, dark winter nights. This is the magic of life as a human being! Raise your glass high! Dance when the music moves you! Life is short, my friend, so very damn short, and there is so much to love.

__________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Katy Brown

To Begin Again

Johnathan Herold

BREACH OF THE SOIL
—Johnathan Herold, Lodi

A trepid bulb, planted


by the red-rough hands of


a foreign tiller waits


For its light to ignite


A world, to begin


Again for someone new.



And though her tears cannot


Purge of present fears


Or replace the earth thus broken,


This child will find her harvest


Shines stronger than the hands


Forced upon her fields,


Or the moon that hid


his face that evening.

______________________

GRAY GARDENER
—Johnathan Herold

Sometimes I forget you have gone
back home to that higher place,
above the minute mayhem,
in which I count on
your way.

I wish you could see me now.
Harvesting the plans you planted
in me as proud and patient Gardener.
I’ve learned to sow my spirit’s soil, 
prune for budding expectations.

Sometimes I stare the door to splinters
waiting for you, gray grandfather,
to pass within the hour,
ripe and running
my way.

I wish you could see me now.
Reaping all the rows you tilled
before the callous winter’s scythe
won you and your winding hands,
before my sprouts could season.

Sometimes, I wish you could see me. Now,
as I toil to tend these fresh fields,
I look back on you, gray Gardener,
and know that you have formed me
this way.

_____________________

POWDER KEG

—Johnathan Herold

I no longer feel safe
in the halls of my own house.
I wear warm bruises,
branded upon my body
by delicate, cool hands.
I know that I must slip away
before smoke leads to ashes. But,

I cannot leave
the kids behind,
unguarded against the
powder keg
that is my wife.

_____________________

THE ASCENDER
—Johnathan Herold

I tell you, truly, I have
Heard them say it’s said
There exists a bird like blood.
One who lived and lives
Still, a champion
Of the ashes I am told
It’s told, born ‘fore the fire,
Like its own father.

I have never beheld this
Bird or heard the wisps
Of its ancient-eternal
Song, though I tried to grasp
The splendor, in the whisper:
I can burn and the bird can-
-not; his tears can heal our own.
So we awe the ascender,
Parting in the clouds, taken in
The void from which it came,
Untouchable and unbelievable.

_____________________

STRIGIFORM
—Johnathan Herold

The darkness will blow in
The hearts of those who try
To tame the bitter cold
That tempts the world to die.

The whispers of the night hint he is wise,
More than just a brown-blur for the eyes,
Or a confident reminder of the ties

That bind us to the very things we fear.
His shadow flashes cross the frigid ground
Before me.

Word is on the street that he will rise,
Higher than the streetlights or the skies,
A beacon set to spook away the lies,
That bind us to the things that we hold dear.
His shadow flashes cross the frigid ground
Beside me.

The darkness will blow in
The hearts of those who try
To tame—
Everything, it comes too fast.
Before they come, every day’s
Behind me.
And through it all, the word is wise and wide and
Majestic; he will spread his wings,
And ride the wind away.

____________________

Our thanks to Johnathan Herold for today's poems, and welcome to the Kitchen for this first-timer! Johnathan graduated from Lodi High School in 2008 and spent two years at San Joaquin Delta College, serving as president of Delta's Writers’ Guild for three semesters before transferring to UC Berkeley, where he earned his BA in English in 2012. He is currently in the process of earning his MA in English Literature at California State University, Stanislaus.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

—Lord Byron, Childe Harold

___________________

—Medusa

Tulips

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

A Skylark Singing

—Photo by Taylor Graham

ETHER
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The heart of poetry
is a skylark singing out of sight.
A bird flew up past walls reaching
hands, straight up through rafters, beams,
scaffolding, structure,
lifting wings for heaven.
I snapped a picture but I couldn't
make it sing.

____________________
 

FENCELINE
—Taylor Graham

A new day. My dog runs
the hypotenuse from mailbox-corner
on the county road to a wraithlike angle
of woods, its legion shadows, scent
of deadfall, ghost of a digger-pine.
And then he's noonday-relaxing
from all that running fun
in the sun's updrafts, under spirals
of cloud and hawks riding sun-showers.
Such is his day, till bedtime, the stars'
turn to shoot across the sky,
and a dog runs uncalculated lines
and angles and tangles of dream.

