Call It Truth

Dai Dancer

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

WE LIFT TOWARD MORNING



The lion guided me


To a vast sea of black water.



Nothing was visible clearly.  Just


Before the dawn, a great serpent


Rose from the sea and came to me.



“There are so many children,


Charming serpent.  I know you


Know the names of them all.


Tell me their secret names


That for you, I may come calling.”

       

 ***


Then bright rings fell to the ground.


And I believed in the serene and beautiful.


All that is love, so far beyond our understanding.


And he brought me both moons.


They were the same moon but this


Time there were two of them.



A little kingdom of the heart sprang up.


There was a majesty to it all,


A beautiful heart beating within the body.



The lion moved close beside me


And I was able to recall all of the birds


And see bright shrouds float above the dark sea.


How can anything look this beautiful?



We began to talk to the winds.


They knew of everywhere we spoke.


They told us they could carry thoughts


And gave us all lanterns to light


The edge of that sea, to see that


Serpent as a real thing.



Perhaps this time you will 


Believe me.  See, the children


Are all going back into the forest.



Put this in your heart.


Nothing can harm it there.


I will give you a basket


And tell you I love you.



And you will please take this one


Chance and see the joy these kinds


Of things can bring.  We lift toward


The morning.  The serpent begins to sing.


It is irresistible, the loveliest of sounds.


(first posted on Medusa’s Kitchen in 2013)

 Ancient Dai Dance

SPEECHES OF THE QUEEN



The moon was traveling.


It had a bag of stones.


It could travel fast, 


Cross many cities in less


Than an hour.  Faster

Than a fish might swim,


Even large fish.

    

***



I am the border.


The stars cannot cross


The breath that


Winds cannot breathe,


Or the touch that fish

May not wish to.


I am the prayer that


Brings dreams to their knees


Left like a hollow


In moonlight


Or the call of grief 


In any night.



I will sound the deep


Chambers where blood

Is the question


And flesh too is a border

That cannot be breached.



I tear at my body as 


Bold advertisement


To smile at demons who


Breathe air I breathe



And see charms of the cuts


That are made near


The heart’s core


Reveal a prison


From which we may not


Be relieved.



For I am inflamed


With the odors of begging


And all that I say


Is that is believed.



Try the sweet ropes of snakes


Or the power of the kiss.


I will hold your soul


To my bosom


And you may not resist.

 Dancer

TRYING

I was trying to get
This poem finished
Before you got here
But you never came

 Firemen and Cats

IF ONLY FOR A REAL CHANCE.

You drink the lavender water from my cup.
I understand lavender as the drape
With which it blesses us, calling us gods,
Touching our bodies as it does so.
Giant rings come out of my mouth.
Do you know anything about them?
As they float away, I can see landscapes
Too beautiful to go searching for words
To describe them.  It is like being seventeen again.
There is lavender in my imagination
But it has been almost twenty years since
I’ve told anyone about it.  Let me look
At your hands.  I can only recall them with my heart.
I am happy you have nothing to say to me.
I am glad you touch my cheek the way you do.
These are not memories.  Until tonight you were
Nothing more than something I heard played
Upon a piano and knew implicitly.  We should
Get dressed and go down the stairs to be with
The others.  We will learn to speak on the way
To the table.  I will bow to you.  You will bow as well.

  Rooftop, Emeryville, CA


THE DEEP GIFTING


It was a deep and thick-browed sleep


That came upon me, full of halls and doorways,


Some of flame and some of stone and some


From which the scent of heaven wafted 


Upon no breeze at all but a pregnant stillness


In that air found alone in dreaming and carved


In certain chambers of the heart.  The lonesome speech


Known to fall from the mouth of ancient bells,


Tripping one and keeping one from finding


Any way back from the soft and guarded arms


Sleep surrounds us with, it boards its indeterminable 


Train and makes for mountains darker still than midnight.


Here is the dwelling place of spirits long forgotten


On this earth.  Spirits whose speech is of a tongue


No longer heard upon our world and scarcely remembered


In any land.  It is hinted with a cadence known to fairy,


Heard when troops of them dwelt up an airy mountain,


Down a rushing glen.  It was a voice of wings that carried


The blue away from the sky and pushed the sun to clouds


That it might hang its lyric on the walls of our souls,


Admonishing us to be still and await a kind of rapture


One might hear only in the presence of mystery.


I have walked there and will walk there again,


For I have deep business with the shades and fleeting


Beings that dwell there.  I am come to them to find


Those words which are seldom heard in any poetry


Or song, in any prayer or any curse that might


Be given to those who read these words or speak


To one another of the wonders of the dreamlife.


I learn within those rooms and behind those silent


Doorways of the many rooms and enchantments 


That live beneath closed eyes and breathe that other


Breath that rushes from our lungs when we are


No longer present in this old and fitful world.


