Under the Sun

—Photo by Charles Mariano

WHERE OLD TRACTORS GO TO DIE
           (Bright’s in LeGrand)
—charles mariano, sacramento

driving down Plainsburg road
just off the 99,
on an overcast, early eve
miles and miles
of orchards, fields

from a distance,
could make out shapes
long lines of something,
ghostly silhouettes,
in the middle of nowhere

i stopped, for a better view
and stared
at rows and rows
of old tractors, lined up
solemnly,
tires flat, treads broken, rusted

a once mighty army
chugging, clanking loudly,
silenced,
brought to a standstill

no more ground to cultivate,
a final resting place

just before the sun sank
into an ominous
dusky haze,

i thought about all the old farmers
gone now,
on these great machines
who bled, sacrificed, worked the land
under that brutal, central valley sun,
side by side,

with my father

___________________

THE BEGINNINGS JUSTIFY THE MEANS
—Caschwa, Sacramento

It was a street about 3.5 miles long
With 2 starting points
Always heavily trafficked
There was no end

Like a sentence with an
Initial capital
And no period
There was no end

Words and vehicles
Collide at all angles
Fenders distorted
Grammar tortured

someone is goinG
the wrong waY
look ouT!!
there was no enD

Flower with Green Bee

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

BURSTING
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Bee Balm: nature's fireworks.
Blossoms of crimson surprise
bursting on midsummer days.
Brilliant-red seen buzzing with
bumble bees.  Search along stream
banks to find these flowers;  leaves
brewed become Oswego Tea.

___________________

OUR SUMMER LAKE
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Summer's lake is clear, and once again we
open up the cabin near the hedge.
Two snails slide along a flowered ledge
untouched by any sense of urgency.
In morning light we're moving silently
to drag our family's boat to water's edge
past nestled geese along a sandy wedge.
Our cat has found a curiosity;
he chases waggling goslings he has found
while romping in the heat of early June.
A hawk seeks taller trees amid the sounds
of oars and geese.  Our summer lake so soon
engulfed in muted sunlight all around—
a wondrous view beneath a fading moon.

____________________

WATCHA PIKA
—Carol Louise Moon

Pick a day, a summer day
to watch a pika making hay.
He dries the grass on rocks nearby;
he'll sniff the air, he'll watch the sky.

He pulls his hay-store underground,
and when he does then I have found
it's going to rain! It's going to pour.
Meantime, watch him dry his store.

Watch him closely.  You'll see
he knows his meteorology.
Pick a day, a sunny day
and watch a pika making hay.

____________________

POOLSIDE PARTY'S OVER
—Carol Louise Moon

The party's over, and now for the cleanup.
I survey my backyard of what-its-nots.
There beneath the grief-stricken willow
I see the stub-my-toe stone, the laughing
gnome, and the dead-as-a-garden-snake
hose I forgot to coil in a threatening
manner;

the cremains of the chicken barbeque and
Great Aunt Edie's brilliant birthday pastry
with a million and eighty-one tiny burnt-out
torches; an over-flowing twice-recycled
brown bag full of frosty paper plates filed
helter-skelter A to Z;  six flammable
Japanese lanterns

exploding into shades of red and greenish-
yellow with a hint of hot blue flame;
wadded tissues whispering the phrases
lations, Hap, Birthd and con in silver.

Much ado about nothing, I say, as I fall
headlong into a fully-clothed pool—
stark naked.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

another rejection
they can’t all
have their heads
up their asses

—charles mariano

Charles has a wonderful story about bootlegging on the San Joaquin County Historical Society and Museum blog; see sanjoaquinhistory.org/blog

_____________________

—Medusa

Phillip Larrea, Gene Avery, Keith Ball, Stan Zumbiel,

Annie Menebroker, Mikey West (w/Eva behind him)

at the recent Poetry With Legs reading at

the Shine Cafe in Sacramento

Photo by Michelle Kunert

[For more photos from the reading, see

Medusa's Facebook page]

Erect Pucker??