___________________

NOTHING
—Taylor Graham

After a restless night what's a new day
good for? The dark exhaled its dew, leaving
fresh grass-trails up the swale,
through rimrock bones, to the creek—
something besides bad dreams
stalked the nighttime, and is gone.
Ruckus of acorn woodpeckers courting
in blue oaks below the sheep-yard,
as ewes and lambs come filing out the gate,
dream-walking into dawn.
Lilac's suddenly in bloom. Behind the house,
waves of birds have raided
pyracantha berries. One pauses on a twig,
just long enough for sun to ignite
his colors and flare his crest. Cedar
Waxwing. This day is nothing but new.

_____________________

FAIRYTALE ENDING
—Taylor Graham

1. Crash

In dream I was speeding down the highway,
dreams being magic full of impossible tasks,
and cunning to carry them out. Dreams are true
metaphor, how they can change everything quick
as poetry. And so I was speed-dreaming along
in my rhyme-magic world when WHOP! my
grown prosy self butted in—right into
my dream!—and I woke up just in time to
put on the brakes, shift gears, and get control
of my steering. Of course you know how it
ends. I crashed my dream.

2. Quantifying Wonder

He appeared from nowhere saying he had
the answer. What would it cost? That's not
the question, he said. Just look what I've got
here. Geegaws, tricks, gimcracks.
No dragonflies? gold-leaf dawns?
Shut the door.

3. An Ancient Story

One lovesick bullfrog
in search of a
damsel fly
perhaps
spring.

__________________

A BROKEN TOWER

overlooks the landscape-furnace red
as the stars above are bright, and scarves
in all colors of the Northern Lights—
if you could see through the smoke
of furnace-fires, running flames,
you'd swear lava-slag from Earth-center.
This is where your studies of astronomy
come in handy, and Dante, Milton.
A shooting-star might be Lucifer, if you
could see through the smoke of his
hands, for a glimpse of the immortal
forms that haven't fallen. Angels, stars.

—Taylor Graham
 

 

Gopher Weed

—Photo by Taylor Graham

 

I DOUBT
—Evan Myquest, Rancho Murieta

I doubt Munch in a dream
Could ever paint a real scream
No one thought Paul Klee
Would even try to paint a horse’s neigh
Fast Eddie Manet
Shouted show me the Monet
But still could not convey the click or clack
Of a bumpy trolley track
Dali thought time was sheer folly
But even he in all his viscous majesty
Still could not render the tiniest tick of that melting clock
Or the iron scrape of a key in a lock
Poor old Hopper, oh yes, poor old Hopper, he came a cropper
Trying to paint the doink of a pulled out stopper
Currier and Ives were in a jam
They had agreed one would paint the door and one the slam
But neither of them and more
Could ever do justice to that still resounding door
So it was up to Jackson P
To capture for all eternity
The sound of splat
Oh yes, that ended that

______________________

THE STRAW
        (one for Bertolt)
—Evan Myquest

one helpless sad eyed camel
one straw
inconsequential in its existence
blowing in the dust
lands atop the bundles
the burdens already placed
on the camel's back
a sway
a tremor
locked knees buckle
down goes camel
splayed legs bellied and
emptied of lung air in a whoosh
of plaintive bleats of pain and panic
broken of spine and limb
where is the owner
there whipping the dumb animal
poor camel unable to rise
loaded now without
benefit of standing first
the owner kneels
and eye to eye curses camel
who with last will and effort
spits in his owner's eye
saying whip all you want
whip away little man
I'm done and out here in the blazing sands
where you needed me most—
so are you
for even though it was not your straw
and not your wind
it was your place to allow me
a breath
a breathing space
not back-breaking overload
but said the man
at home I treated you royally
the best of food and stall
your time was your own
your life a paradise
look around said camel
what do you see
only sand
only sun
only pulverizing windblown dust
and soon a pair of skeletons
previously locked in need
now locked in fate
offer me your many paradises now and
although I will surely try
I will not rise and so it also
falls to you who chose to ride and whip
instead of walking at my side
 

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

HEARTY BREAKFAST
—Caschwa, Sacramento

I'll have that
sperm whale
omelet with
sour do-re-mi
fa-sol-la herbal
tea to drink please

yes plenty
of scallops
on the potatoes.
hold the tomatoes
very gently
they are fragile

__________________

—Medusa

Moonrise

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

This Realm is Mine

EGGS

I cannot name the egg again.
It remains as mysterious as ever.
          .
I, making ordinary breakfast
of the egg,
never consider what I am doing.
          .
Sometimes I try to be talented with it,
cracking it open with one hand
and dropping it into the pan
without breaking it.
          .
Nests of it turn under chickens
into a tedium of miracles
which I can hear forming.
          .
If it floats, it is bad.
It can be saved for throwing.
          .
Original Chicken pecks her eggs
with her curving and yellow beak
that is hard as a bone.
          .
The eggs of the goose are stacked into
a mountain.
She will not hatch them.
          .
I am surrounded by eggs.
I use them for symbols.
          .
Three ducks so far have given us
three sets of ducklings.
One or two of each set always drowned,
though I always knew
that ducks always take to water.
          .
At dusk, we gather the eggs,
stealing them from all the intention.
We go where it is dark and full of straw
and take them.


