Gearing Up For the Many Joys...

CHRISTMAS FAMILY REUNION
—Peter De Vries

Since last the tutelary hearth
Has seen this bursting pod of kin,
I've thought how good the family mould,
How solid and how genuine.

Now once again the aunts are here,
The uncles, sisters, brothers,
With candy in the children's hair,
The grownups in each other's.

There's talk of saving room for pie;
Grandma discusses her neuralgia.
I long for time to pass, so I
Can think of all this with nostalgia.

__________________

Tuesday is Seed of the Week Day: let us move our muses to write about Gifts, Giving, and Re-Gifting (the process by which you pass on unwanted gifts to someone else). Gifts of the Magi? The joy of giving? The depths of degradation that Christmastime shopping at the Mall begets? Send your SOWs to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadlines on SOWs (or giving...).

Oopsie—I just discovered a typo in today's photo, which I downloaded off a free site...

Gail Entrekin writes that the latest issue of Canary (the Winter Canary) is available online at www.hippocketpress.com/canary.cfm/.

Thanks to Michael Cluff and Richard Zimmer for these Christmas goodies:

CUPID COMPLAINS
—Michael Cluff, Highlands

I am a reindeer
serving the holiday
in a benevolent giving
asexual way.

My parents were driven by irony
naming me after a squirt
that sadistically gets off
on shooting people
to get them to fall in love.

Mom did claim the ides of Febuary was
my anticipated date of arrival
to put it in Claus chatter

but yet

being linked to an erotic image
does not serve me, Santa, children
Christmas best

do you think?

__________________

CHRISTMAS PAST
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

The world of toys
is a children’s world,
but toys still bring joy
when remembered.

“To Jimmy…from Santa”

Jimmy smiled as he opened his gift…
a large fuzzy brown Teddy bear.

He held it up…looking at it fondly…
its round plastic eyes fascinated him.

He pulled one eye out, holding it in his hand…
there was a sharp pin sticking out its back side.

His mother quickly took the plastic eye
from him, also pulling out the other eye.

Jimmy was left with an eyeless Teddy bear…
but a “blind” Teddy bear still makes a good friend.

__________________

MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Willie and his Golden Tree

Most have dreams and remember none.
Willie dreams and sweet visions come

Willie likes what the season means…
the colored lights and snowy scenes.
He feels the joy that Christmas brings…
falls asleep, thinking of these things.

In sleep, Willie dreams a fantasy
a sweet vision, most Christmassy.
A golden tree, brightly trimmed,
with silver ornaments on its limbs.
.
Willie awakes, full of wonderment,
thinks his vision was heaven sent…
sprays his green tree, a golden hue,
and it sparkles like a precious jewel.

Now those who see it on display,
Know that Christmas is a special day.

—Richard Zimmer

__________________

ONE MAN’S JOY
—Richard Zimmer

Have Christmas joy all year long,
I read on the sign…
Free lecture tonight,
and refreshments to follow.

It promised both food and joy…
How could a man go wrong?
The speaker stood up…
waving her hands with great joy.

She was a beautiful blonde…
How good could this get?
She showed us her book…
Be Joyful All Year Long.

She played her own CD
and sang with great tones,
In a beautiful voice.
She was getting to me.

Then she spoke to the crowd,
I can hear angels…
they’re talking to me…
they say…be joyful right now!

Then she came over to me and said,
Tell me about your joy…
Let everyone hear!
The crowd’s eyes were all on me.

I said, Each day when I wake,
and see the bright sun,
I thank the good Lord
for another beautiful day.

The crowd was now applauding…
she gave me a big hug.
I had found my joy,
but didn’t buy any books.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

SOUND ADVICE [ESPECIALLY FOR THIS TIME OF YEAR]
—Anonymous

When in danger or in doubt,
Run in circles, scream and shout.

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will most likely be mailed by January 1.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Say Hi To Winter

TOO MUCH SNOW
—Louis Jenkins

Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain, does not immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family fortune. It's the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends. I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother. She writes "Don't send so much. I'm all alone now. I'll never be able to use so much." To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate; different from all the others.

__________________

Welcome, winter! The actual solstice was yesterday, but welcome anyway. And good news about the current issue of Rattlesnake Review; it has been handily retrieved from my dead computer. I won't be tossing any copies into the torrent of Christmas mail this week, but I should be able to get them all out by the first of January. Whew!


This week in NorCal poetry:

•••Sacramento Poetry Center will not have any readings on Dec. 21 or 28.