Natalie Diaz reading at Sac. Poetry Center

last Monday (June 10)

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

D.A.R.
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

My proper Methodist grandma church organist
organized spelling bees, sewing bees.
What she didn’t tell: how she doffed
her fine organdy, 100 degrees in Maysville,
Kentucky, 100 degrees of separation
from her corset, from her slip
and pantalettes. Oh, such abandon

demands a faction. If one’s to go
naked in the Ohio, skinny-dip
when girls are young yet no one’s
yet named the naughtiness, form
a society. Here’s backatcha, Walt Whitman:
A hand at a window parts soft curtains,
a hard masculine hand. Twenty-five women
bathing, and all so beautiful. Laborers
outdoors forget to whistle: this purdah of nudity
takes the breath from the erect pucker.
Have these toughs forgotten woman
the butterfly, man the well-hung net?

And what, what shall we call this corybantic
naked aggregation of lady antics?
To us, D.A.R. equals Daughters
of the American Revolution. To
the sweet cavorters of the summer wind
kissing water lightly south over
the cresting-at-Maysville current,
the sacred letters Delta, Alpha, and Rho
cast a more secret spell:

Derrière as in Oh my lily-fair, Ass daringly
bereft of bustle, Rump aloft and riotous;
all the delectable bucknaked cravings
women savor in throngs of women.
Or the secret delights each lass could enjoy
face to face with the long trouble
and pleasure a boy delivers her,
two little together nudes shuddering
in the shuddering bankside grass.

______________________

ON THE RIVERBANK
      (from an old painting)

—Taylor Graham, Placerville
 
Stormclouds drop their curtains over this private
ritual. At any moment these ladies could be
drenched. Still, they go about their bath as if they
had all the time in the world; as if nothing but
evening could catch them without their dresses.
Don't they know, beyond the edges history
gathers for another war? Not far from the world
they know, tattered flags wave in the streets,
mobs of people shout slogans; generals marshal
their troops and cannons. But for now, chores
done, three young ladies arrange themselves as
Graces for an artist's brush. There will be time
for another war, another cloudburst. The river
flows away beyond its banks, this timeless
moment of the bath.

_______________________

LADY GODIVA'S HORSE
—Taylor Graham

All those ladies throwing off
their dresses, wrapping themselves
in nothing but their undone
tresses, copy-cat heroines
pretending they're protesting taxes.
And here he stands stabled
waiting to be saddled up
for the next battle; wishing nothing
but unlatched latches,
unfenced pastures, to buck and rear
and pivot, running
naked as the wind, long white mane
lashing, hooves
to the free horizon flashing. 

 Patricia Killelea at SPC last Monday

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

HANDS, QUESTIONS
—Taylor Graham

The TV sounds are a foreign language
meant to sell him something. Nouns
from another planet without cardinal points.
Products without a clue—objects
a kid could wield with knowing fingers,
zombies emitting hectic flashes of light.

Through a door he hears music
he used to think joyful, until he learned
its story. Eternal clockwork of loss,
music as sad as anything in this old town.
He shuts the door, walks out into dark
where the Owl hunts in silence.

Tracks in sand—small open hands
with fingers. Their trail stops abruptly
as if lifted into sky. He can’t
recall what makes those prints. He spreads
his arms; might the Owl carry him
away? But the Owl’s forgotten his name.

___________________

THE OLD FARMSTEAD
—Taylor Graham

The pond that a year ago last spring
was her brightest poem—a pool
for skimming water as a depth of words,
for churning, splashing, leaving green-
blue ripples after she was gone –
    small waves of time collapsing
    one atop another—
and the shed, chinks of rotting wood
held together by spider-webs, line on line
singing soundless at the slightest
breeze, the shed leans more earthward
now to listen—
    a voice of light
    from the dry creekbank—
and the path to the grove of oaks
sheltering a gravestone, lasting sorrow
of loneliness, where someone
left a poem, a sprig of purple brodiaea
from grasses, already wilting—
as if only fields under sky know
the dimensions of evening.

