Hags, Heidi and November Woods

Persimmons

—Fruitful Fotos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

THE HAG ACROSS THE STREET FROM HOOTERS
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
 
rage weaves through sorrow and regret
I plait ice-blue rage
with regret’s black, sorrow’s burnt umber
strands twist in my fingers, tighten

as the girls sing their songs
just across the busy street
at the street-side patio
teasing, they lean out
perfect teen-aged midriffs bare
below skin-tight knit tops
above identical tiny skirts
they laugh, belt football songs
as cars speed by, customers file in, grinning
some with families or girlfriends in tow

across the busy street, I hear
the young hostesses’ wild song, laughter
anger blunts my tears, held back
I continue to plait
spinning words, memories
fortune, loss, waste

 Little Squash

DREAMT JUST BEFORE AWAKENING
—Ann Wehrman

in a small room, like a bunk on a train
or the back of a van,
I watched, kneeling to the side

you, suspended over her back
perhaps giving a massage
maybe that was all it was, both fully dressed

you met my eyes, your face immobile
then flew away in silence
she lay there quietly
my heart ripped open, bleeding

to my left, a glass window
outside, women chatting, small girl
buried in a lady’s too-big hat and heels
tottered to the glass, inquisitive
wanted to join the discussion

 Apples from the Mountains

I WANT TO LIVE ON THE MOUNTAINTOP
         After Heidi by Johanna Spyri
—Ann Wehrman

Heidi, girl of the mountains
breathes fresh air
goats in her care
playful, they butt
sure are her steps
warm smile on her lips

(Refrain)

I want to live on the mountaintop
with my love
simple in heart
our love a beacon
work in the sunlight
dance in the rain
sleep in a basket of stars

Heidi
loves Peter, the goatherd
together they climb
sled in the winter
soon they will marry
share one cabin
smoke rings of bliss
rise from their chimney

(Refrain)

 Sprouts Still on the Stem

BAY
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

In your life
I believe I must forever be a leaf,
The lone bay leaf.

Forever doing my damndest (my gentlest)
To add obscure spice, dim savor
To your soup of friends, of lovings
And strivings, birthdays, milestones raced past.

Subtle, I am, till you scoop me unseeing
Up in a spoon, bite down as a dentist
Might suggest, then

Twitch me out of mouth between
Forefinger and thumb, pronouncing,
“What did I ever want with you?” 

An Ocean of Walnuts

OCEAN, MIDWINTER
—Tom Goff

The first I love you seems so long ago.
You seem harder to read, slightly aloof.
So much in you that you will not let show.

I’m seaside villa, you’re dark undertow.
Foundation shudders, misaligned with roof.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?

Wrong as I am, drenched in your life and glow,
I’m corpse you sink, all cuts, beneath sharp reef.
So much in you that you will not let show,

Yet show you do, each thinning tide and flow
Of obdurate rebellion against grief.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?

You held me hard once; my mind said, Slow, slow.
The stories you tell harrow disbelief.
Though much in you you never will let show,

I struggle back to you, my mainland, snow
Curtaining us from mutual view: relief.
So much in you that you will not let show.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?

 Pomegranates (More Than Six Seeds!)

SEWING MACHINE
(Bax vs. Bach)

—Tom Goff

    “Sewing machine music,” said Arnold [Bax]
    of Bach’s Suites…
             —pianist Harriet Cohen


Sebastian Bach loves counterpoint, that’s clear:
He winds up, and sets moving, fugues like toys
or warlike sewing machines, front, flank and rear,
all needles stitching, fending, constant noise,
a joyous noise, yes! But when will it stop,
the whir of diatonic cogs and wheels?
Fugue subject, counter-subject, knife and strop
continually in friction, jarring squeals?

Bax uses the Bachian rhythm, forward moves
expressed in themes that rub, caress, or bite.
November Woods is love wound all around loves,
superlative additional note-vine tight-
twined aching around the original pain: what islands
we are though breast to breast! And Bax adores silence…

Who better contends with Bach at counterpoint?
Aroint thee, old Sebastian, aroint!