•••Weds. (12/23), 6-7 PM: Upstairs Poetry reading at The Upstairs Art Gallery, 420 Main St (2nd floor), Placerville. It's a poetry open-mike read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen. No charge.

As for the rest of the week, who knows? Better check them out before you leave the house...

__________________

SNOW TOWARD EVENING
—Melville Cane

Suddenly the sky turned gray,
The day,
Which had been bitter and chill,
Grew soft and still.
Quietly
From some invisible blossoming tree
Millions of petals cool and white
Drifted and blew,
Lifted and flew,
Fell with the falling night.

__________________

REVIVAL
—Steve Crow

Snow is a mind
falling, a continuous breath
of climbs, loops, spirals,
dips into the earth
like white fireflies
wanting to land, finding
a wind between houses,
diving like moths
into their own light
so that one wonders
if snow is a wing's
long memory across winter.

__________________

ON A NIGHT OF SNOW
—Elizabeth Coatsworth

Cat, if you go outdoors you must walk in the snow.
You will come back with little white shoes on your feet,
Little white slippers of snow that have heels of sleet.
Stay by the fire, my Cat. Lie still, do not go.
See how the flames are leaping and hissing low.
I will bring you a saucer of milk like a marguerite,
So white and so smooth, so spherical and so sweet.
Stay with me, Cat. Outdoors the wild winds blow.

Outdoors the wild winds blow, Mistress, and dark is the night.
Strange voices cry in the trees, intoning strange lore,
And more than cats move, lit by our eyes' green light,
On silent feet where the meadow grasses hang hoar—
Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might,
And things that are yet to be done. Open the door!

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

They call this the first day of winter, but actually it is the beginning of winter's death. From this day on, we can look forward to warming and brightening.

—Deng Ming-Dao

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will most likely be mailed by January 1.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Door After Door

Ladyslippers in Tennessee

ONLY IN POETRY
—Ajip Rosidi

In the train
I read poetry: Rendra and Mayakovsky
Yet the words I hear are yours
Above the rhythm of the wheels.
I look outside:
Rice-fields and mountains
And a poem rises
From every bead of sweat
On the brow of the farmer
Throughout his long and lonely day.

I know you know
That life drifts between heaven and earth
Adam was expelled from Paradise
Then searched for Eve.

The poet's fate
Is to knock on door after door
And never find: Restlessly
Refusing
To surrender to his situation.

In the valley I see your calm face.
From the valley your hand stretches forth.

In the train
I read poetry: submission to emotion
Which through the iron fingers of Time
Determines the path of Fate: stretching out
Into the realm of dreams which I shape to no avail.

I know.
You know.
In poetry
Everything is clear and definite.

(translated from the Indonesian by Harry Aveling)

___________________

—Medusa

Those Gnomes of Home

Create your OWN luck...

I LIVE IN A HOUSE OF CARDS,

letters, memos, notebooks,
empty envelopes with poems on the back,
books, pamphlets, old newspapers,
magazines, fliers, index cards...

I live in a house of cards,
flattened boxes, printer paper,
photographs, post-it notes,
maps, instruction books
for appliances I no longer own,
postcards, posters, scraps...

I live in a house of cards,
insurance policies, old tax returns,
workbooks, expired coupons, lists,
receipts, phonebooks, rosters,
wrapping paper, drawing paper,
expired New Year's resolutions
about creating order out of chaos...

I live in a house of cards.

—Katy Brown, Davis

___________________

Thanks to Katy and today's other poets! Hell, it's all just a house of cards, right?

Update on Snake computer issues: there isn't any. My computer helpers have been very busy and haven't been able to come to the rescue yet, but we'll get there.

To repeat yesterday's message about Time Tested Books: Medusa apologizes for a calendar error last Monday; the Time Tested Books reading took place on Dec. 13, not this coming Sunday. That was the last in the poetry reading series for Time Tested, by the way. They have future events scheduled, though—check their website at timetestedbooks.net/.

__________________

A FAMOUS DEATH AT HOME
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

And if we can’t be soldiers, let’s leave gnomes,
jests, riddles, scrawls as proofs we were once new:
let each of us die a famous death at home.

John Keats, his lungs destroyed, in a room in Rome,
last breaths like sallow flowers sparsely strewn,
writes few last letters—every word a gnome.

Lincoln, the weary face all plow-scored loam,
retains the wrestler frame of striving youth,
grows “one with the ages” dying at someone’s home.