____________________

Our thanks to today's contributors, including the TG's, Tom Goff and Taylor Graham, for their riffs on the naked ladies, our Seed of the Week (The Antebellum Ladies' Nudist Society). Interesting how many of this week's poems on the subject have brought up images of water, yes? Taylor Graham will be reading this Saturday at 10am at the Sylvan Community Center, 7521 Community Dr., Citrus Heights, sponsored by the Citrus Heights Area Poets (CHAP). Also reading will be Tim Kahl and Ruth-Marie Chambers of American River College who has a new book of poetry, Eight Forty-Five. Saturday will be a busy, busy poetry day, with CHAP, Crossroads, and Foam at the Mouth. Scroll down to the blue box at the right of this column for all the skinny!

And TONIGHT at Crocker Art Museum, join Sacramento area poets James Moose, Paco Marquez, Danyen Powell, Shawn Pittard, Allegra Silberstein, Marilynn Price and Katy Brown as they read poems created in response to the new exhibit featuring the work of Robert Duncan, Jess Collins and their circle of art friends. Poets will be reading between 6 and 7, so you'll have plenty of time to enjoy the exhibit and other goings-on as part of Sacramento Pride 2013 because the museum is open until 9 p.m. (Thanks to Trina Drotar for this announcement!)
 

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

EMPTY
—Taylor Graham

Birdbox with its swallow’s nest
of neat white feathers;
in one dark corner a spiderweb,
and in another,
catacombs of paper-wasp.
What secrets brooded here?
In June light
swallows swoop over the fresh-
mown field.

___________________

—Medusa

Robert Esperanza reading at SPC last Monday

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

Ah, Those Nudist Gals—

Old Bridge

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE ANTEBELLUM LADIES' NUDIST SOCIETY
—Nancy Haskett, Modesto

I.
Twice a month
during those unbearably hot
humid weeks of summer,
they come together—
on a day when house slaves are occupied with cleaning,
field slaves toiling a mile away—
they walk slowly as a group of five,
fanning themselves,
laughing and talking
until they reach the secluded spot,
the deep pool surrounded by trees,
where lace gloves are removed,
shoes slipped off,
delicate white hands untie hat ribbons,
unbutton dresses,
unlace stiff boned corsets,
pull off thin cotton undergarments
until they stand naked
unashamed,
slip one by one into cool water,
freed at last
from all restraints

II.
Every evening
after the children are asleep,
when the men lay snoring,
the two women put down their sewing,
blow out the candle,
sneak from the cabin,
brown bare feet silent on rough boards,
the packed dirt path down to the river
familiar in darkness,
they follow each other in silence
to the shallow banks,
pull the coarse cotton dresses
over their heads,
step over smooth, polished rocks
until they reach the water,
walking quickly without hesitation,
dipping down, immersing
into their only feeling
of total freedom

______________________

HEY, MUSE
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Hey Muse
don't desert me
or leave me
over the hill
what to write on
in our post-Civil War
antebellum of the sexes
about your nudist society
what to text and make
of an all-female variety,
Hey, Muse, not to be rude
having to turn to
the Beetles' song
Hey, Jude,
saint of the lost
and the deluded,
you will not fall short,
for the wronged
for you are good
and like the rest
of us, misunderstood
who need support.

___________________

BEN JONSON'S BIRTHDAY (June 11, 1572)
—B.Z. Niditch

Who can resist
what is in your play
I was in The Alchemist
that your fair lines say

Poet of the Royal court
to the text I was loyal
with your humor
and with good sport,

In Lovewit's place
the butler turned face
a subtle alchemist
without a chemist 's trace

For it was greed
in your cruel mind
to bring down
and fool human kind

For Jonson
in poetic great satire
what in verse he created
and licks to curse the liar

All your spirits
came to naught
and by your thefts
you got caught,

Sorcery had its way
the losers expect
liberty had its day
at the end of the text

The last act ends
the true cause will out
Ben Jonson's pretense
with tact and shout.