 Arkansas Black Apples

Today’s LittleNip:

INCOMPLETE
—Ann Wehrman

You give me part of yourself—
air kisses brush my lips,
shadow hands stroke
my astral body,
draw it close to yours.
From across the room,
secure in its frame on my dresser,
your smile warms me;
I roll over, accepting that
which you are able to give,
yet unsatisfied.

_________________

—Medusa, with thank-yous to Ann Wehrman, Tom Goff and Katy Brown for this sumptuous pre--Thanksgiving feast! Katy's photos were taken on a recent jaunt to Apple Hill.

 Evening Shadows

—Photo of Sacramento, CA by Katy Brown

Celebrate the poetry of where you live!

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 Long Blue Shadow

The Turning Seasons

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

IN THIS PHOTOGRAPH

I am eight years old. It must be winter. I am wearing my
winter coat and my new hat with the red cherries pulled
down close to my face. I remember that I loved it. I am
turned aside, a little, toward the long-ago camera. My
bangs are too long. I think I am in Seattle. My smile is
very dear to me, even now, to be that young and unused
by life, trusting its path. I don’t remember the day of the
photograph—why I had my coat and hat on. I think it
was one of those four-for-a-quarter picture-booths; perhaps
my mother and I were shopping. Why do I feel such a
pang of loneliness that I don’t know where she is? All of
a sudden I feel very lost and abandoned. This is the first
story.

_________________

DEAR UNKNOWN CHILD,

I found her in an old sand-pile,
such a sad little doll, her eyes
clogged shut, one arm
dangling, her hair still long,
but thin and straggly.
You would want to comb it.
She had a pretty dress on
once, with a pink sash.
I couldn’t find her shoes
though I dug for them.
I wish I could find
where you have gone to
in this stressed-out world.
She stays so silently forsaken
in my arms. She won’t respond
to me. I think she still waits for you.

 Cracks in the World

LETTING HER GO

She looks back . . .    she looks back . . .
with a slow soft look—not with love,
as you want, but with her own removal.

She has put on a coat of shadow; she has
turned to look back . . .   to look back . . .
and waits for your eyes to follow.

_______________

LICENSE TO LEAVE    

You have to become the door.
This house is not solid.
You may leave.

The walls will flutter down
like old rose petals.
The roof will lift off
like a hymn.

Your anxieties will no longer
matter to you . . .
open their cages . . .
let them fly from your possession.

Your house will dissolve
in your mind
like an old repetition
finally resisted.

The world is holding out
its carpet for you.
Time is a long blue shadow
that wavers ahead of you
in the brimming moonlight.


(first pub. in Mockingbird, 1999)

 Elements

             

STARING AT TIME

fluttering down from the trees
the little souls of leaves
the life that death believes…

the splintering of bird-songs
the little rights and wrongs
the way it all belongs…

the mental vertigo
the things that stay and go
the tercets in a row…

the souls that wait in stones…
the music in the bones
the casual undertones…

the threes and twos and one
the endings late begun
the black glare in the sun…

 Sunrise, Sunset

TODAY WE GO INTO THE MIRRORS

We have been there before, you
remind me. I’m sorry

I repeat this, but it is for the mirrors,
how they need what they need—

something to image;
how they offer their mystery

and their depth;
how they face each other on walls

and still need other than glass.
And we know they will

release us. They have no power.
All we have to do is turn away.

Look, they are faceting.
Do not make me go alone.

They are glowing again.
Sunlight is providing entrance.

How can we resist this? 

 Spilling

THE WAY

How may we go—slow
as mules—soft as sorrow,
singing our night songs
to each other?

How long must we travel
when the way is grief—
and I, your thief of happiness,
you, praising your emptiness?
             *
I saw a flash of bird so rare . . .
and you disbelieved me. 
Here is its song.
I have learned it for you.

_________________

LIKE A LOVE

I took to the sorrow like a love,
gave it my illegible promises,
went with it to its loneliness,
where I stayed.

It built a house for me,
made of old wounds,
made of windows filled with tears,
brimming with distortion.