The dying Beethoven, thumbing through oratorios
of Handel—think of the works he won’t peruse—
braids death-as-allegory into his genome:

the Hammerklavier fist at thunder-groans
unheard, the abdomen sluicing bitter juice
—caught dying a famous death in a squalid home.

Franz Schubert, of songs and musical palindromes,
a symphony cut short that no one views,
bequeaths to legend his death-and-maiden gnomes.

Like these, let us die famous deaths at home.

__________________

SUITE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

These pathways are lined with anxious
Dreamers, unable to sleep.
The floors are damp with longing.
Animals drift past, unaware of our
Presence.
We speak to each other abandoning
Communication.
Some live their entire lives like this.

2.
The trees are terribly upset.
They shake their branches pretending
There is a wind. An elm of great age
Has split itself apart. Pale ropes
Cascade
In a rage from within the white wood.
Rain. Snow. Are you alone my
Darling?

3.
Can you hear the red voices
Naming your sweet children
Like an adagio or an intemperance
From the stomach? Unable to swallow
We offer them to your red seasons,
Our hands unclean. We send them back
To God as if they were a charm
On a little girl's first bracelet
That has become lost and causes
A crying as only little girls cry
For lost things. Take away their
Guns before we are all dead.

4.
The dream of the children inviolate.
A spinning out of control, beyond
All kinds of dreaming. Children
Are reduced to names. We forget
They shot from our bodies fully
Alive. We have no idea how love
Impacts the core of our being.
We will do anything to name
How we spin everything against
What we really want to happen.
We call it our lives. Then it becomes such.

5.
So still we think
It might be the young
Of some deep forest animal.
It is not. It is our heart.

6.
I’m breaking the morning.
There are spirits drifting
Through our bloodstreams.
We offer them to the gods.
We think we are smiling
As if there were more information.
Somehow there never is enough.

We smile to ourselves.
Whatever we think is poison.

7. CODA IRIDES
Window shopping
For souls. Sometimes
They are the broad
Leaves of the deep
Purple iris. Sometimes
They are the vestments
Of the eyes as they gaze
Into those of a lover.
Sometimes they are shopping
For souls, forcing dreams
To submit to their fantasies
Without regard for the hours
Being chanted aloud before
The sun has even considered rising.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

stand tiptoe on the tip of a needle
like a grain of sand flashing in sunlight

—Ikkyu

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail as soon as the troubles go away.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Leaving That Door Ajar

WHO IS THE BEAR?
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

He has grown too menacing for friendship.
He watches men in the woods
and women in their pantries.
He has no way to speak to them
but he wants something.
He lumbers into their houses. He tries
out a church, breaking the handle from
the church hall door. He goes to a table
and eats 22 jars of peanut butter
to be packed off to the poor. He is the poor.
The lids fall apart in his claws. He has
no idea how strong he is. He sniffs
and slurps. No one is there to see
his bad manners. He walks to the kitchen
and opens the refrigerator the usual way,
pushing the handle, releasing the sweet
odor of oranges. He punctures
a dozen cans of concentrate, licking
the cardboard, as easy for him
as raiding a hive of honey. He swipes
a few sweet rolls, then leaves,
damaging little except his own wild
heart. The pastor asks his flock to pray
for the bear. Pray for him to stop ravishing
their homes, be caught and returned
to a paradise that doesn’t exist.
The wilderness has abandoned the bear.
He is alone and hungry.
He no longer knows what he is hungry for.

___________________

Thanks to Jane Blue for her bear poem! And Medusa apologizes for a calendar error last Monday: The Time Tested Books reading took place on Dec. 13, not this coming Sunday. That was the last in the poetry reading series for Time Tested, by the way. They have future events scheduled, though—check their website at timetestedbooks.net/.


This weekend in NorCal poetry:

•••Tonight (Friday, 12/18), 7:30 PM: The Other Voice will meet at the UU Church of Davis at 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis, for a special holiday gathering. There will be no featured reader, but instead, a read-around where we can share poems (our own or other poets), enjoy some holiday cookies and hot cider or wine, and the joy of poetry. Host Allegra Silberstein writes: This time it would be helpful if you send me an e-mail letting me know if you will be attending. Also, please let me know if you no longer wish to be on my mailing list. And in the midst of all our rushing about, may you find moments of quiet joy...

•••Sat. (and every 3rd Sat.), 10 AM: Writers of the New Sun/Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol potluck meetings at La Raza Galeria Posada, 1024 22nd St., Sacramento. Members of all levels support each other via readings, exercises, critiques and info, plus open mic; writing in Spanish, English or both. Call ahead to confirm: 916-456-5323.