I would carry this to you that we may share it


As a feast so seldom given to each other
,

That one might call it madness, or others


Call it truth.

(first posted on Medusa’s Kitchen in 2013)

____________________

Our many thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poetry, LittleNip and photos, and congrats to him and his family on the wedding of his daughter! For more about the ancient Dai dance, see www.huangshantour.com/english/SmallClass.asp?typeid=28&BigClassID=66&SmallClassID=203 or go to www.youtube.com/watch?v=dh77VFZtQn0


Today’s LittleNip:

Everything can be crossed.  Of course it has to end.  There's a river of water deep under the Mist River, yes?  And that water runs somewhere.  All the other rivers, all the lakes—they all drain somewhere.  There's a water ocean under the Mist River and I wonder whether the mist ends somewhere out there.  If it spreads out and vanishes and you find you are floating on water...

—Kij Johnson, The Man Who Bridged the Mist

 ____________________

—Medusa
 

 Today the poetry world sadly marks the passing

of American poet Michael Harper. 

See news.brown.edu/articles/2016/05/harper for more.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 
 

Dung or Diamond

5-Eyes Smith

—Poems and Photography by Smith

(Steven B. Smith), Cleveland, OH

WANT AD

I like walks in the rain
I like licking pink stains
There’s good and bad things baby
Crawling through your hair
Old lumps of new grown gravy
Calling from your lair
You wanna bite me baby
I wanna bite me too
Bite me three times
You got a deal

__________________

STATUS REPORT 201

I'm a man of bad bone
constant pain
occasional sorrow

Walk old shoes
in crooked path
to best guess possible

Trying hard
to keep heart open
and mouth closed

My path not your foot
your shoe not my road
yet same roam home

 Great Smith

STATUS REPORT 197

Waiting in the reading room
reading of the wait that looms
in weight of wait white as bone
existing in the fading zone
more me's than I can hold in one
so into fiction fill the rest
to test with friction in the fray
whichever way I amble next

_________________

PUMPKIN TIME

You know what time it is?
It’s pumpkin time.

No, not pumpin time
Pumpkin time

cuz at midnight
everything turns into
a pumpkin
and the mice run away

Now midnight you also might
be pumpin pie,
depends on what yer doin
at the time

Somethin
you might be fuckin
might turn into a pumpkin

So you fuckin pumpin
pumpkin pie

 Butter Pan

3RD EYE LIE

I'm a psychopath with feelings
a sociopath with a conscience
a hermit with wife and friends
a teacher without a classroom
a monk without a collar
a path without a road
with & without lie

 Angel Wingman

SANGHA SONG

What the word from there to here?
How the why that gets us there?
Where the walk to stalk the better?
Who the fool to choose this whether?

Bare tree stretches for the moon
Leaves across the land long strewn
Outside door my social tomb
Hope for favor future womb

I mean well but stumble fall
Try to walk but often crawl
But at least I give my all
Except the part of heart that's dull

I'm my own bad waking joke
Instead of winning rather toke
And way inside I'm often broke
But try to better me invoke

Words wobble well in wry delight
When one-on-one we lobby light
To bring to day some spark of night
And wrestle with our wrong to right  


hear this read as “Werewolf Zen” by "Mutant" Smith:
www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/15876184-sangha-song

 Red Hand

STATUS REPORT 204

Is moon half full
or empty?

She says
"They don't make old people like they used to."

Vintage run from vine to sage
in muck of wine and wage.

Younger blood make old mice young
so with me and Lady.

You must pent
before you repent.

Sentient life is wrinkle of time
small to big to small we climb.

Most of waste is was
cutting cost of used to be.

Am I getting older wiser
or just more weary in my way?

Beware the old
they slow and sly.

 White Hole

CLEVELAND GREY

Gray gloom blooms
Over my head
Dims my dimmer
Breaks my bread
Hurts my heart
Aches my gut
Empties my bucket of luck

Mom’s dead
Dad died
The homework ate my dog
My money fled
My President lied
He's helping the rich instead
(what a big surprise)

Feeling blue what do I do to shake this Cleveland gray?

No home heart warmth
To keep me sane
Shadow sun forgotten same
Jams my brain
Makes hope a corpse
And life a pain
Over and over again

Maybe get some sleep
Or take a toke
Or shuck a sheep
Or shake a joke
Or just drown in downtown brown
Cuz I tell you true I’m feeling blue
Gotta shake these Cleveland grays

 

hear this poem read by "Mutant" Smith at
www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/8101158-cleveland-gray-version-1

 Shadow Piano

Today’s LittleNip:

DUNG OR DIAMOND

On my lack of fame and fortune
I keep baiting the stream
But nobody bites

As for peace and understanding
I chase the spirit
I follow the sprite

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine poetry and pix!

 Winged Heart

—Photo by Smith

Celebrate poetry today by listening to 

Smith’s—or anybody else's—poems online. 