How I loved those views : great refractive
sunrises and sunsets. But it refused me
a door, locked me in with it, to hold
each other as though only we existed.

One day the sorrow abandoned me,
took the windows with it—left me
nothing. There was a small note
on a dissolving table. It said goodbye.

Each night the waves come up
and cover my house, corrode it with salt,
pull back what they want of it, leaving me
this dry beach of combed sand.


(first pub. in Thorny Locust, 2003)

 Rain, Not Tears

HOW DOES THAT SORROW GO

Loud and thin.
An imaginary violin.
A silent cry
out of some resounding din.

Well, yes, and well, no.
One of us is wrong.
One of us is remembering
the wrong song.
One of us will be up
all night long.

Why buy more tears. We cried
long ago, and the tears dried.
We forgave and were forgiven,
and still love died.
We took its little life and said,
Oh well, we tried.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD SHOES
—Joyce Odam

Somewhere an old shoe
lieth under a bed—
all dusty
and lost
from its other—
lonely as someone
dead
and searching still
for its mate
in a cadaverous closet
and making death
real for the
abandoned shoe.

__________________

A big thanksgiving thank-you to Joyce Odam for today’s poems about abandonment and the sorrow that comes therefrom, and for her purple mandalas with their own particular moods. Taking a cue from Joyce’s LittleNip, our new Seed of the Week is Old Shoes. Send your poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry—and celebrate what we have!

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.
                    

This Orchestra of Autumn Sounds

Oaks Into Setting Sun

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

NOVEMBER AFTERNOON
—Katy Brown

The winter sky lowers, glowering
along the charcoal horizon,
sketching sheets of rain in ragged curtains.

The temperature lowers with
the cloud cover:   cold—
the smell of icy rain on the wind.

Cedar crisps the air with
the damp perfume of woods.
Someone has built a fire

—the wood smoke stirs memories
of mountain mornings warmed by
the massive iron stove in the kitchen.

The snow level will drop soon:
slush and mud—wet sox, cold toes,
red fingers—consequence

of changing seasons. 
Time moves slower in the dark.
The slurry of minutes

freezes in the ice of November.
Pull the reading light closer,
crawl between the pages.

 Simply Lethal Hot Sauce

HAUNTED PANTRY
—Katy Brown

At what point in my life
did I think four types of fancy
mustard, stored against a bland day,
was a good idea.  Yet, tangy food
distracts from grief.

How did so many varieties
of easily-digested rice find their way
into the back of the deep-shelved
pantry yawning in the hallway.

To cook the bags of dried bean soup mix,
I have to concentrate, to plan ahead
—read directions, measure water,
start the slow cooker.  The mummy-dry
beans are tastier if I dice and add
an onion, some celery, a few carrots.

And since the last onions decomposed
to smelly mush in a deep corner
on the floor of said pantry,
I’ll need to go to the store to complete
my no-fuss, comfort-food soup.

I’ve been cleaning out the pantry.
Packing up.  Moving on. 
I have a box of unshared, unexpired
food; another box of sandwich bags,
plastic wrap, bendy-straws
from when I nursed a dying man. 

Every can, bottle, package
weighed against past needs.
Cleaning out the corners, I’m aware
of how much I still feed the needs
of the dead.  

 Old Tractor Engine

THIS EPIDEMIC OF HOODED SOULS
—Katy Brown

You see them more and more:
abandoned men and women
in layers of second-hand clothes,
pushing overloaded shopping carts
or sleeping in doorways.

They smell like poverty
and unraveled dreams; they
look haunted, defeated—
sometimes barely visible. 
They make us uncomfortable.

No two-button suit has
pockets deep enough to cure
this epidemic of hooded souls.
The homeless disturb us most
with the silence of a tin can held
in a dirty hand. 

We roust them from our parks,
our streets, our thoughts,
expecting that they will somehow
return to regular jobs and loving families.
They can’t.

They sometimes have a car that nevermore
will run, but one that has a seat and a roof
and locks for the doors.  They try to park
where they won’t be noticed, towed,
assaulted.  They appraise us with compassion,

mumbling “God bless you,” for the clunk
of a few coins in their cans. 
They find themselves on the street
beside the refuse that we abandon
to the garbage men.  