•••Sat. (and every 3rd Sat.), 7 PM: Celebration of Word, Sound and Paint at Carol’s Books, 1913 Del Paso Blvd., Sacramento.

•••Sun. (and every 3rd Sun.): 3rd Sunday Poetry Workshop. Info: Rebecca Morrison or Nancy W. at oolalaparee03@yahoo.com/.

•••Monday (12/21): There will be NO reading at Sacramento Poetry Center.

__________________

THEY SHOUT OUT THE PRICE OF SALT
—Ammuvanar (translated from The Classical Tamil Anthologies, c. A.D. 50-300, by George L. Hart III)

They shout out the price of salt harvested from salt flats;
they travel to far distances on dusty roads
as they go in their caravans over long trails
carrying thick staffs.
The life of these salt merchants seems a good one to me.
Her curly hair tossing,
the dress of shoots she wears to ornament her wide, soft loins
swaying with each step,
she cries in every street,
"People of the town! Salt is as cheap as paddy!
Will you buy some?"
"Listen, you with your belly curved and arms supple as bamboo,
you did not tell us the price of the salt of your body,"
I said, standing a little away.
He anger showing in her large, red-lined eyes blackened with collyrium,
she said, "You, over there, who are you?"
And innocent,
very lovely,
she moved off a little,
smiling,
her few rows of white bangles flashing,
taking my heart with her.

___________________

From The Tathasaptasati: Poems from ancient Prakrit,
collected by King Hala, first century A.D.:

EVEN HE WAS ABASHED

Even he was abashed
and I laughed
and held him close
when he went for the knot
of my underclothes
and I'd already untied it.

__________________

THOSE WOMEN

Those women
who can see their lovers
in dreams
are lucky

but without him,
sleep won't come
so who can dream?

__________________

LONE BUCK

Lone buck
in the clearing
nearby doe
eyes him with such
longing
that there
in the trees the hunter
seeing his own girl
lets the bow drop

__________________

THE NEWLY WED GIRL

The newly wed girl, pregnant already,
asked what she liked about the honeymoon,
cast a glance at her husband,
but not at his face.

__________________

YOU LOVE HER

You love her, while I love you,
and yet she hates you, and says so.
Love ties us in knots,
keeps us in hell.

__________________

THESE WOMEN PLUNDER MY HUSBAND

These women plunder my husband
as if he were plums
in the bowl of a blind man.
But I can see them, clear as a cobra.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

If we want to solve a problem that we have never solved before, we must leave the door to the unknown ajar.

—Richard P. Feynman

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail as soon as the troubles go away.


After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Only The Light

NOTHING BRIGHT ENOUGH
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

I worry in worlds of possibilities
before there are limits and rules.

If ever a bird told secrets, this
was the day. It went from tree to tree
giving up its stories. An owl stole
one of them, disappearing over the fields,
wide as a big river, where anything can
become invisible with enough encouragement.
Grass held what was left of the original
words, a nesting of verbs with open,
hungry mouths, asking for action.
But there was nothing bright enough
to attract even a crow, nothing
worth the trouble to pass it on.

___________________

Thanks to Ann Menebroker for the poem that not only speaks to our Seed of the Week: House of Cards, but to my wee owl visitor of last Sunday.

The Snake is unraveling a bit here: my computer died. Kaput. Nada. I'm using Sam's, which is the good news. The bad news is that, although I knew this was coming and had evacuated most of Snakedom to his computer already, apparently I didn't transfer the last/new Snake. The good news is that we have a Retrospect program which probably has it. The bad news is that we haven't gotten it out of there yet. So the good news is that we probably will, but the bad news is that contributor/subscriber copies are delayed—not to mention the Christmas rush if I mail them this week or next. The good news is that there are some copies in The Book Collector still, but the bad news is that there aren't all that many. And the final good news is that I can always retype it. (Which is bad news, for me, actually...)

Chaos and change. A fitting subject for this week; at such times, all we can do is wax up our philosophicals. Let us drown ourselves in poetry...

__________________

FALLEN TIGER
—Chrys Mollett, Angels Camp

Tiger, Tiger! Burning Bright.
On the green and in the night
We all thought you had it right.
Talent, skill, a beautiful face—
Moving with a tiger's grace.
First in everything, your place
But Tiger, Tiger, now your fall
Has shocked and disappointed all.
A long way down from where you were—
And half the world will side with her.

