Stamps on the Final Envelope

Valley Sunset
Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

SPRINGTIME IN THE ROCKIES, LICHEN
—Lew Welch

All these years I overlooked them in the
racket of the rest, this
symbiotic splash of plant and fungus feeding
on rock, on sun, a little moisture, air—
tiny acid-factories dissolving
salt from living rocks and
eating them.

Here they are, blooming!
Trail rock, talus and scree, all dusted with it:
rust, ivory, brilliant yellow-green, and
cliffs like murals!
Huge panels streaked and patched, quietly
with shooting-stars and lupine at the base.

Closer, with the glass, a city of cups!
Clumps of mushrooms and where do the
plants begin? Why are they doing this?
In this big sky and all around me peaks &
the melting glaciers, why am I made to
kneel and peer at Tiny?

These are the stamps on the final envelope.

How can the poisons reach them?
In such thin air, how can they care for the
loss of a million breaths?
What, possibly, could make their ground more bare?

Let it all die.

The hushed globe will wait and wait for
what is now so small and slow to
open it again.

As now, indeed, it opens it again, this
scentless velvet,
crumbler-of-the-rocks,

this Lichen!

__________________

This weekend's poetry events are listed on the b-board over at the right of this; as usual, go to eskimopie.net for a more complete listing. On Monday, Sacramento Poetry Center features Dorine Jennette and Rob Schlegel at 25th & R Sts., Sacramento, 7:30pm. Rob Schlegel’s The Lesser Fields was selected for the 2009 Colorado Prize for Poetry. He lives in Missoula, MT where he teaches poetry. His poems and reviews can be found in The Boston Review, New American Writing, VOLT, Barrow Street, Octopus, AGNI and the The Grove Review. Currently he is teaching at Linfield College and Portland Community College.

Dorine Jennette is the author of Urchin to Follow (The National Poetry Review Press, 2010). Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared in publications such as Verse Daily, the Journal, Ninth Letter, Puerto del Sol, Sacramento News and Review, Memorious, Santa Clara Review, Los Angeles Review, Terrain, The New Orleans Review, and The Georgia Review. Originally from Seattle, she earned her MFA from New Mexico State University and her PhD from the University of Georgia. She lives in Fairfield, California.

__________________

YOU
—Gillian Coote

I know all the notes of your voice
all the cat-fox eye glints
and grey sheen cheeks.
I know your face.

I know
all the strength and
power of your heart
and the charged space around
your being.

I know
the spring that's tripped
in me
my hair-breadth heart that
plunges and swoops,
a lion-kite on a
wild journey.

___________________

LONELINESS
—Telly Wong

A voice
On the phone
Without face
Without form
The waiting
The call
The one hour
When we are together
Poetry in the dark
The one hour
The call
The waiting.

_________________

SUMMER NIGHT
—Susan Griffin

This is civilization.
We have inherited it.
We love the glitter.
It is growing dark and trees
crowd the sky.
A pink glow comes to us.
There is a yellow line
we must follow.
Music I find my mouth saying,
Music somewhere back there
in the trees.
Something glowing pulls me
and I whisper heart.
But we keep on
don't we,
we keep on down the road.

_________________

I saw myself
a ring of bone
in the clear stream
of all of it

and vowed,
always to be open to it
that all of it
might flow through

and then heard
"ring of bone" where
ring is what a

bell does


—Lew Welch

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

DIFFICULTY ALONG THE WAY
—Lew Welch

Seeking Perfect Total Enlightenment
is looking for a flashlight
when all you need the flashlight for
is to find your flashlight

_________________

—Medusa

Hello
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

Pregnant With Poems

Smile
Photo by Katy Brown

AFTERNOON WITH THE ALBINO
—Katy Brown, Davis

My,
he said,
what blue eyes
you have. We could
make violet-eyed
little pearl swamp-creatures. . . .
just join me on my rock, here . . . .

___________________

CHOICES
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Choice Words

Here
and there
an orchid
blooms yet unscathed
by the wintry freeze,
rewarding the long and
senseless trek through words that don’t
appease.