Ever record/post any of your own? 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Spring Rescue

BZ with orange kayak

—Poetry by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
 

SPRING RESCUE

The weather was fair
on the enfolded waves
as a friend takes off the tape
from my anchored kayak
under an extended bright sun
noticing one leatherback turtle
who needs to be set free
with the same story of last
year's record cold in the Fall
on the distant part of Cape
all horrifically entangled
and strangled
by balls of plastics
twisted knots, unbalanced rope
as discarded things motion us
from picnics and addicts
in the deepest haze
of ocean tide
found along with Prozac,
razor wire, pill bottles
of narcotic items near
flavors of tiny liquors
by a mirror near a packet
of volcanic firecrackers
and a gem
of cryptic love letters
in a small trunk cover
easily drowned
in the eidetic mire,
as a nearly drunken sailor
reminiscent of a manic scene
on the operatic lips
of La Gioconda
locates a pirate's
Spanish tunic
becomes excited
for his treasure
hauled from an old ship
as if all tectonic plates vanish
he boasts of his secret find
in his vacillated leisure
yet not forgetting
an impounded
leatherback turtle
we named Myrtle
immediately calls
into Woods Hole observatory
whose brave scientists
with a quick arrival
plan a terrific rescue
from the shadowy Bay team
who saves us a testimony
from a hundred-to-one chance
and gives us hope for a turtle

for survival in the ambulance.
 

 Myrtle the Turtle

THE YACHT RACE

At Marblehead it's time
for the annual yacht race,
away from the city
north of Boston
and I am here under the shed
with the critics at Tanglewood
as my uncle Linwood took us
by the sands off the ocean shore
after he gave me on Saturday
my harmony, solfeggio,
violin and conducting lesson
for my upcoming debut
of a Bach solo
knowing with his intellectual wit
his nephew would be put out
on the musical carpet
remembering the boats passing
and the motioning hands
of the extended university crew
speaking of my music's curiosity
with "The Swan" echo
of Saints-Saëns sounding
as the winds blew on this dawn
and sails float and sing
with notes’ solace stirring
at my string's virtuosity
my mind over the laughing waters
in a grimaced luminosity
tracing along my fading memory
leaning on garden grounds
waiting for a faceless spring
to disappear on a horizon
and pardon winter's everything.

ON REMOTE

On remote feeling insecure
not emoting fearsome coercion
being with a besotted T.V. crew
of lettered-coated college students
in their sorority and fraternity
from a local university
who arrive early
on the movie set
in their own
jotted-down fantasy
promoted by
uncorked wine glasses
and spinach-
and-cheese croissants
speaking in a fine
Montreal French
who are making
a necessary preview
featuring a small village
here at the bench and gate
on a poet-documentary mission
with their own insurgent film
knotted in black and white
from an all-
seeing teleprompter
freely run by a library assistant
a former New York debutante
and intelligently cooperative too
as a confident language developer
very imprudent and framed
with a T.V. camera or two
and mass media references
is welcomed to my company
for an innocent engagement
in the Internet lexicon
with a contrary granting ambition
they are asking me knowledge
at my own half-century immersion
in study
of Robert Frost's poetry
or about Sylvia Plath's
estrangement
within a range of high privilege
as a creature on the snow
here in Bennington, Vermont
out from her arranged limo
ringing in
at a morning's stationary time
for a leisurely diversion and chat
wanting to pet my cat Amos
scattering across
his own path of fame
and success at climbing
on a ski loft earlier with me
under the enlightened sun
who is a person to recognize
in her own right to matter
will not have left me nameless
in my diary of daily erasure
near this icy glacier lake
curling here all day
and caresses me to be filmed
awakening tonight, now famous.

A DREAMER

You want to be a dreamer
here in Vermont
among the ice peaks
once wishing to learn
to country ski on these cliffs
yet knowing there is mystery
for everything is by faith
in my history
but here in the sun spots
has only one redeemer of nature
dazzled in first light
strands of thoughts
open as my jazz riffs
in my music offering
I'm wishing to understand
how so much of life strands us
to believe and peek
on these mountains
with insight here all week
whispering of a rainy spring
down by Maypole hours
by the wellspring fountains
in my walk down green hills
being taught on familiar grounds
by hearing the shrill of egrets
hawks, and other birds
after so many storms
and knowing my diary words
still recalls wintry snows
there will be flowers
on window sills
declaring laughter again
on whispering graffiti walls
in the warmth of shadows.