_________________

THE CHANGES
—William Bronk

How soon across these hills air
hazes green to blue, then hardens it
to purple. Ah, the changes! Cloud shadows run
the lifted contours of the ground and the earth is moved
like water, form and color changing with the light.

And there is weather here, and season, so that hour
by hour, month to month, it seems it could be
almost only by our own not
moving that this air-moved, lightmoved, restless place
could be called, as we do all it, the same place.

Oh call it so, but rather because a change
which stills all other change is in ourselves
where an inner weather rages and becalms, grows light
and dark, with as complete effect as though
it were everything the weather, the shifts of light.

___________________

THE BELIEF IN THE SELF ABANDONED
—William Bronk

Belief goes in time, belief in the self
included. What was it I was, or thought I would be?
Who could remember? Something of fruit, of trees,
of things that show their form from the start and grow
larger, fuller, riper, in the same form.
More of that form. That was wrong. For me
it was wrong. No matter. There are changes. Forms are destroyed.

I am the stripped house, paint-peeled,
dewindowed. The airs blow through. What comes comes.
Snow in winter. I am open. It would be wrong
to speak of growing. Fruit and trees no more.
And no going. I am here. I turn my hand,
my mind, to whatever or fail to. Something to do.
I like it. Whatever else there is is gone.

__________________

THE TRUTH AS KNOWN
—William Bronk

Isn’t it true though, we could ask
—who?—almost anybody, what’s
it all about? Yet, asking, not
wait for an answer, or getting one, part
of one, suspect it, scoff, know it was false.
It is—strangely—as though we already knew.
It is as though we agreed, all agreed
never to say it, to lie about it, speak
anything but the truth, knowing what we know.

___________________

BLUE SPRUCES IN PAIRS, A BIRD BATH BETWEEN
—William Bronk

Seen by starlight from the window, fat
blue spruces patch the lawn with darker dark.

Arranged in pairs. People no longer plant
these trees in pairs, with bird baths set between.

Fashions in ornamental planting change.
Houses and yards lose style in twenty years.

Seen by starlight. The universal stars.
Something here is certainly laughably wrong.

Ideas are always wrong. Their separateness
causes a threat to neuter each other out

and leave us without a world as it does here:
heavens and styles collide meaninglessly.

The unsubmissive mind has freedom to be
nothing, worldless—not to exist at all.

Because the various world we sense is not
ever apprehended as one, or formed as one,

ideas are always wrong, always unfixed
and often their power to make the world real is lost.

Huge factors stand ready to leap in
to alter or destroy a world we defend alone.

___________________

THE ANNIHILATION OF MATTER
—William Bronk

The light at least was not to be dismissed:
a hunked-up moon rode a starred sky.
Those objects—what were those objects? Some trivial trees.
Something. Never mind. It was the light
that mattered, as earlier—that afternoon—
the wash of sun crossing the same place;
but it was not the same in a different light.

Would it be otherwise in a real world?
Who could answer? Here, it was always the light
that mattered, and only the light. Once, it had seemed
the objects mattered: the light was to see them by.
Examined, they yielded nothing, nothing real.
They were for seeing the light in various ways.
They gathered it, released it, held it in.
In them, the light revealed itself, took shape.
Objects are nothing. There is only the light, the light!

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE THINGS THAT ARE ARE NOT
—William Bronk

Order is what teaches us the abstract because
whatever we make of order defaults, is wrong.
Things and systems all come apart. There is no
order we can live with. There is nothing else.

THE RULING PASSION
—William Bronk

Our passion for chaos is more than our passion for form.
We want disorder. Order? Yes: the way
we make love. Wonderful; but we can't
be at it always. Trash it! Trash it all!

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one as soon as I'm able
(computer troubles).
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail as soon as the troubles go away.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.

Who DOES Shuffle Those Cards?

FUTURES IN STICKS

—Tom Goff, Carmichael

In the house of cards

we carded the wool

we pulled over the eye

that saw to eye

both seen by four eyes

that said yea or nay

as they watched the pot

that refused to boil

except when steeping

the potboilers

that made the day

of the paperback writer

who kissed Eleanor Rigby

of Rigby, Thigby, and Higby

who ran the firm

that advised the realtor

of three little piggies

who told them to build

as there was a great future

in sticks or straw

which the wolf blew down

so they settled as one

not in dingy red bricks

but our house of cards

that Jack knocked over

slipping not so nimble

but quick on a slick

if bright green patch

of four-leaf clover

bringing the wolf

to our no longer door...