Not My Choice

I am a lot poorer
than Simple Simon,
all the creditors say I owe ‘em.
But the ladder to wealth
is not my choice to climb on:
I am pregnant now with a poem.


Your Choice

Some poets it would seem,
disfavor a rhyming scheme,
as if that
empowers them to say more.

So they take a vacation
from the Bard’s alliteration.
But with free verse
you get what you pay for.

__________________

URBAN SOLACE XVI
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

He
Walks down
Along streets
Glances through windows
All those things, no funds
Heading home he felt sad
Never enough money to play
Always alone with discontent
Up the street nearing the parental home
He smells pie baking; life is not so bad.

___________________

THE ULTIMATE ROSE
—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

she
follows
the worn path,
her gnarled fingers
caressing the buds
of delicate heirlooms,
bright fragrant floribundas,
clusters of vintage hybrid teas—
living years beyond expectations
both hug, rose petal touching sunken cheek.

________________

MEDITATION 101
—Patricia A. Pashby

wherever you may go, there you are
so leave your shoes outside the door
and take the path to your heart.
Live life in the moment,
refine mindlessness,
take a deep breath,
close your eyes,
be still,
Om . . .

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

To know that you know, and to know that you don't know—that is real wisdom.

—Confucius

__________________

—Medusa (with thanks to today's spunky contributors and their polyglot of themes-and-variations on the humble etheree/nonet/"octeree"—or, in Katy's case, a "septeree"...)

Sue McElligott, Nevada City
in her first poetry reading,
Six Ft. Swells Press anthology release,
July, 2010, Grass Valley
(Sue is Ann Menebroker's daughter)

Of Nonets and Rhopalics

State Fair Photo
Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

SHE DIGS GOLD
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Gold
it’s great
look at those
golden earrings
everyone should know
her signature color
she is always pleased to wear
never ever give her silver
silver is for people with dark clothes
she turns and twirls her yellow dress around.

___________________

Thanks, Richard, for the poem using Joyce Odam's form that we posted yesterday for our Seed of the Week. Essentially, it starts with one syllable on the first line, two on the second, etc. Word on the street has it that it's an etheree—except it has eight lines instead of ten. Hmm. By the way, I found a website I like that talks about the etheree: ticket2write.tripod.com/id73.html/. According to them, there's also a reverse etheree (counting backwards from ten) and a double etheree, which goes up to ten, then turns around and comes back to one. (That website also has a TON of poetry journal listings!) Pat Pashby mentions that there is also a "Nonet", which goes in the opposite direction: nine lines, beginning with 9 syllables and ending with one on the last (Richard Zimmer sends us one of those). Anyway, enjoy the form, whatever it's called (etheree or not; maybe an octeree?). And thanks to the other poets who are giving it a shot, including Carl Schwartz and Tom Goff, who writes: Seeing Joyce's form, I was tempted into making up a sort of form...we visited Point Reyes on Saturday, so that got in as well.

Taylor Graham went a little nuts with the SOW, in fact. She says the form is "some sort of rhopalic", which is a new word to me. Judy Taylor Graham is a very diligent, hard-working poet who's an inspiration to all of us! She also has a shiny, new, refurbished website: check it out at www.somersetsunset.net/, and be sure to catch her reading at Sac. Poetry Center on Aug. 16.

In other news, James Kaelen, whose Zero Emissions Book Tour was in the area this Monday and Tuesday, is trying to get booked on the cable TV show, The Colbert Report. For info, go to www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=111071875575737. (For info on the Zero Emission tour, go to www.zeroemissionbook.com/.) Why should we support James? Because he's a poet with the gumption to go for such a thing—which would be good publicity for all of us, yes?

And photos from the State Fair continue to come in; today's dandy is from Michelle Kunert. The photo at the bottom of this post is not actually a snake, by the way, but a rolled-up sandbag thingie on the rock wall behind Buttercup Pantry in Placerville. Katy Brown spotted it when she and I visited Retiredice Alpacas last week. I've looked at it a hundred times and never seen the snake before...