ASK YOURSELF

Ask yourself
as you take off
with my poems
off the shelf
in the open mirror
of our exposure
when life has spun
and my sax rips
in a corridor of verse
in enfolded parenthesis
of stored-up thought
in prayers of St. Francis
as witnesses to love souls
from the strife of a time
of lost-and-found prophecy
from Genesis Apocalypse
when war crimes were fought
for your promises of peace
to heal us in the breach
of never overwrought words
on the "Doubting Thomas"
a sailboat of my neighbor
living in a cape by the back
as waves sound
near my anchor
with a rope with knots
distraught of news
on my kayak
in reaching
our closure of loss
by the backs
of so many sailors
during the heavy storms
at sea
as Picasso's
mourning doves hop
from wintry white covers
on once-snowy birch branches
by raindrops
covering Evergreen trees
call to us over this Maypole day
as birds across the beach
will sing again on the Bay
to each soul who can hear
the showers of each spring's rain
from this hour's first daylight
are suddenly released
as my Vermont neighbor
Nicole, who speaks to me
in Montreal's
French-Acadian accent
invites me to a one-time
Canadian poetry slam
brings over
a croissant brunch
with homemade jam
and a bunch
of crocus flowers
over to my work board bench
wants me to play
a favorite riff
on my sax
for her son Clifford
who labors with an infirmity
of an impediment of speech
whispers to bz
that only my warm tone
of love will reach.

CHRISTOPHER MIDDLETON'S LIFE
(1926-2015)

You left us a year ago
remembering your lectures
in the library hall
when I could not sleep
so amazed at your culture
that circled our minds
that I now recall
you connected to me
so deeply with a precise
understanding of poets
on a contrary generation's past
that in my adolescent sense
deposited your writ and wit
as you captured
my verse's pun
in the shade of my spirit
now you too in memory's glue
have been translated
to another heaven for the few
critics who directed us
in an understated task
we will not forget you,
good Christopher Middleton
if you would could ask
there are no secret regrets
from the land of the dead.

 Metamorphosis

—Painting by Salvador Dali

FEELINGS

You feel things
so deeply this spring
as a jazz pose with a sax
in a photo of Paris
by the Seine
with personal riffs
in a poet's parenthesis
waiting by a museum gate
on Saturday it starts to rain
where there is no access
in the moving eye space
you are demanding
to witness Dali's Narcissus
hanging from the light
of his Metamorphosis
by the Fine Arts window pane
you step into cold silence
by the drawings of Degas
as a child ballet star dances
it must be Mardi Gras
as you are called alone
to stand by Mathais Grünewald
on the stone altar
you are hushed in a whisper
thinking of life's original sin
as if you were crushed
under the stoning by the Cross
in a miracle where you begin
to leave the scene on the wall
and run into gorgeous tapestries
of Andy Warhol guiding me
across the first light
as your shadow will freeze
on this wondrous happening
over a building sign saying
"Do not touch or interfere"
near the 17th-century
Dutch painter Jan Vermeer
and by chance a shaping wish
of silence astonishes me
suddenly remembering
the honorable drawing of
Syndics of the Cloth
Merchants' Guild
enabled and granting me
to stand near the landscapes
of Rembrandt.

 Rembrandt's Syndics of the Cloth Merchants' Guild

VALEDICTION TO DESNOS

You held out for life
when the Nazis brought
a passing dark cloud to Paris
when believers of all kind
were embarrassed by
their Vichy watered-down
shameful strife in capitulation
but I offer a pure song
of miracle for liberation
from your poetry's loving words
at a café bench
for a post-war rebirth
in your vocation
remembering your words
on the burning sand and sea
watching Zuydcoote's wings
of a thousand birds
once fallen from blue skies
as jet planes on the Atlantic
quickly set to fly
at the dawn or at twilight
to rescue partisans in the forest
like my cousin Mendes at Lyon
hiding on the overnight earth
the Allies call Dunkirk
hold up my one red rose
at first light's implication
by the woken-up riverbed
forever frozen in memory
in your name Desnos
to deliver your valediction
that God may deliver you
in English and French
wishing for saplings
near branches of gulls
over the million skulls
killed in animosity
by sheds of a spring garden
where you died at Terezin
to keep all poets, children
and the knowing citizenry free.

THE FRANCISCO BEAT
(In memory of Daniel Berrigan,
died May 2016)

Check it out
said the Beat
not on Wall Street
but in a shout-out
on nameless avenues
when you remember
the peace marches
by St. Francis’ Chapel
back on Boston Common
for us in enlisting Jesus
as a populist partisan
in honor of the God-man
of bonded resistance
during the war of Vietnam
remembering you this May
with a red Rose of Sharon
by the Fenway's riverbed
thinking also of Dorothy Day
with a delivering smile
as Fr. Berrigan has gone
to hear a heavenly song
in the Marian month of grace
we will remember
you every May third
for drinking from a cup
of pacifism and peace
when you told us
the good news word
that peace will be welcomed
some day soon
when even sectarian reviews
realized that war is wrong
thinking of our century
when proletarians
were in poverty
and the toll of life in fascism
from wars of strife increased
in these cash wars of words
when a revenue of liberty
and freedom is decreased
when Picasso's doves
are released
under the sun's bright rays
adding up
the posterity summary
of the titanic resource of love
waging inside
your wondrous spirit
and of Ted your brother-poet
we remember always
the cost of human life
in a wooden cross
no property has significance
as long as the eternal
poetry's song
of children lasts
which gives us miracles
at the lights of canticles
when candles do not go out
from your ashes’ remembrance
do not age like cash deposits
offering us on earth the will
no moneyed insurance policy
will bring us to heaven
we ask a seven-fold tolerance
for a legacy that will outlast
the King-Messiah's grace for us
a life not barren
but we are on course
in the prosperity of language
which we desire
will graciously live on.