 Antique Tractor Wheel

A LIMITED EDITION LIFE
—Katy Brown

Each life—a limited edition
with the stain of unforeseen consequences
blotting the edges. 
There is no time machine to take you back
if you mess-up.  No do-overs; no Mulligan
for whiffing the old ball.
Your platinum watch winds down as quickly
as the plastic one.  When the second-hand stops,
so do you.

Suspend your disbelief as long as you dare.
Ignore the windy rush of minutes swirling away.
Tombs are littered with poets who started too late,
singers who waited too long,
painters who grew blind before they rendered the world.

Only one chance, one moment before our bones
lie bleaching on time’s rocky shingle—
tumbling with the conchs and starfish
before the seas boil away.

 Rainbow

CONSIDERING TIME
—Katy Brown

The new year approaches,
its tread on stony yesterday
announced with the
burning crackle of minutes,
scorched into ash.

The old year—shattered
and scattering on the wind—
leaves little to build on.

Each sunrise marks a trail
away from lost time,
lost dreams, lost choices.
Each sunrise illuminates
a new landscape of possibility
for progress, hope, renewal.

The urgent moment propels
us forward, invites a heart
to risk again.  To pace from
second to second toward
uncertainty and the future.

 Curve of Wheel

DRUMMER BOY O’ BOY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
 
Among the clutter of all those
Treasured things I keep but
Rarely touch or use are a pair
Of “drumb” sticks (hold that thought)

As with fine dancing or Olympic diving
I fully enjoy the opportunity to
Somehow partake of the grandiose
Magnificence of the art form

But when it is my turn to participate
The sad truth explodes that I must be
Missing some of the key brain cells
Needed to gracefully perform such exercises

On the way to earning my bachelor degree
In music, I did collect hours and hours
Of quality academic time tapping,
Tapping, tapping on a practice pad

Only to witness little children
Not yet admitted to first grade
Far exceed my pathetic attempts
To play the drums

 86.5%

PITTER PAT
—Caschwa

Rain visits the orchestra of autumn sounds
And abruptly reverses score order
Slamming a crescendo of percussion on top
Pitter pat, Pitter Pitter Pat Pat, PITTER PAT

A constant assault on the pitch of the roof
Gravitates to collect in the rain gutters
Where it is channeled down the downspout
Pat, SMACK!, pat, hear me now, pat, SMACK!, pat

Puddles in the garden beside the walkway
Threaten to invade pedestrian terrain
Inviting pompous parades of high brass, with
Legions of legalese blaring fanfares of penalties

Time for new sticks, replace that reed
Clear the water key, tune up strings
Here is a concert “A” pure and loud
SMACK!, pat, hear me now, pitter pat

Autumn sounds for two weeks straight
Bring your axe and don’t be late
Unpack those Halloween yellow tapes
“DANGER, Enter At Your Own Risk”

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CAREER PATH
—Caschwa

“BOB” was a bark orders boss
Who would bark until he was sore

That was all he was ever taught
And he just didn’t know any more

Inspired, Loving, Leadership (“ILL”)
Was not how he ran the store

So if anyone spoke ILL of BOB
They were quickly shown the door

___________________

Our thanks to Katy Brown and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for today’s poetic thoughts, ushering us into Thanksgiving Week. Yes, Week. Such an important concept surely deserves more than just a day…

Poetry readings in our area begin in Placerville at 5pm with Poetry on Main Street at The Wine Smith, then continue at Sacramento Poetry Center as Lawrence Dinkins (NSAA) reads from his new book, Poet City, plus open mic, 7:30pm. Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe will not meet on Thursday, Nov. 23 (Thanksgiving Day). Then on Saturday, Writers on the Air will feature Amp Your Voice at Galaxy Bean on Madison Avenue, 2-5pm, and Poetic License will meet in Placerville, 2-4pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

Hello, Monday........

—Anonymous

(Celebrate poetry!)

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 Tide Undone

Remedios Varo

—Anonymous Illustration Courtesy of D.R. Wagner

THE TIDE UNDONE
—D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

I am the light that bends
All sound away from the darkness.