Pepper

—Photo by Katy Brown

AT POINT REYES
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

We glide like mist down the headland trail.
Cloaked for spring in yellowest gold,
Evening Grosbeaks, made quick by cold,
dart atop soft-spiked violet grails.

Communion bread: the seeds they scale
in swift sharp pecks & talonholds
from thistleheads their wingbeats flail.
Cloaked for the spring in yellows and golds,

lupine and grosbeak slip the veils
of coastal hollows & seagray folds.
Unfurl your riddle too, my bold
& headlong stridefirst, my nonpareil.
Kiss me like thistledown, guide me downtrail.

____________________

NO SIGN
—B.Z. Niditch

No sign as yet
of any bird
in hand
or affection
only something heard
on the gazebo
a band of the past
here on Cape Cod
of someone
on the keyboards
who accompanied me
in the past
knocking on woodwinds
close as two trees
from me
after the rain here
chooses a new day
of astonishment.

___________________

THE INSOMNIAC
—B.Z. Niditch

At bed
at 2 A.M. with lambs
on the wallpaper
making concentric circles
under the bronze ceiling,
the bathroom mirror breaks
its seven-year luck
by the eyedrops
of my right lid
then stares at my left
hurting shoulder
from my alto sax
curling by me
on soft blankets
of my green music case
created in Montana
from a native American
once silently concealed
by a Boy Scout
from the others
in a defenseless tent
wanting to sleep
this absent side
of memory.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

RETURNING FROM WAR
—B.Z. Niditch



My neighbor,
a four-seasoned refugee  

longing for silence

and sleepless disappearance

wanders for miles

where birds are holed up

in green branches

cannot forget war

the hunger's memory

and hunted images

from his tired eyes,

in the abyss,

there is no easy departure

wanting to raise peace voice.

_________________

—Medusa

Always

—Photo by Katy Brown

Dreams Made of Thread

 

LAP CAT

      (for Spirit)

My jealous cat demands my lap
though piled with books and pen and pad
—with words escaping from my head—
my half-grown and possessive cat
—though getting much too big for that—
will wait until I’m settled down
then put himself between my eyes
and whatever I am looking at.

____________________

MEANT FOR EACH OTHER

You will find her on a lone road—coming
out of the trees, maybe, or simply standing
under the gray threat of rain when you drive
by in your car . . .

or maybe she will be in a bar somewhere,
twisting slightly on the barstool, shaking her
foot to her dark thoughts, and you will be
there to save her thoughts, for you know
how to save her . . .

or in a bookstore, she may be concentrating
down the aisles to where you are, and she
will glance at you when you glance at her,
and maybe you will be reaching for the same
book . . .

or she may be at some carnival or fair—laughing in
simple pleasure, at a ride, or game, or sideshow—
and she will turn away at the last moment—or you
will—and you will miss each other, as you always do.

_________________

THESE BOOKS,

stacked haphazardly
pages crushed and brittle

between old leather slipping into
the heavy shadows of the room

the table filled with random objects:
the jug of wine    the wine glass,

the dark shape
that waits to be defined:

old leather    old shadows    old wine
all smell the same

(After painting: Still life with old books)

___________________

THE GREEK FESTIVAL

We had Greek coffee,
meat on a stick
and a damp pastry.

We looked at the
cultural displays and books,
the jewelry, the art.

I bought two necklaces.
You bought
a Greek cap.

We watched the crowd-dancers
gather below stage-level where
the Greek musicians played:

Children at first, some in costume;
then two women,
one in high heels, one in a festival apron;
then some men…

then more children and
a row of boys
who did a fast three turns around the others.

We sat on the audience-chairs
and tried to move our feet
in semblance to the patterns.

                                              
(First pub. in UVTM: Universal Voices That Matter, 1996)

 

POETRY FEAST

getting excited
over

this new line
and that
old poem
these images
these typewritten pages
these published books
these manuscripts
until the table is
covered with coffee cups and
words
and
soft gray ashes—

no place for food,
no need—

_________________

WANING

A helicopter overhead.  Blue evening at
the window. TV
off.

Books in hand, they separate toward
their silence:
he to couch, and she to bed.