(first pub. in Permafrost, 1980)

_____________________

HAIKU

my old neighbor buys
eggs from me – we always share
one slow glass of wine
             *
dancing – out there – those
midnight scarecrows – who by day
sleep among the crows
             *
with a buzz of gold
bees turn sunlight to  honey –
life is generous


(First Place, Haiku, 5th Annual Poets' Dinner, 1976);
first pub. in The Poet's Guild, 1995)

_____________________

READING STONES

These white stones
on this sudden path,
where do they lead? 

By what design
do they lie
in this small pattern?

Why do they delay me,
from what direction—
now to tarry, now to follow,

these eggs of light
that sunlight loves?
How softly they shine,

how deliberately mark
with significance
whatever they guard and honor.

Weighed inward
with the burden of my thought,
I came upon

the innocence of their power.
What strange words I give
to this small pile of stones.

_____________________

MOTHER LOVE

My mother putters in her tiny kitchen, wrapping sunlight in loaves and putting them in the fridge with the cans of milk and the cottage cheese and

the eggs. “Saving some for winter,” she laughs, and I look out her window again at the trees full of sunlight and squirrels—and the leaves that

flicker and tease. And I know we will never be hungry for what we need. My mother is clever, knows what to save and what not to cry over—

like spilt milk and things that get shoved back and forgotten. Her kitchen stays small, but she grows eternal. I hear her fussing with busyness

at those edges she uses for herself—slipping one over on everyone, with a wink, and the sneak of her morning  “eye-opener”. 

Ah—such love can’t lose.

EASTER SUNDAY AT THE FLEA MARKET

Walking Death came by
with her blue remark,
gripped tight to the arm
of her ancient guy
who limped ahead of her
to crank the way,
while she glanced here and there
with her thrifty eye.

The sunshine was full of Easter.
It was a
crowded day.
The candy children
were loud and louder,
taking up all the space they could measure.

But Walking Death was thin among them,
gripping the sleeve of her thinner man
who picked out their gray
with a meager penny,
who measured the sunshine
that shivered through them,
and threaded the way,
while Walking Death
looked here and there
at the much and many
with a needful eye.

___________________

DEAD ROOSTER IN THE RAIN

Oh, cry for the dead rooster in the rain
the one who sang so lovingly to the
sleeping window
the one who spoke to the moon
and the passing train.

His handsome feathers
are ruined against the ground
his pride is gone with the song
his ego is bled
with his eye that watched it go.

What killed the rooster
did he die of fame
was he too slow for beauty when it
came like a crouched hen
unto his
ringing silence?


(first pub. in Bitterroot, 1995)

____________________

KILLING ROBINS FOR ROBIN PIE   

you said
aim for their heads

I killed them clean
and that was fine

I watched one die
up close

horrible-winged
flip-flopping against my shoes

went home
fried bacon and eggs

in-
stead


(first pub. in Vagabond, 1975)

___________________

THE GOSLINGS

The goslings are afraid of the hen,
though they are half again as big.
But she is sly, and twice again as old.
And she has learned to frighten them –
fluff up her size, and chase them
to the narrow place along the fence.

She traps them there, against the
thin green bush from where
they scream – head-jabbing
at the ground. She clucks and scolds,
as if she were not dangerous,
then struts away toward their food.
 
___________________

THE HEN

the hen is silent
I never know Where she is

the pRoud rOOster tells me Everything
his love life
his hunger
his smallest wish

she knows hiding places
and goes there for such long times
in soft white breathing
there gleaming in safe clucking darkness

I worry about Her
she is soft with eggs
full of simple mystery


(first pub. in Cimarron Review, 1979)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

COCKALORUM

The daytime rooster,
weary now from crowing,
crows from habit of ownership
in habitual challenge to all the reaches of his voice:
This   Realm   Is   Mine…
I Own These Hens…     This Yard…     This Hour.

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix celebrating Eggs, our Seed of the Week. Easter and Passover bring us new beginnings, so our new SOW is A New Day. Salute the new day and send us the poetic/artistic/photographic results at kathykieth@hotmail.com

Like a Seasoned Exile

Dinosaur, Half Moon Bay (April Fool!)