__________________

INFINITUDE
—Richard Zimmer

The vast panorama of the sky
an infinitude none can grasp
the mind’s not up to the task
things we can comprehend
all have beginnings
all have their ends
we’re finite
and quite
small.

__________________

FURLOUGH FAILURE
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

One
Cannot
Help but cry
What with all our
Credit now wiped out
And oh! the disgrace of
Losing great state treasures as
State workers must sacrifice for
the world’s eighth largest economy,
While the governor lifts his veto pen.

We
Barely
Saw the light
Bombastic hit
And make a crater
Where people of wisdom
Had peacefully assembled
To ensure that all our voices
Would be counted in the debate, but
Today television polls rule everything.

__________________

GUERRILLA ARTS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

One
man starts
dancing in
the train station –
a small girl joins in –
another, another
taking up the beat and soon
the whole be-drudged world is dancing!

_________________

GHOST TOWN
—Taylor Graham

That
dress-form
in shadow
in the window
of the general store –
what memories does it hold
of seamstresses passed away?
Whose calico frock does it dream?

_________________

VACANCY
—Taylor Graham

Ten-
hour drive
down-Valley,
mercury hits
106 degrees.
Let’s find a cheap motel
that has functioning A/C.
Just for tonight, let’s call it Home.

_________________

IN THE SHADE OF DOGWOOD
—Taylor Graham

A
secret
stretch of creek
below the road
in deep late-summer
shadow, sudden color –
tall cascading spikes of pink
where foxglove puts on shafts of light.

__________________

POINT REYES SONNET
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

If
sonnets
branch like trees
(seriously,
this was suggested
in Poetry: octave
the leafy top, the bottom
sestet-with-volta the firm trunk;
or was it the reverse order? I
forget) who are you, then, Form? A wind-lashed
ground-bedded Point Reyes crossbreed, part shrub, part
cypress? How low must you stoop to kiss the coast bush

lupine? Don’t your boughs
shroud black, black ravens?
Knowing what you are,
claim to be that. Proud
Shakespeare-eloquent
bastard, stand up! for
halfbreeds, mixes, mutts.
Let paprika-tinged
lichen whisper soft
mendacities to
guano-stinking rock…

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

FORGING A LANGUAGE
—Taylor Graham

Your
first love
was the word
God spoke to Man:
peace on earth, goodwill,
brotherhood among all
people speaking every tongue
in every dialect of song.

__________________

—Medusa

Big Snake
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

The Devil Smells Like Moonlight

Photo by D.R. Wagner

A TRAVELER’S TALE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

In the blood of evening we wade
Through the moments listening for thunder,
Something we can rely on before we wash
Our legs to get ready for the night.

I do not understand why we continue
To reach for one another but I do
Participate. Perhaps it is for the feel
A hand might might have touching near the heart,
Asking a forgiveness that is non-specific
But well meant, wanting something to be
Done before the whole place becomes
Dark and we stumble from one pool
Of light to another never sure our direction
Is correct or even necessary, Before
It gets too dark to see your eyes

Before me. Perhaps we will be in love.
Perhaps we will find a doorway for a
Moment, crouch there and begin to relate
Stories to each other as if it were
Important for us to hear them.

I will tell you how I came here
Across the wine-dark sea of ancient
Time and found myself just outside the city
At this time of day, traveling with
The others past the dim orchards,
Seeing the fires on the horizon, hoping
Rest would be full of peace, quiet
Song and the precious company
And comfort one might find here.

It seems a long way to travel
To find only the bloody failing
The light is intent on illuminating.

We begin to call to one another,
Softly at first, then louder
Always trying to make the new
Distinctive, luxurious to discuss
And comely in its transformation,
Its shading, its interlocked devices,
Our commerce in its patterns, always new,
Always skillful, filled with a fragrance
Unbound by the finality of daylight,
Praying we may never be so totally alone.