The orange sun has fallen
from the day, making one statement more
for them to speak:

They glance and say: Oh yes, they love
the view . . .  Oh yes, it is so beautiful . . .
It is enough . . .

The twilight trees become old silhouettes,
like they are.  The helicopter
flaps and drones—as if to stay.

They frown and glance
away from that annoyance and finish their
errand of goodnight—that separation.

___________________

OPEN MY SAD DOOR AND COME IN

I am lying here in my old dress, reading poetry on a high bed.
There are nine pictures on the walls, all of women in poses of
supplication and joy; in moods of reflection and serenity. I am

none of them. I am chaotic silence. Screams are in my mind

and mouth; I do not utter them. I am surrounded by an aura

of calm simplicity. Do not change this. Boxes of books are

stored around me. Broken mirrors are under my bed. A cat
sleeps on my knees. A teddy bear in shiny cellophane on a
dresser top is waiting to be a gift, as we all are. It will not
smother there, not until it is loved. A teardrop mirror by
the door never sees my face; my face is always blurring
past it in the middle of nights as my hands grope familiar
darkness too dark for mirrors.

__________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix, winding up our current Seed of the Week: All Those Books. Our new SOW has been stolen from (and slightly revised) from a current TV show, and it'll be a challenge: The Antebellum Ladies' Nudist Society. See what your muse can make of that...

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

SLEEP-WEAVE

I learn to sleep sideways
in a narrow bed.

My books confine me.
My dreams are made of thread.

_________________

—Medusa

How To Say Hello

Ballet Folklorico, Sacramento County Fair

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

IMMORTAL DANCE

—David Iribarne, Sacramento
 
In the beginning,
we often danced,
just not together.
We often would
sidestep each other
avoid each other
avoid comfortable
avoid calm,
replace with shadows of rage.

Times changed.
The dance became less tense.
We saw that our fights
were similar, we needed
each other’s shelter.

This way there was something
more to look for.

Now when we are
in the same room,
we dance together
and many times
we are not aware of the “dance.”

It felt as though
slowly you were dropping
the stones of your life—
letting in shades of light.

No more would your face
turn “tomato” red
when coffee would spill.
No more would “eggs” crack
when people did something
that set your oven running.

Now your spirit overshadowed
your rage—you let that dance.

Anger seems not to rear
his ugly head as often.
Happiness, tenderness, caring
rule the muse.
You have thrown away your stones,
no more will they travel with you.

Now you have taken your last step.
Danced the dance.
As always you keep dancing,
and all I can say is— 
“Dance on, dance on!”

_____________________

BREAKTHROUGH

—David Iribarne

I harrowed through storms
where the people revolved
through doors quite often
I apologized for everything
I often didn’t want to open my eyes
they would be clenched shut
peer through to see people
I hated, I detested, I was afraid
I felt like I was five
and I had several monsters
in my room constantly.

One time it was close quarters
metal bunk beds
sandwiches were slid through
green mayonnaise with bologna
four days spent in hell
only to be released
but not be.

Let out, no home
cut my skin
infection began,
but didn’t care, paid no mind
just like everything else.
Another storm ensued
legs and feet swelled.

Walking through inferno
oblivious, someone dared not to be
called in saviors
sent to hospital
found out that I almost could’ve lost my feet
I didn’t much care for I had already lost my mind.

There I laid my apprehensions to rest
took heed of what people had been saying
no more did I play loose
rather I tightened my grip
and began to take action.

I immersed myself in everything that came my way.
Took responsibility for my actions
and took steps to my ultimate salvation.

I went through doors that

had many locks
took a while to find right keys.
I shared rooms with
so many different people
sometimes they changed daily.

Sometimes I felt good
sometimes not, and
sometimes I would have
to pray to get through the day.

Never knowing what to expect
I periled through
taking it all in
sometimes inhaling more than I wanted.

In the end,
I was inspired by many
taught a great deal
I came to inspire many and teach many
something I thought would never happen.
I learned that I actually mattered,
that I was valued but only only if I valued myself.