 Peace Dove by Pablo Picasso

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers.

—Yevgeny Yevtushenko

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch for today’s fine poetry!

To hear Yo-Yo Ma play Saint-Saëns' “The Swan”, go to www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNbXuFBjncw

To adopt a Leatherback Sea Turtle, go to gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions/Sea-Turtle.aspx?sc=AWY1302WC922&_ga=1.211880724.1085705007.1462981847

 Celebrate poetry tonight at 7pm at Time Tested Books 

in Sacramento to hear Nevada poet/translator/author 

Shaun Griffin read from his memoir, 

Anthem for a Burnished Land, 

then go on over to Luna’s at 8pm for a release party for 

Patricia Hickerson’s posthumous poetry collection, Outcry. 

Scroll down to the blue box (under the green box 

at the right) for details.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 
 

Dogs Wearing Pants

Calla

—Poems by J. D. DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

—Photos by Stacey Jaclyn Morgan, Fair Oaks, CA

DOG IS WEARING PANTS

O my God, the dog
is wearing pants again.

I’m sorry, I know this
is off-putting.
We’ve even talked to him
about this.

Now he’s sitting spinning
grinning, biting at his tail
which has an unspoken
blemish.

He will speak to you
in grunts, if you listen.
Maybe even explain
why he has dressed so.

 Alcea rosea

JOUST

Two splintered halves,
a race, two gallops,
a sword, the clatter of
armor that does not exist,
and the two selves
pummeled and thrown
off-course, spiraling to
the earth from which they
both emerged.

 Papaver somniferum

CATSCRATCH MUSIC

We hear at the bluegrass
festival the whining of a culture,
slowly shifting into the hills.
In their songs, we hear
the rumbling truck bouncing
on back roads.
We hear the coffee can full
of worms for fishing.
We hear the sickness of Addie,
the family building her grave.

 Russian Okra
 

ZEUS THE ACTION HERO

They found him on a far-reaching
casting call. There had been a time
when he would pretend to be a swan.
Pretending to be Stallone sounded
cooler. Lights, camera, action,
and it was all thunder and bolts,
fastidiously signing autographs when
the director yelled cut.

 Tomatillo Sunbathing on Wood

LAWN CHAIR LYRIC

It has rained all day
again and the neighbors
are getting restless

Last year, they aimed
fireworks at the other
houses

They arrive in caravans,
nomads in their own homes,
coming in and going out
at strange hours

Their headlights flash
across my wall when I
cannot find sleep

Now, there is fresh cut grass
being washed down the road

and they are nowhere to see.

____________________

Our thanks to J. D. DeHart for today’s fine poems, as well as Stacey Morgan for her beautiful photography!  These poems have appeared previously on either Poet Community or Poems and Poetry blog.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Writing poetry is a state of free float.

—Margaret Atwood

____________________

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry today by heading up to Placerville 

for the monthly Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around 
from 5-7pm, then over to Davis to hear Wendy Barker and
Kevin Clark read from their books at the Avid Reader, 
7:30pm. Scroll down to the blue box 
(under the green box at the right) for details.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.  

A Bridge of Sighs

—Today’s Poems and Photo Enhancements are by 

Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE PAIL OF DARKNESS

I carry the pail of darkness
up the hill to silence
which is full of stars
punctuated by sleep
which is full of seas
tidal at deep
pulling at all my skies
and land and
entering the structure
of my hand
which holds everything I am
and I put
the pail of darkness down
upon a dream
which is so reverent and real
and where I seem
to enter with my crime
which has been
given me to carry
and I am held
in humming danger
eerie light of apprehension
things to flee
a turning figure everywhere
and I am helpless
all my effort pulls
I follow into
each revision of myself
my arms attempt to lift
are held
my smothered cry surprises me
I am in a barren place
the sky pulls deep
I look in
the pail of darkness
am swallowed
by a sleep

INLAND GULLS (Samisen)

Today a storm is pending . . . and those cries . . .
and those cries
of seagulls, inland-swarming . . . and those cries
that pull me to the window,
that pierce me to the core . . .
remembering . . .  remembering
a lost-in-childhood shore.
I’m haunted by that memory and those cries.