_________________

It's Seed of the Week Day; try the simple form below that was sent to us by Joyce Odam. First line is one syllable, second is two, etc. (Anybody know the name of this form?) Send your pennings to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs. And what you send me doesn't have to be a SOW, either—just let whatever you write fly my way... Thanks to today's other contributors, too!

LOSING DAYS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Since
the days
have begun
playing tricks on
me, I find time does
not matter to my plans.
I have become very good
at plausible explanations.

__________________

LUCKY MOJO CURIO SHOP
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

She finds the unmarked entrance.
She’s here because her suitcase is only half-packed
so there’s still time, isn’t there?

Divination by crow—
flying from the left
unexpected trouble.
(But all her trouble has been expected.)

The lady suggests Five-Finger Grass
Four Thieves Vinegar
High John the Conqueror's root
but insists she first decide
what (and who) she wants.

Her husband once said, I'm not afraid of The Devil
but she has an inkling he hasn't met The Devil.
She knows The Devil smells like moonlight
and cannot be out-witted with good luck charms.

__________________

URBAN SOLACE XV
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

Poetry is the alchemy teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
—Anaïs Nin

She climbed up the stairs to her small studio apartment
An efficient modern space, not an artist’s garret
And yet her own writing sanctuary
It was Friday evening, others were out partying
But she was celebrating the end of the work week by writing
Her real life was about to begin
She was preparing to, as Anaïs said
Turn ordinary moments into the gold of poetry
Eagerly she reached for her journal
Went to work on this week’s material
Spinning the tales of her life
Into golden poems

__________________

RAMBLES
—D.R. Wagner

The pink reminders of the evening
Have gathered themselves into the corners
Where the light has its own agenda.

The cornfields in their ranks and files
Start their parades delving into the mysteries
As they spiral upwards into fractals
Worshipped like the poor will objects able
To be possessed. We skate among them

Challenged by our wrong intentions, crashed
Into by dreams and ransacked by the arrogance
The mind handles to confuse us with lucid
Moments that defy time, leaving us on
The edge of our beds at three or four
A.M. trembling and unable to put the body
To rest again so that we may mount
The pastel boats of the nights flickering
Ships and use them as the vehicles
We need to consume the far shore
And ride home again, more or less
Complete upon waking and filled
With tales the night has told morning
Even as it steals from its bower fading
As it does so, convincing in its
Description of foolish wisdom.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

...there is a silent beat in between the drums.
That silent beat makes the drumbeat, it makes the drum, it makes the beat. Without it there is no drum, no beat. It is not the beat played by who is beating the drum. He is a noisy loud one, the silent beat is beaten by who is not beating on the drum, his silent beat drowns out all the noise, it comes before and after every beat, you hear it in between its sound...

—Bob Kaufman

__________________

—Medusa

Robbie Grossklaus and Litany
Poetry Bands Jam, Sacramento Poetry Center
July 19, 2010
Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Cymbals Played by Deaf Men

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

DIFFERENT EXPRESSIONS I
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

It sure feels hot today!

Well duh, it’s summertime!

You think that’s hot?
Try being a first responder in the Sahara!

The record high temperature for this
location is blah, blah, blah.

Don’t forget your sun screen, and be sure
that it’s the right rating.

You get what you deserve.

A good time to go green and line dry your clothes.

____________________

Tonight is the Poetry/Music jam at Sacramento Poetry Center, plus the Davis leg of James Kaelen's Zero Emissions Tour, which will be followed by another installment tomorrow night in Sacramento. Later in the week, local poets will hit the Bay Area: Shawn Aveningo (www.poeticallyurs.net) will be reading at Studio 333 in Sausalito (Weds.), and Tim Kahl (timkahl.com) will be reading at Moe’s Books in Berkeley on Thursday. See our b-board for details on all these happenings! And, as always, check eskimopie.net for a more complete listing of this week's NorCal poetry events.

Convergence (www.convergence-journal.com) has been updated with new poetry from Crawdad Nelson (on Cynthia Linville's Editor's Choice page) and new visual art from Myles Boisen, Tom Lux, Allyson Seconds, Rosario Romero, Curtis Wheatley, and Marlene Burns.