The pink tongue unable to form
Words.  Shadows in the eyes.

Shadow that lives in dreams
Before the hands ever touch them.

Signs found in the forest
Long before the chants are heard.

A beacon?  No, only the wind.

Stumbling as prayers stumble
Unable to see their own power.

Clarity comes with persistence,
Never connected to memory.

Not only have they given
Us the sea, they have placed
The water in our blood.

It is reported the breath
Knows endless rhythms.

We are placed here to be understanding
But only as a kept music.

Our bodies dance.
We can hear the clicking
Our bones make as we do.

We desire peace and are told
The ringing is only a distant bell.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for popping into the Kitchen today!

Don't forget that Poetry in Placerville presents Wendy Williams, Laura Rosenthal plus open mic today at Love Birds Coffee and Tea Co., 1390 Broadway, Placerville, 1-3pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

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.
 

Tomorrow in Terra

TOMORROW NEVER KNOWS
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

The Homeland hysteria had abated over the holiday
as no actual invasion had taken place

The hyped-up harassment gradually gave way
to the ordinary harassment of the every day;
in fact,
things had come so far back to normal
the fifth of July was seemingly
just another sunny summer day
on the south shore of Lake Erie

Those residents
fortunate enough to still have jobs
went willingly or unwillingly to work,
or had parlayed the day after the holiday
into an extended period of time off
by using one or more vacation days,
or had called off sick from too much holiday

The region and the rest of the country,
if not the entire planet and beyond,
were silently screaming for new ideas

Or for old ideas reasonably well-executed

Or for a minimum level of competence
no matter the ideas

Or for those with the lowest expectations,
something reasonably corruption-free

Good execution,
competence,
and things being even reasonably corruption-free
had been lacking here for decades,
and not even the recent switch
to a county legislature elected by districts
and a single executive elected county-wide,
rather than three commissioners and a half-dozen
other executives elected county-wide
without any county legislative body,
hadn't produced the promised changes,
though given the prevalence at the time
of the pernicious illusion
that only those who "looked like you"
could adequately represent you,
maybe it had produced the intended ones

It was fondly to be hoped that the
Seven Political Dwarfs—
many more than one of each type
and many being more than one type—
Creepy,
Crappy,
Jumpy,
Dopey,
Sleazy, Cashful, and Crock,
had all taken the day off
here and elsewhere

The Seven's politics
(given the above,
a justly-dreaded Earth word)
meant that they did not believe in
what almost all of this time track
considered the King of Kings:
Leadership

A King worshipped by all denominations
and those with no denomination

A King worshipped by this political persuasion
and that political persuasion
and the other political persuasion,
though they might differ greatly on who should lead

A King worshipped by labor and management

A King worshipped by any dichotomy
that had yet been or would be devised

The Seven's belief only seemed alien:
it was the forgotten Terran prophet Eugene Debs
who had once said something on the order of
I-would-not-lead-anyone-
into-the-promised-land-
even-if-I-could-,
because-if-I-could-lead-them-in-
someone-else-could-lead-them-
right-back-out
This was the Golden Rule
on the Seven's home planet of Warren,
but had only been tried in some small-scale
utopias on Terra and elsewhere:
the threat of a good example being set
didn't sit well with most so-called leaders
on almost all astral bodies

But enough of that for now
The Seven for decades had knowledge
of the particular problem
sitting just outside the city,
and they had means to deal with it
not available to Terrans,
but the Golden Rule required they wait
for their help to be requested by a Terran
(an exception was made if the issue
was immediately life-threatening;
that was not the case here)

Such a request had recently been made,
and that was what brought about their arrival here
two days ago,
as noted in part one of this poem

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Ceraolo for this section of a narrative poem he’s working on.

 Celebrate poetry!

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.  

Dance in the Sun

—Anonymous Photos

FADING OUT
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

After awhile every cell in your body is used up.
You begin to erode into unnecessary thought.
Even the simple gesture of looking into a mirror fills you with surprise.
It's a birthday party and you're the guest of honor who has yet to arrive.
When you walk through the door,
you do not understand.