__________________

WHAT HANGS OVERHEAD
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Roof and ceiling muffle the sound
of weather, of rain changing
overnight to snow,
a woosh like owl wings in the dark.

Roof and ceiling a scant
canopy between home and what hangs
overhead, the great oaks bowing
under a dark weight of snow.

Roof and walls are playing-
cards the weather shuffles, as we lie
imagining the sound of ceiling
opening to the dark of sky.

_________________

A NEW HAND
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

This house of cards
It's falling down
But I built it with such care
This myth of my life

A myth soft-pedaling my mistakes
Inevitable as they are
Surely I can soft toe
My way through
This new minefield once again

This house of cars
It's falling down
But I built it with such care
This myth of my life

Change is the nature of life
But some days it catches me by surprise
I race to catch the tumbling cards
Guess I will just have to wait
Until life finishes with this deal

This house of cards
It's falling down
But I built it with such care
This myth of my life

See if my luck will change
With a new draw
This house of cards
I'll build carefully again

__________________

NOW PLAYING, "HOUSE OF CARDS"
—Richard Zimmer

Their life is a movie...
two actors playing a part...
he...the King...
she the Queen of Hearts.

At times, lives got entangled,
like in a web...
but webs can be broken...
they'd find a way out.

Love grew with laughter...
sometimes with tears...
for things sought after,
they struggled for years.

How does this end...
this life of pretend?
It's like a long-lasting drama...
played over and over again.

__________________

Thanks to Tom Goff and our other poets today for riffing on our Seed of the Week: House of Cards. Send yours to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs.

The deadline for Manzanita: Poetry and Prose of the Mother Lode and Sierra (Vol. 6) has been extended to Dec. 31. See guidelines for submission at www.manzanitacalifornia.org/. Manzanita is a literary collection containing poetry, fiction and nonfiction work; electronic submissions only. Manzanita Writers Press and Writers Unlimited, a writers groups that meets at the Calaveras Arts Council Gallery every 2nd and 4th Monday, are affiliates of the Calaveras County Arts Council. Manzanita Writers Press welcomes individuals who would like to help with the press in any capacity, and they also welcome new members who are working toward publication. Contact Editor Monika Rose at mrosemanza@pjs.net for information.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

but for their voices
the herons would disappear—
this morning's snow

—Chiyo

__________________

—Medusa

SnakeWatch: What's New from Rattlesnake Press:


The Thread of Dreams,
a new chapbook from Sacramento's
Carol Frith, is now available at The Book Collector,
1008 24th St., Sacramento.


RATTLESNAKE REVIEW:

Issue #24 is now available (free) at The Book Collector
or may be ordered through rattlesnakepress.com—
or send me 4 bux and I'll mail you one.
Contributor and subscription copies
will go into the mail this week and next.

After this issue, Rattlesnake Review and most of our
other print projects will be taking
a few months off for remodeling—but not Medusa's Kitchen,
WTF (see below) or the 2nd Weds. reading series (except for January).
Watch this spot for further developments!—I suspect that the break
will be short-lived and will engender lots of activity,
including calls for submissions
to some exciting new projects.
Don't miss 'em!

Also available (free): littlesnake broadside #46:
Snake Secrets:
Getting Your Poetry Published in Rattlesnake Press
(and lots of other places, besides!):
A compendium of ideas for brushing up on your submissions process
so as to make editors everywhere more happy,
thereby increasing the likelihood of getting your poetry published.
Pick up a copy at The Book Collector or
write to me (include snail address) and I'll send you one. Free!


WTF!!:

The fourth issue of WTF, the free quarterly journal from
Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe that is edited by frank andrick,
is now available at The Book Collector,
or send me two bux and I'll mail you one.
Next deadline (for Issue #5) is Jan. 15.
Send 3 poems, photos, smallish art or prose pieces
(500 words or less) to fandrickfabpub@hotmail.com (attachments preferred)
or, if you’re snailing,
to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 (clearly marked for WTF).
No simultaneous submissions, previously published work,
bios or cover letters.
And be forewarned: this publication is for adults only, so you must be
over 18 years of age to submit. (More info at rattlesnakepress.com/.)

_________________

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events, to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.) Medusa cannot vouch for the moral fiber of other publications, contests, etc. that she lists, however, so submit to them at your own risk. For more info about the Snake Empire, including guidelines for submitting to or obtaining our publications, click on the link to the right of this column: Rattlesnake Press (rattlesnakepress.com). And be sure to sign up for Snakebytes, our monthly e-newsletter that will keep you up-to-date on all our ophidian chicanery.