Thanks to today's contributors, including this poem from Katy Brown, based on the recent photo of a bird-of-paradise flower:

__________________

Out of their purple throats,

the flowers speak fire,
recite a golden catechism
of the last days.

The woman tends
her flower bed with leather gloves,
beheading withered blossoms,

dodging heavy bees who weave
a polonaise among the greenery.
She ignores the noise.

She has heard the oracle before:
every spring the flowers
burst from fist-tight buds,

wait for sunrise
to chant their warning–
then tip their heads and speak. . . .


—Katy Brown, Davis

__________________

DIFFERENT EXPRESSIONS II
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

People who don’t work are just plain lazy!

You can say that again!

We should race to the hospital and pull the plugs on
anyone in bed.

Why die with the most toys if it’s just work?

It’s all about just compensation: put up or shut up.

That explains why Sarah Palin quit her governor’s job
for speaking tours.

Disabled war veterans hope you will join them someday.

__________________

MAKING WITH FRAGMENTS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

(for Tom Kryss)

There is a moment when the lights
Become dull memories and the territories
We have come to understand in our travels
Begin to unwind and contrive their own kind
Of knowing, one coupled with the notion that

Soon an emptiness will sidle up to us and clasp
Our hand, explaining the while that we will have
Little chance of understanding emptiness and the
Damp that descends with the evening, even here

On these mountains or in this desert or along these
Trails still dusty with the echos of elephants, ostriches,
Creatures of mystery. They will crumble, we are told
And in that moment, we believe that we are hearing
The truth rather than the banging of cymbals played
By deaf men who sold their imaginations long ago.

The multi-colored lamps make this place seem dreamed,
Not found on maps we carry, nothing promised here,
Only the trail of words that leads us on. We will recognize
Nothing but will continue so that we might see these places,
So that we may fall into the mouth of fables breathed
Over fires on some future night when the Nightjar’s wings
Begin their tale and summon us from the dust once again.

I will see you there, crossing the winter night just ahead,
Betting destinies on seasons, correcting the optics
So all may see mythical beasts and believe in them
If only for the telling. Make in your mouth a story now

While you walk and breathe here that it may be told
Again at some set date far beyond these landscapes.
Favor mystery and what is lovely. Avoid the invisible
That I may feel your hand and together we will build
Toward the favoring winds, tell the dates, catch the
Glint of light on our words as they dance away from us.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

HOW POETRY COMES TO ME
—Gary Snyder, Nevada City

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light

__________________

—Medusa

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

What We Want

Photo by Kathy Kieth, Pollock Pines

A MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE
—Norman Fischer

What we want is a model of the universe
That includes everything leaving nothing out
Yet is completely different fresh unique holding nothing in

common

With any of its constituent elements
Yet is not strange exotic and does not make us feel

uncomfortable

What we want is a model of the universe we can
Read about in a magazine article with pictures
Yet it can’t be just another magazine article and it can’t
Be in a regular magazine this magazine will glow as it

shimmers before our eyes

What we want is a model of the universe that will answer all

our questions

To which we can refer for all sorts of advice
To foretell the future cure bursitis get rich quick aphrodisiac

etc.

And will be absolutely foolproof one hundred percent of the

time

What we want is a model of the universe
That we can talk to coyly we can droop our eyelids at
Plump our lower lips begin the sniffle
And it will pat our shoulders say “there there dear” grow

sad and droopy itself

But without ever really losing its composure or assurance
What we want is a model of the universe so complex we can

never understand it

So simple we can grasp it in a glance and explain it to our

friends via a few simple sentences

What we want is a model of the universe
Which once in our possession becomes identified so

strikingly with us

That we become internationally famous our names
Household words the meaning of our doing and saying
An eternally living legacy around which all subsequent

culture is organized

What we want is a model of the universe we can count on

time after time

Yet is never tiring never predictable eternally new
What we want is a model of the universe that is better than