 Sunrise

—Photo by David Iribarne

THE IMPORTANCE OF "HELLO"

—David Iribarne

“This is a place where people
come to say goodbye— 
we don’t get a lot of hello’s,”

Woman said to me as I left.
Her voice, tired and monotone.
She surely didn’t think
I was listening.

I was, though, hauntingly.
Why had she said that?
Did she say it to everyone?
Did she not think
I would “hear” her
and say goodbye to my consciousness.

She left me searching.
Do people spend too much time
saying goodbye and not hello?
Are we not connected?

I thought about people I met
through the years,
my mind went blank.
Could it be she was right?

Then, unexpectedly, a calming,
colorful, compassionate person
came to mind.

A fresh, friendly, vivacious woman
who brimmed with smiles.

Found myself smiling, remembering
not too long ago
how we would play Frisbee.
I would throw hard
she would run with intensity
to catch it—little did she know
she was not just catching a Frisbee
but catching memories as well.

Now I was at ease.

I knew that we know how to say “hello.”

This woman graced my path,
truly touched me and everyone else.
So much that she left
a piece of her with everyone
because she took a piece too.

She just did not follow that path.
she knew how important
it was to say “hello.”  

She is why I had to search.
She is why I knew
I couldn’t believe that woman
lived in her gray world.

I had made it home, not knowing how.
Walked in the door, went right to bed.
I was comfortable.
I know there are those
that catch Frisbees, catch people
and those who let them go
right through their fingers.

_____________________

PROXIMITY

—David Iribarne

Stay close enough
so I can feel the warmth of your breath
stay within reach
I want to be able to touch your soft skin
I want to tattoo my kisses
all over your body.

You weave your head
up my body like a snake.
Starting at my leg
I can feel your wet lips
as you kiss my calves
your black hair graces my torso
as you make your way up to my face
your hot breath graces my cheek
as you whisper into my ear
and etch your feelings
your compassion, and your passion upon me.

Pour your essence into the core
watering my soul
making our love blossom
thrive and flourish.

Don’t let me go
keep me warm
comfort me
keep me at ease.

Don’t tread too far
make sure to stay close
that we never break
our fibers never come loose.

We are so strong
intertwined so tight
that you cannot untie us.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.

—A Chinese Proverb

______________________

                                             

—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors, including Pat Pashby for the proverb!

David Iribarne, reading at last Monday's 

Hot Poetry in the Park

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

[Be sure to check Medusa's Facebook page

for more photos from last Monday's SPC reading!]

Poetry Is....

Alien Periscope

—Photo by Katy Brown

BIRDS IN THE ZOMBIE SHED
—Katy Brown, Davis
 
What the heck is this poetry stuff, anyway?
Not everything a poet writes is poetry.
Poetry doesn’t have to be written by poets.
Not all poetry rhymes.

     The corrugated metal garden shed
     behind her house has patches of rust.
     Fist-sized jagged holes pierce the sides
     like some sharp thing tried to gouge
     a way to look in— or out.

Not everything written in separate lines is poetry.
Poetry doesn’t even have to look like poetry.
Not all poetry has to be written down.
Some poetry sounds like song.

     She won’t force open the misaligned hasp
     —won’t force the complaining, frozen hinges
     —my (otherwise brave) daughter
     (with the fertile imagination and near-phobic
     fear of spiders) is terrified to go inside.
     Zombies might be locked in there.

Poetry can be spoken, like a psalm.
Some poetry can not be spoken at all;
it must be viewed on the page:
remember Wurm im Apfel?

     Certainly, as inhospitable and ugly
     a building as this has its secrets.
     Torn webs, devastated corners: ideal
     shelter for nests and partial footprints.
     She hears things moving around inside.

Not all serious writing is poetry.
Not all poetry is serious.
Writing poetry changes the writer.
Sometimes reading poetry changes the reader.
Poetry is a message to be passed down through ages.