—Photo by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs

CRAZY MARCH
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

A cool hello
in crazy March
prolongs your day
makes Portuguese bread
taste even sweeter
with a shot of old wine
look brighter
than any vase's rose
over this granite outdoor
grey restaurant table
overlooking the Cape,
this breathless wind
whips by the ocean flats
gives out an aimless dawn
in a patchwork of sunlight
you never expect,
yesterday I was here
making up a crossword
acrostic puzzle
on my swirling
bicycle parked
by the gazebo
hearing that Mama's
and Papa's song,
the title
I can never recall
hearing it again on the A.M.
short wave at the beach
which stays in my head,
I have had it with you
crazy March
needing at least
a glimpse of sun from
an amazing April fool.

____________________

ZERO APRIL
—B.Z. Niditch

It was no ordinary April,
colder that life edges
us by
cleared from dying
of winter's prophecies
or fantasies
of an early spring
wishing would melt
all solitude's emptiness
from our family's nest
when we separated
like stones on the icy pond.

Like a seasoned exile
from the Redwoods
the wind like sunshine
witnesses in grey
in those hiding places
through walks of silence
voiceless premonitions
by an empty day
which grow numberless
and numb.

Daring existence
to speak of love,
rebirth
childhood returns
away from the mirror
and calendar
zero April,
hear me out
in this seasonal
early-time song
as birds cling
to the branches feeder
and a poet attempts
to teach the child
the first reader.
 

____________________

   

FOR ALL WHO LOVE LAMBS
—B.Z. Niditch

In Jerusalem
after visiting
where History 101
met religion
in the common era
Easter-Passover
once in the year of 00
here on the bus
in the 20th century
a group of gorgeous
lambs wanting
to join us pilgrims
came up to us
in a veiled sunrise
spiraling between
our timid legs
with joyful bleating
visiting us
in a timeless land
the poet shouts out
"I am really here,"
when one lamb leaped
over and rested
and a voice was near.
 

Sunset, Santa Cruz

—Photo by Kathy Kieth
 

Three poems in the manner of Stephen Crane:

I CAME UPON A MAN IN THE FOREST
—Abigail Faisal, Davis

I came upon a man in the forest
Dressed in rags, green and torn
Who, taking me by the hand
Told me he knew the way out
Round and round
Through trees we twisted until
As twilight set in
And the dark set out
We were back
To the beginning again

___________________

SUNLIGHT FELL

—Abigail Faisal

Sunlight fell
Across hot sand
And burnt the bellies of the snakes
And across dry river beds
It cracked the water's path
Fish were trapped
Puddle by puddle
With the snakes avoiding the sand

___________________

THERE WAS A MAN WHO COULDN'T SWIM

—Abigail Faisal

There was a man who couldn’t swim
I saw him careful round the lake
Until one day he tripped
Rocks slid against, sands shifted slight
Roots came loose, and gravel crumbled
Splashing and yelling his echoing cry
I replied Stand up, it's but knee deep
He cried back It's not
I walked to meet him
But he was drowned at my feet
In water I stood, my clothes still dry

__________________

Our thanks to today's contributors (did you catch my April Fool's joke about the illusion of a dinosaur?), including B.Z. Niditch who celebrates Easter and Passover for us, and newcomer Abigail Faisal. Abigail is one of D.R. Wagner's students at UCD; recently D.R. gave them the assignment of writing in the style of a famous poet, and she chose Stephen Crane. During the next couple of weeks, we shall be posting the other examples that D.R. sent us. They are mighty fine, indeed!

Speaking of mighty fine poetry, the new issue of Ekphrasis is out; order yours at ekphrasisjournal.com/. See also the Spring issue of the Bay Area environmental poetry journal, Canary, at hippocketpress.org/canary  

April is Poetry Month! Get your poem a day at www.poets.org/poemADay.php  Watch Medusa's Kitchen for more about the Poetry Month Celebrations here and elsewhere.

And, in addition to the local readings this week, get yourself ready for lots of poetry events the week of April 8. Scroll down to our blue box at the right of this column and check out all the happenings, including the MIND Institute's Autism Benefit, the CSUS Arts Festival, Dana Gioia at Folsom Lake College, the WTF Art Exhibition and Reading at the Vox, the Sac. Poetry Center Conference, and various other readings here and there besides. Lots coming up for Poetry Month!

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

PASSOVER-EASTER POEM—B.Z. Niditch

A town beggar
wants food
but does not speak
he looks hungry
wandering and weak,
with a thorn on his head
and a long beard
yet mute,
it is said
he was the most good
not even born in a bed
and wrote parables
few understood.

__________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Kathy Kieth

[Don't forget to check out Medusa's latest Facebook album:

Southside Park by Annie Menebroker, Katy Brown

and Kathy Kieth]