someone else’s model of the universe

That makes their model of the universe look really pale by

comparison although

Only we realize this and our intimate friends
But our model of the universe is also better than the
Model of the universe of even our intimate friends
Although the fact of the matter is that no one but us really
Possesses a model of the universe it is our own little secret
However we write poems about it that strike others as
Infinitely suggestive and profound but since this makes us

feel lonely

We want a model of the universe that everyone understands
We want a model of the universe that explains everything
Yet doesn’t take the mystery out of anything in fact adds

mystery

Even to the simplest of daily actions a model of the universe

that

Keeps us fit and eating delicate and healthy foods
A model of the universe in which we appear never

overweight nor old

Yet we don’t want to actually appear in this model of the

universe

We want to be beyond it holding it in our hand looking at it

from a distance

Yet we don’t want to feel alien from it either we want love
We want a model of the universe in which we can always

stay home

Yet be able to travel whenever we want to remote places
Where all foreign languages are actually English
Though they never lose their ethnic charm
What we want is a model of the universe
Contiguous with the total shape of time
So that it neither begins nor ends is neither something nor

nothing

What we want is a model of the universe in which
This poem therefore never ends and in which it never began

____________________

—Medusa

Your Dreams Will Not Remember You

One of our pals from
Retiredice Alpacas, El Dorado County
Photo by Katy Brown

THE SORCERESS LOVES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

If I say red,
you see red. Such is
the power of my language.

I lean close to you,
leaving a waft of lavender
from old flowers. You love me.

I read my book of spells,
every night and into the morning.
You never catch on.

I sigh blue at you
and you hold me. I moan
silver . . . silver . . . and you weep.

You cling to my cliffs of peril
and I create white gulls to
release us into flying.

Look! We are
everywhere—as in
a swirling kaleidoscope of color.

It is your dream, and I have entered it.
A long thing stream of black
cuts under us, and I rescue you.

_________________

TO THE MADDENING MUSE
—Joyce Odam

What are these words you give me
on such thin paper—
useful to no one,
just a list
you conspire
to inveigle a response?

I crumple it and toss it to the cat
who bats it once,
indifferently.
Then I reclaim it—
smooth it out—
and write a poem of list-like words.

You shadow me about
making casual observation—
wanting me to write poem after
poem—inspired by you.
I and my cat have other things to do.
I send you this.

__________________

OF POETRY DENIED
—Joyce Odam

(after “Sleeping Muse”, Constantin Brancusi
French (b. Rumania), 1876-1957, Bronze 1910)

gold mask of muse
suspended
in echo
shadow of light
upon
its countenance
eyes closed
brow smooth
mouth wordless
now
oh, gold sleep,
protect your muse
from waking

__________________

I ASK YOU TO TELL MY FORTUNE
—Joyce Odam

Seven, you tell me, being
a seer, and three to round out
to ten should odd or even
rule. You are so serious.
I watch with apprehension
as you turn the cards, even
as I scoff at their power.

__________________

BETWEEN
—Joyce Odam

Yes, it will be dark.
A great train will be passing through.
The night will part itself.
You will be asleep in the mirror.

A train will be passing through.
Your dreams will not remember you.
You will be asleep in the mirror.
You will wonder what to do with sadness.

Your dreams will not remember you.
You will not be able to stop crying.
You will wonder what to do with sadness.
Someone will kiss you while you are asleep.

You will not be able to stop crying.
The poem will never be written.
Someone will kiss you but you will stay asleep.
The train whistle will cry all night.

The great poem will never be written.
The night will part itself.
The train whistle will cry all night.
Yes, it will be dark.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

SLEEP WITHIN SLEEP
—Joyce Odam

Do not pull the night around so tightly—
it is full of stones, weighted as dreams;
it is full of drowning—winding into
one continuous, deep spiral
that becomes a sound.
Do not listen.

__________________

—Medusa

P.S. Your choice of great poetry tonight; see b-board for details on Six Ft. Swells' release party, or international offerings at I-House in Davis!

Kathy Kieth and friend
—Photo by Katy Brown