     She leans close to hear the faint
     scratching sounds and nearly
     tumbles backwards when a bird flies
     out from one of the holes.  She can just
     see in, through a dusty shaft of sunlight,
     to the nest being woven of beach grass
     and leaves.

Poetry is a rant to be delivered once to an audience.
Some poetry is so complicated, it can barely
be understood.
Analyzing poetry is like dissecting a cat
to find the purr.
Sometimes poetry is, well, you know. . . . .

____________________

—Medusa

You Must Create Your Own Questions

Clef

WAVES COLLAPSING

Years have gone by.  They refuse to relent
And form dense piles, like paper
Written on and confined to a single room.

There is no sense in thinking about it;
Almost anything one can create will
Be able to assume any shape, use
Any language, make signs with its
Hands, if it has hands, or become
Any person at all, even one that
Is loved very much but has remained
Trapped in an object for a long time.

A sister was a sofa for years, then a teapot.
The dogs became undone and settled
Into becoming two chairs and a kitchen
Table that was left over from
A flock of birds she had once seen
But could no longer recall where.

There was still the shore, but now
It was night and the waves collapsed
In a stutter a friend had suffered
With long ago, in the fourth grade.

Anything but this place.  Help get
These things out of line and into
Something that could fill one
With a deep sleep.

Waking high above sea in a villa,
Full of sun, near Naples, on Capri.
Hearing someone humming a song, sliding
Plates over each other, the smell of coffee,
Silverware tinkling as if it could help.

Perhaps it was a prayer.  It could have
Been a prayer rising up through
The room and then the body.

Someone was there holding her hand.
It might be her sister or it might
Be someone never before seen.
“Don’t open your eyes,” says a voice.
“Just go back to when we found
All those lovely shells.”

That could have been anywhere.

__________________

PAPER LANTERNS

Tonight the paper lanterns have been lit,
Giving a voice of light to the riverbank.
They utter wave forms and harmonize
With the lapping upon the shore.

There are spirits in the evening.
They rove upon the land,
Sit on hillsides watching
The paper lanterns flicker.
The close glow of their quiet flame
Agrees with the loneliness and the sorrow of age,
Unravels where the mind once played
And gives gifts of muted color
To those holding hands and gazing
At the display before them.

Song releases its legions of dancers.
They whirl beneath the paper lanterns.
They trail memory out behind them
Like toys forgotten in some child’s room
Seen through a slightly open door.

The owl is silent as it passes
The paper lanterns.  Nothing like this
Will ever happen again.  There is no
Way to know the dimensions of the evening.

Orchid

CHANGING ROOMS

I keep thinking I am not dreaming,
That I just can’t get it right.
The person writing has committed
Himself to writing this poem
But it is a foolish endeavor.

The floor feels queer beneath his feet.
It is already much too late to be
Early evening any longer and he has
Barely awakened, or so he thinks.

There are people waiting in the next
Room for him to come out
To greet them, to thank them
For their screens, their fragments
Of sparks and bits of conversation.
They feel they have served him
Well and deserve some kind of reward.

He has decided he will stop
At the earliest opportunity
So that he might be inarticulate,
So he will not recognize at all
When sleep comes out of
Its room and stop making sounds
That he associates with darkness.

He refuses to be interested in any-
Thing he might be writing;  this
Way he can listen to anything that might
Trigger a recognition he hadn’t
Anticipated.  A quiet stream,
Some steam escaping from a radiator.

In the next room he can hear
The people begin the applause.
He is much too tired to get up
And go see what is happening there.

He supposes it is just a dream,
Rolls on his side, lets his eyelids
Shut down one world, open another.

___________________

NEVER FEAR

Just where the city loses itself,
Where the streets no longer have names,
Where the gods still are all from
The Greeks and Romans, where the Minotaur
Finds sure footing and climbs back
Into his labyrinth, we begin new
Fractions of rotation that will not
Be answered for a century or two.

Here we will set down a world,
Wind up its eternal clockwork
And pump as much blood as any
Republic can hold into an empty palace.