And now the thrill of seagulls in the air . . .
in the air
in all their whiteness, restless in the air,
so stark against the grayness.
If I feed them they are mine.
They are lost, and they are hungry;
they are accidents of time—
so huge and close and sparkling in the air—

co-mingling with the blackbirds—mews and caws—
mews and caws;
the gray air is electric—mews and caws.
And I toss some bread among them
and they circle to the bread
then fly off with their morsels.
They are fed . . . and I am fed . . .
I release my cry among their mews and caws.

THE SHRINKING TWILIGHT

Alice at lake edge
among the eagles and the ducks
and all the overgrown and eerie things
with awkward feet and wings
among the reeds and rising waves
that crowded flight and fright
and all so strange
lost here among them
just their size.


(first pub. in Calliope, 1989)

______________________

THE HOWLING CORNERS:

the lost mother found by the lost child who forever
needs love, even though loved, but for no particular
reason needs separation—

lives directed by circumstance—the answer ques-
tioned—insufficient to the loss—maps drawn that
are unreadable, so you stay where you are, become

re­gional, the lost mother still lost in her childless life—
but something reaches through—like a howl in wind
through the corners of a house.

WHITE DISTRACTION

High as the troubled sky,
a bridge of sighs,

climbed
stone by stone

for ultimate decision:
the bitter view.

Grief comes here to ponder:
feel the dismal distance,

cause no interruption
of the winds.

The other buildings
share their gloom and watch.

A seagull soars in white distraction.
Go back . . .     or leap . . . .

___________________

WAY

I cross this bridge by means of you—
my dead love—
dead to my eyes
and my voice
which calls and calls
over the span of your absence.

This is not a mourning for you;
this is a cry out of my own darkness,
and you not here to comfort me.
There is a difference.

The bridge is so long this year—
full of fog and swirling
cries of something out there—
barely heard and barely seen
and still we go toward it
with our awful loneliness.

MIND TUNNEL

Back through reams of memory—or time—that
abstract, back through all that was, to never was

—that far. How can you resist such burrowing
through the labyrinthine mind: whatever it wants

is never there, only some handprint on the spiral air,
only its closing eye, taking in the light: you are in

the corridor, but weightless—bodiless as a shadow
—only a thought now, sent by a question mark.

What are you seeking here where you have never
been, for it has changed after you, and everything

ahead waits to change behind you.

______________________

GLIMMERS OF HOPE

We are the light:
see us gleam for you.

Whatever is meant by dying
we do not know.

We know nothing about darkness.
It is a word.  Do not speak it.

We are the light.
We are the only thing you need to see by.

Give us your eyes
and the mind of your reality.

We know nothing about tunnels
or long eclipses of sorrow.

We have always been here.
We are real for you.

                                               
(first pub. in Poet Magazine, 1992)

Many thanks to Master Chef Joyce Odam for today’s fine poems and pix of “all of those tiny 'weed-flowers' I'm currently in love with... they are so perfectly beautiful and so 'tiny', they need to be looked at, admired, wondered at for their beauty…” For more about the Samisen form, see www.writing.com/main/newsletters/action/archives/id/1925-.html (scroll down).

Our next Seed of the Week is Wearing the Pants. You can always write about this literally, of course, if pants are appealing to you, but the metaphorical is usually more fun. Send your poems, photos and artwork on this (or any other subject) to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DEPICTION
Bridge in Paris, 1908, Wyeth
—Joyce Odam

Under the bridge
a gulf of darkness.

The road disappears.

The red sign gave warning,

but that was years and years
into the disappearance.

___________________

—Medusa

Celebrate poetry today by tackling the Seed of the Week—

and/or, if you’re particularly brave, the Samisen form.

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.  

The Language of Roses

—Photo by Taylor Graham

MONDAY ON MAIN
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

Curiosity brought me. I heard there was magic—
a sorcery shop—on Main Street. What use
have I for bought magic? But my dog pulled me
down the alley, across traffic, up sidewalk,
one storefront after another, window displays
that transformed kettles and crocks into ceramic
rainbows; a skeleton in straw hat and “Compost
Happens” T-shirt. The military surplus store
featured a mannequin turned into magician,
head-to-toe in flowing gray beard; no, he was
a shrub, camouflaged in shreds of lichen, lying
in wait to hunt his prey. A customer walked in.
We moved on. I was looking for a real dinosaur,
fabric store that sells remnants so I could patch
what’s torn, give an old shirt new life. No
such shop anymore, nor black arts either, just
commerce, imagination, everyday magic.

__________________

ALL AT ONCE
—Taylor Graham

A desperado bird cries from the edge of woods,
invisible but loud, and in the marshes
and the black lagoon frogs boom in discord
with incessant bleatings rung around
the hills that tangle wildly growing green.
Thistle, rushes, bugs and bog.
Nothing is imperceptible, nothing patent
or contained.
Sorcery? Spring. Rhyme it as you may.