A FOREST ALIVE WITH LIGHT
—Michael H. Brownstein

and then I saw a picture-book turkey in a Cinderella forest,
the sun beginning to set its hair for the night,
every other ash tree breathing, their skin scraped away,
white as room paint and copier paper, groundhogs
everywhere big and small, the day's heat alive and well,
foxes in the woods waiting as the groundhogs huddle
over their burrows, their young, and watch.

LEAF SOUNDS
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
 
T.S. Eliot mentions
the tinfoil sound of autumn leaves
crisped and blown across pavement.
Connoisseur of sawdust alleys
and elegantly graveled walks, he should know.
But when I miss my love, what of
these deads, yellows, browns, reds,
grinding along the paths whose cobbles
they excite to echo? Swordblade songs,
musical saws, grindstone noises,
whetstone sufferings, clangs
of shields let fall from the fingers
of stabbed soldiers, window-tossed
paving-stone clashes evoking
all the busted shards
in all the archaeological digs
ever dug?

Let me magnify your sweet name
if only to diminish or banish these oversharp sounds…

NAMESTAKES
—Tom Goff

So a poem goes forth with your name there.
Coincidental, she, you, share that name.
No clues here of what color her / your hair.
Evasive, is it? Verse turned brazen shame
slips from the grasp of culpable sweet blame.
I’ll not let on to you / her, here, anywhere,
at whom this paper missile thins its aim,
not trace one feature in it dark or fair.

[Strange: rainforests of syllables to spare,
far-ranging fates dealt singly, claim by claim,
sufficient namestakes to afford unique,
distinct call-signs in Urdu, Hmong, or Greek,
we appellate this girl, this girl, the same.
How else do we beat differences down tame?] 

DANCE IN THE SUN
—Tom Goff

(from Four Orchestral Pieces, Arnold Bax, 1912)

Whether Bax means a real dance or some
vigorous activity in the spring sunshine (one
remembers that Bax was an enthusiastic cyclist)
does not matter.
            —Biographer Lewis Foreman

I write, Bax, praising your Dance in the Sun:
off-kilter rhythmic starts accent the play,
the glee, you & the Irish making hay,
your bicycling through Donegal for fun.
This morning’s light and sweet, there’s nothing dun
or dour about this icicle-chill day.
The noon sun, not quite centered, holds an array
of white-robed heats and points, aroused to stun.
A friend posts Facebook pictures: pangolins.
Pangolins with St. George armor scales
at play: if they had laughter, there’d be gales.
Up to their wee small heads in kaolin clay
made mud by rain, these pangolins at play.
Their roughhouse beastly merriment nor thins
nor dulls (pluck, pizzicato mandolins
you make of orchestral fiddles!) Romping done?
I can repeat the video at will,
these mammal-rolls recycling silly thrills
as you made bicycle wheels dance in the sun.
Of knightly pangolins I dub thee one.
(And You, remote past dreams of Ireland,
far beyond Bax, or pranksters bathed in mire and
mud that clothes them most ceramically:
I conjure you, but never comically,
steeped in life deep as a pangolin,
your skin awash in perfect kaolin,
surviving whitefire in your finest clay…)

        In honor of Arnold Bax’s birthday, 11/8/17

Today’s LittleNip:

DUSK WALKER
—Michael H. Brownstein

in the distance the night ghost
drops its long hair over the city

its fog a blurring of sunlight,
a shadow shaking off its skin.

____________________

Thank-you to Michael Brownstein and Tom Goff for this morning’s fine poems, as Tom works on his up-coming chapbook about composer Arnold Bax, soon to be published by Tiger’s Eye.

Speak Up Storytelling and Poetry meets at The Avid Reader in Sacramento on Broadway tonight, 7pm, or head over the causeway to Davis to The Other Voice, hosted by James Lee Jobe and featuring Davis Poet Laureate Andy Jones, plus Traci Gourdine and open mic. That’s at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis tonight, 7:30pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa 

 Celebrate poetry, and practice until

your poetry dances!

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.