I give you a stage of pure white.
A palace of pure marble with gardens
Guarded by sleep, guarded by dreams.
I give you cardinal points, and a history
Made of stuff like this, corridors
Full of nameless fears so we may
Remain awestruck, though unleashed
From judgement, so we may be
Beguiled by such gifts.

A hand opens.  Time is revealed.
It is too late to turn the palace into something
Else, Inferno or Paradise.  You must
Create your own questions now.

The city no longer sleeps.
It has noticed us out here.
It will demand something terrible
Of each of us.  It will involve change.

 Lichen

LOST PERSEPOLIS

I had never gone this far below before.
The stairs went far below the foundations
Of the building but somehow I had never noticed
This to be the case.  There were rooms
Down here but it was most difficult to believe
Anyone would live in them.  Occasionally
I could see flickering lights between thresholds
And doors, or a light would give itself up as I
Passed down the stairs.  This must be what
It was like where they make the dreams, I thought.

In lost Persepolis there was a hall with one
Hundred columns.  The capitals of the columns
Featured carved bulls and griffin-like beaked
Creatures.  Today there are only remnants
Of these things.  The floor remains.

I had heard of a library where one had only
To ask for the book and it would appear
On a table near one.  There were never
More than a few people in this library.
They never spoke while I was there
But they did read a lot and occasionally
One or two of them would weep or grunt
In satisfaction.  I have journals with notes
From this library.  It had taken me several
Lives to find it.  All of these lives were
Had by reading.  I never met any of the writers.

The maps I brought with me had all been drawn
By a careful hand.  I felt I could proceed for days,
Ever descending into the bowels of the building.
I noticed a layer of sand becoming more and more
Common as I descended.  There were the sounds
Of running water, occasionally that of a page turning.

I kept trying to be surprised by any of these things.
The blur of trying to understand any of it eventually
Left me, and I trusted only to the forward motion
To direct me back to the world, the known light,
The streets teaming with merchants
Selling precious stones, fine fabrics, special
Containers to carry the things we would find,
Stupefied at first by their language,
Then by their speech and finally by the simplest
Sentence anyone could make.

I praised dead cities, saw there were no doors,
That we come and go at will, finding it most difficult
To remain one person for longer than a breath or two.

Light

WHAT WE MUST DO

I try to listen to these elder poets
As they tell me to do things:
Untie that ribbon, travel by train;
It will help explain things when
You discover her body is pure iron
Inside, but it does not make
A noise inside itself.

"Are you still here?" I ask them.
A voice or two remains, Yeats
Talking about his mother.  He can see
Where a madness has abandoned
Everything and left a few yellowed
Leaves and some misty landscape.
Vexed by nightmares,  he leaves me
Thinking this is some kind of miracle.

I look at walls, mosaics
From Crete, The Queen’s
Throne Room with its dolphins.
"Please remember it," one of them says,
Trying to use my voice as if it could be
Anyone from Stephen Spender to a dull
James Joyce.  But I will not do that
Any longer.  They have page after page.

That is not what I must speak to
With my own sweetness and sticky
Blood.  May I ascend into heaven,
Rise above the eating rats that
So love bones and ankles and feet,
And become haze.

Yes, everything forgets what it must do.
I resolve to never name the trees,
That I may know not what they do.
I will find some sweet, unknown,
Luscious fruit, pick it when it is ripe,
Put it in a fantastic basket,
Bring it to you.

Now I’m going down to shout to the ships.
It looks like rain.  These words
Cannot ever float but for the reading
By a kindred soul, then be dragged
Away with all the elder poets
Still telling us what we must do.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

ON TAKING DIRECTIONS

A little brooch.
It could not have had
Much more memory
Than an afternoon.
But it possess a dreaming of the
Labyrinths with Maps, given
To a disorder,
A disturbance of the mind.
A single piece of jewelry
Never heretofore seen
Is imagined to have been
Owned by a beautiful
Young girl whose face will never
Be known, nor remembered
Except in that it directed a life.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's poems and pix, and a reminder to check Medusa's Facebook page for a new photo album, HOT POETRY in the Park by Michelle Kunert

Minding