 Thistle

—Photo by Taylor Graham 

ADVENTURE HIGH
—Taylor Graham

You brought the mountain range to me,
trusting there’s a drop-dead vista
and we could survive it.
Remember the Donner Party?
But this was mid-June, just some snow
lingering in the high country.
Just that bank of white slowly melting
into creek on a jeep road half a mile
from the cow-camp meadow. Just that one
frozen drift. You rocked the wheels
back and forth, deeper into screaming ice.
Remember? It can snow any time
of the year. It could snow this very night.
Shovel out in the morning.
Can of stew for supper, heated over a tiny
fire that mocked the stars.
Too many stars to count. No moon, no
nightingale. Only coyote howl.
At dawn we found our camp
upended, stew-can crunched by teeth.
From a near distance,
coyotes sang their mock-song.

___________________

A BELL OF SILENCE

quiets all the broken pieces. No wind,
just motionless gray weather.
I follow my dog down a dirt road
toward river, what must be
rushing water if I could hear it.
Someone has carved a hundred rooms
into brambles, leaving footprints,
but no one’s home. Deepening gray—
silent, carrying the mountain
down and away. Twilight thickening
toward dark, except
without a sound it’s morning. Static.
By the river, eleven stones
placed as a marker. No wading birds,
no birds flying. Everything’s
waiting. Follow my dog. There must
be a blessing here if I can find it.

—Taylor Graham

—Photo by Taylor Graham

SWORDS, OF COURSE, AND SORCERY
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

Went in for the former, once
Upon a time, when younger.
Not bad with saber and épée,
But I’m left-handed. Perhaps
One of the few advantages
Of that: your right-handed
Opponent is wide open right.
But after a while, people
Realize (and as with Trivial
Pursuit), nobody wants
To buckle swash with you.

So moved on to the next.
Left-handedness not so
Much an advantage in
Traditional magic.  (Pick a
Card!  No, this one, over
Here, the one on the bottom!)

But magik, sorcery, maybe,
Just maybe.  Found a wand,
A real one, or so the package
Said, at Borders.  It promised
To be powerful and authentic,
And unless you took wanding
Seriously, Bad, Bad Things
Would happen.  Found the
Wand in the Toys and Humor
Section of Borders.  And you
Know what happened to them.

 —Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

THE ASHBOURNE SORCERER
(“Shakespeare” image painted over a portrait of 

Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

Not satisfied with the great First Folio’s
egg of a Shakespeare face? Or how that’s perched
atop a starched collar, Mighty Brain in ovo
unhatched on a wrongway playing-card doublet? Search
no more. The Ashbourne portrait gives us a man:

His customary suit is solemn black.
His secret thoughts, those firm-pressed lips retain.
So piercing his eyes—before you can wish them back,
he’ll scan your desires, alchemize what he’s read
into the antic gold of comedy,
or else the silver of evil, every dread.

How do we receive this portrait, we so slack
to register greatness facing us? It comes
unpoached, unfenced, but by conveyance through
the De Vere line, from Wentworth Woodhouse. Tomes
known to the family list it twice: a view
done of the “Duke” of Oxford, and, in a later
inventory, it’s styled a “Shakespeare” picture.

Our fair-skinned fellow smacks of the creator:
he fingers, what, a pocket Psalms, or strictures
of dark philosophy? A bookmark dangles
blood-red ribbons—it’s his inserted index
that holds his place. Along his middle digit,
strong current runs as oftentimes connects
black print to touch, a magic surge up the arm.
Here stands a somber Prospero, whose charm
suspends forever Time’s oblivion.

Those eyes, those skeptical eyebrows: looked upon
too long, the viewer recoils, avoids that gaze,
eager for something to calm that naked blaze.
Oh: next to his book hand, yes, without its hull
of mortal flesh and feature, note the skull.
What chance a grain-dealer in the shire of Warwick
would keep so distinct an emblem of poor Yorick?

____________________________

SORCERESS DRESS
—Tom Goff

I’m well acquainted with strange sorceries:
have played the well-known scherzo by Dukas,
and kindred necromances, mysteries
such as Holst’s wizard ballet without a flaw,
writ for The Perfect Fool just after The Planets’
parthenogenesis: Mars red, Venus blue-green,
Saturn sheer ice in orange-yellow. Gannets
on wing while they cry their concentrics may careen;
or spirals fly from musicians’ wands in the throes
of composing. My enchantments cast no sheen
like these—or yours: I immerse in your mistful glows.
Light clings to you treading the maze of spring’s kermesse.
From skin you were born to you spin your witch’s dress.