November Listening

Greening in the Hollows

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

SILENCE OF THE WEED-EATERS

Halloween’s over. I’ve hung up
my weed-eater till spring—no more whacking
annual grasses, thistle, and stick-tights.
        Green fields beautiful under honking
spring migrations of geese over canyon
and ridge; still beautiful in May,
with a mechanized hum on the air, a buzz
like insects in trance-rites of spring.
                       Weed-eaters trying
to drown out music of the great god Pan—
the spirit of green gone crazy in our foothills,
piping through wild oat, foxtail and brome.
Green about to transform to brown,
brittle and flammable.
        Mowing is self-protection.
But at last, I’ve hung up my weed-eater—
silenced my mechanical scythe.
                It’s the rainy season
we prayed for all summer. Soft new grass
is greening the hollows.
        I know what’s coming.

 Upper Pond

THE STRIPPED POND       

Cool and shady in summer, floating Monet’s
lily-pads. But it’s not summer. We’re
bundled against chilly wind. Unlucky weather

for a festival. The meadow’s soggy—
how can a natural spring be unlucky? But
pines shady the pond so many summers

are gone, tree stumps in their place. How
could pines, rooted beside living water, die?
But so it is. We humans call it bad luck.

Still, graced as figures in a Botticelli rising,
willows guard the creek. Do they
keep the crowds away who should have

come for poetry? Where are the drums?
There are migrations in the arts
as well as nature. Old friends come softly,

as if afraid to break a spell. In an arc, sitting
closer. From the meadow, a soundless
pulse as if from deer-hide drum. Words come.

We’ll fit them to a place unlike what we
remembered. This place will write new words—
lucky words in their right place.

 Mudflats

POND UNDYING

From autumn’s mudflats—
once summer’s rippling blue pond—
the egret has flown.
Look, folded in wander-wings
wild geese browse the rich brown mud.

 Keyaki

OUTSIDE THE FARMHOUSE

old Keyaki tree
rooted far from its homeland
canopies this place

the garden’s last rose
in blossom-meditation
on the coming chill

three birds on the line—
notes of electric music,
a praise song sky-blue

low sun touches down
aslant, morning more brilliant
as the old year dims

sign hand-painted on the barn—

eggs fresh as the good earth gives

 

 Egg Sign

SOUNDS OF AUTUMN

Early morning. Quiet but for the erratic
cheep—cheep—cheep of an unseen bird I hear
in any season; less persistent, uncertain
now with the shortening of days.

Black Phoebe’s catching first sun on her breast—
sleek bird perched among disheveled rusty
fronds of the almost leafless pepper tree.
She keeps her matins to herself. 

 Cloud Castles

THE CASTLE
   from D.R. Wagner’s poems on Medusa, 11/4/17

It must be true. We use it in our lives
to find distances that are real. Start the car.
Feeling the rhythm, we will know
who we are in a place full of mysteries
and shadows. It has no need
to make sense. We begin to believe,
hoping there is somewhere in the endless
plains, the alley—trying to memorize
patterns of the streets, curves and
intersections. We can’t see great holes
impossible to walk across.
Footsteps echo for a long time, speak
to loneliness. A landscape seen in a fever
like a world walking in deep snow.
All shadows, all mystery.
Everything becomes a murmur
to emptiness. A great silence.
A candle flickers.
The sky overflows with stars as if
one were praying. This is the true hour,
the opening of the hand.

 Persimmon Among Tomatoes

Today’s LittleNip:

NOVEMBER LISTENING
—Taylor Graham

Persimmon ripening on the sill,
a spider making silk across a window,
its echo no more than the glass gives back
in shimmer, reflection of autumns past.

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Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine sights and sounds of November!

Poetry readings in our area today and tonight include Poetry at the Central Library in Sacramento at noon; bring your favorite poems (by other poets) that express, explore or celebrate gratitude, thanksgiving, appreciation. Then tonight at 8pm, hear Izzy Lala plus open mic at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, or Lynn Freed at John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis, also 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 New Green

—Photo by Taylor Graham

Celebrate the poetry of the new green—

when/whereever it appears!

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.