 —Photo by Katy Brown

MEAN
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

She bitter sweet tongue
Until it was hanging on
Like a threadbare hug

He found true love
Sick poems in odd
Places everyone

My car won’t start
Line out house of
Representatives

A coin is worth less
Talk more work
Never hurt anyone

I’ve half a mind
Games people play
Money pit

Brother can you
Spare a rod n’ reel
Deal me in

I ate too much
Ado about face
Palm oil rag

 —Photo by Katy Brown

Paul McCartney, you sang in 1967 on the Sergeant Pepper Beatles album,
“Will you still need me, Will you still feed me when I’m sixty-four…”
You also sang “Say live and let die…”
Please at age 74 try not to die—
at least not until after you play in Sacramento’s new arena on Oct. 4
A guy who’s a fan of yours where I work paid almost $200 online for one ticket
He regularly takes poor kids in our community with him to see sports games,
so he deserves to be treated with possibly your last concert tour
Oh yeah, keep smoking marijuana since it may help treat your possible Alzheimer's disease…
                 
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

—Photo by Katy Brown

AT SENIOR COMPLEX
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We elders live a half-hour
at a time,
take it easier
hoping not to exit
suddenly and too soon.

We've survived kids,
partners, nutty bosses,
weird finances, rusty pipes,
moves cross country—
now we encounter each other
in all our frailties/encumbrances—
chairs with wheels/baskets,
plugged ears, weak eyes,
knees, memories.
When will the grandkids visit?
Lifelong friends not coming back...

On our quiet island of
wrap-it-all-up-and-prepare for
a landing, we "cliffhangers"
frequent our building's library—
95% MYSTERIES!

 —Photo by Katy Brown

ANONYMOUS!
—Claire J. Baker

Yes, exclamation point:
You,
whoever you are,
stole or lost my book
donated to local library,
A thin volume of poems.
The library wants
"Local Writers."
Do you dislike me,/my work
so zap me from circulation?

On positive side, you will
enshrine my book in your
personal collection??
Then tell me.

But, for now, anonymous,
there's this little poem
in protest!

 Wheelbarrows (blue, not red, but still 

so much depends…)

—Photo by Katy Brown

Our gratitude for today’s potpourri of poets and photography! Celebrate poetry tonight at 7:30pm with Marcene Gandolfo and Shawn Pittard at Sac. Poetry Center. Then, on Wednesday, head up to Placerville for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around from 5-6pm, then back to Avid Reader in Davis at 7:30pm for Wendy Barker and Kevin Clark. Thursday at Luna’s is the Sacramento release party for Patricia Hickerson’s posthumous poetry collection, Outcry, as well as a reading at Time Tested Books at 7pm by Nevada poet/author/translator Shaun Griffin, introducing his memoir, Anthem for a Burnished Land. On Sunday, Wendy Patrice Williams and Jennifer O’Neill Pickering will read at Nello Olive Tasting Room Wine Cellar in Placerville at 2pm, then Frank Dixon Graham will interview Julia Levine about the creative process for the monthly, live recorded podcast at Naked Lounge in Sacramento, 5pm. Another fine week in NorCal poetry! Scroll down to the blue box (under the green box at the right) for details about these readings and all sorts of other things.

We also have a new photo album on Medusa’s Facebook page, with our thanks to Katy Brown for photos of The Wakamatsu Tea and Silk Colony Farm in the Placerville area; today's photos are a sample from the album. Est. in 1869 by 22 Japanese samurai, including a 17-year-old girl, Okei, these farmers fled from Japan and purchased the Gold Hill Ranch to establish their farm. For more info about them, see www.arconservancy.org/site/c.psKZL3PFLrF/b.7719191/k.2889/Wakamatsu_Tea_and_Silk_Colony_Farm_historic_site_of_the_first_Japanese_Colony_in_the_United_States.htm/. Founding Red Fox Underground poet Brigit Truex also wrote a wonderful book of poetry and prose about the subject, Strong as Silk, which can be purchased on Amazon.

 Blackberry (see the spider?)

—Photo by Katy Brown

Today’s LittleNip:

POEM
—Claire J. Baker

May we lean
toward
the
language
of
roses.

_______________________

—Medusa

 Nature’s Sorcery: 

Is there anything more poetic (or magical) than this?

(Anonymous Photo)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

White Swan

(Anonymous Photo)

MOTHER
—Lola Ridge (1873-1941)

Your love was like moonlight
turning harsh things to beauty,
so that little wry souls
reflecting each other obliquely
as in cracked mirrors . . .
beheld in your luminous spirit
their own reflection,
transfigured as in a shining stream,
and loved you for what they are not.

You are less an image in my mind
than a luster
I see you in gleams
pale as star-light on a gray wall . . .
evanescent as the reflection of a white swan
shimmering in broken water.

____________________

—Medusa

For more about Lola Ridge, see www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/lola-ridge
For more about Mother’s Day poetry, go to www.poets.org/poetsorg/poems-mothers-day

Celebrate poetry today by checking out
Medusa's Kitchen's Facebook page for
a new photo album by Katy Brown:
The Wakamatsu Tea and Silk Colony Farm.