Breathing Together

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

MIND’S LIGHT ON LANDSCAPE 

The same landscape we used to hike, summers ago. Nothing’s changed, no geological upheaval. Jit of junco from krummholz to pine. Aspen quivering its fluent leaves, wordless in memory. Now the mind goes climbing, breathing heavier than breeze. My old field notes: calochortus mandala-flower. Wyethia waving dull underside of leaf, its yellow mule-eyes. Light shimmers the land’s familiar face ever-changing. Remember white-crown sparrow rising from her nest. Summers older, you can’t hike anymore; my trick knee. A dozen years have passed, the landscape’s as it was.

remember bluebirds,
a nestling fledged from your hand—
neon flash of blue


(first pub. in Sacramento Voices)    

MORNING CAMP

The moon, no longer spherical, abandoned us with the last mysterious hoot of owl. One by one we gathered around last night’s fire, a cold circle. On a blackened stump, ancient enamel cup chipped and rusty, color of once-upon eggnog dregs. Obsession is hanging on to things no longer useful. Before the sun, morning.

a first bird—three chirps
in quick rising sentence
untranslatable    

CALLIGRAPHY OF WINTER SUN-UP                   

Buffleheads streak white/black wakes across the lake’s cold surface, disappear in shadow of the opposite hill. Abrupt swish of flight too fast for field marks, what kind of duck takes off over water? Indecipherable script of an old bare willow reflected upside down in ripples, limned in morning slant of sun. Where is the egret, sentinel of the wetland cove?

no shadow but blue
a sudden white-brush of wings—
silver hush riffles the lake

   
SCOTCH BROOM

Above the meadow, below the dark of pines, under a blue Sierra sky—brash yellow autograph written across a quiet panorama. Scotch broom, beautiful in flower. Who requested this invader? It thrives on persecution, it takes over the world. In the old place, it crept through fences—seed caught in a neighbor’s Kubota track? We hacked and dug at it, and browsed our goats among it; I thought goats consumed everything.

from this hike we’ll keep
memory of brilliant yellow
blooming in our dreams

NEW WORLD DISCOVERIES  

After Arrival of Wakamatsu Colonists at Gold Hill, 1869, a watercolor by George Mathis

   
What strange arrival of bamboo-bark hats, kimonos. Wagon horses wait to be lightened by a bit of shade—no trees around the house, but woods full of birdsong in no human language. Who translates Japanese to English? She’ll plant a sapling of shelter, of home—wide-branching keyaki under California summer sun. The tree outlives her, and the pond they dig by hand,

creek-fed spot of blue
reeds sprouting along the shore,
fish in its deeps

ELIZABETHAN-COLLAR

Loki comes home in an e-collar to prevent her licking the wound. Neck and head prisoned in stiff plastic cone, she lies disconsolate on living-room carpet. Big black kitten Latches sees; halts; eyes full-moon bright pricked with black. Has the dog been to outer space and come back alien? He approaches stealth-slow—to the verge—extends his neck full-length, cautious. Moves an inch closer, fore-paws on the fearful threshold. Touches nose to nose.

two furred creatures
species from different planets
breathing together

Today’s LittleNip:

BLACK TEA
—Taylor Graham

from dark of cupboard
among tea canisters, two
neon eyes in black

__________________

Gung hay fat choy on this second day of the Year of the Pig! More hiabun from Taylor Graham this week, and gratefully so! We’ve had a great variety of poems in that form the last couple of weeks; Medusa Snakepals are proficient in forms, indeed!

Poetry events in our area today include the licensing workshop at Crocker, 6pm; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, 8pm; and Poetry in Davis, also at 8pm, featuring Tim Hunt and Leonore Wilson, plus open mic. 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.

For 21 things you didn’t know about Chinese New Year, go to chinesenewyear.net/21-things-you-didnt-know-about-chinese-new-year/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

 Snow in Placerville (see the snowflakes coming down?)
(Yes, we had snow up here Monday, and 

it hasn't completely melted off yet!)

—Photo by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

 —Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

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

Toading & Bald Eagles

—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

—Anonymous Slothful Photos

SLOTH’S SWAY

In the considerate movement
of the sloth, I see my own
sanguine approach to this day.

Problems without solutions
gather in my mind like a mob
at bedtime, and so I carry these

voices with me all day, more
worn by the night than I should be,
slowly turning my head, munching

a leaf, preparing to hop down from
my perch, but thinking better of it
in halting concentration.


(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

 Three-Fingered Sloth
 

REAL LOOKER

She's a real looker,
and you can tell because
all the old men have turned
around.
She's a real looker,
I hear one of them say,
and I do not bother to turn,
instead imagining Emerson's
roving eye, a bouncing
ball of observation.
Now that would be a Real
Looker, certainly so.


(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

TOADING

Let's go toading, someone
suggests, which I believe
is a game that involves
spotting the people in British
films that will turn out to be
lecherous heart-breakers.
Of course, I'm talking about
the polite productions
that draw on tattered novels.
I have grown in appreciation
for the British classics, with
their ever-present awareness
of the importance of manners
and wedding dresses.


(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

BALD EAGLE

Must be some kind
of heroic creature beneath
the hairless form in front
of me.  Which reminds me
of my brother losing his hair
and what may soon be
my fate.  So I should focus
on the salad bar, the static
television across the room,
rather than noting the aquiline
nature of the man sitting
opposite me, who one day
may be me looking back.


(irst pub. in Pyrokinection)

CARETAKER

Like the image of the old
bound in balms by the young,
the girl in a meadow, just
a painting I glimpse.

She cares for the weeds
the same as the tender floral dots.

Her voice is an uncommon
invitation to the young, and her
eyes float the roof of the world,
considering her next phrase,
or the next petal to drop.

One finger pointing, indicating
someone, something, just
beyond the limits of canvas,
an invitation to jump in, invent
the other face in the portrait.


(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

 Sloth-in-a-Bowl

HIGH-BACK CHAIRS 

Indecorous, the table
belongs in another room.
The wallpaper crisis,
aesthetics peeling in piles.

The high-back chairs join
the wing-backs for a seasonal
migration up the stairs.

I recall pictures of hollowed-
out buildings, shavings, rust,
an artist who captured
ruin photographically.

One day my most carefully
preserved art will be nothing
but curls, hardly an insect
preserved in amber.


(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LOUD MUSIC
—JD DeHart

thumps of vandal music
fade as we rise
around the hill,
a lake finding us,
a waterfall discovering us
and our escape
right before our eyes.


(first pub. in Jellyfish Whispers)

___________________

Big thanks to JD DeHart today for his fine poetry, occasioning our sloth pictures. One can never have too many sloths. For more about the sloth (2-fingered, 3-fingered) and The Sloth Conservation Foundation, go to slothconservation.com/about-the-sloth/overview/.

MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop meets tonight, 6pm, at Sac. Poetry Center, facilitated this week by Mary McGrath. 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!)

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

Holding the Night Together

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

FEBRUARY RAIN                                             

The world, wet this morning, the trees bare and birdless at
this hour, most of the sky that thick wet gray of winter, part
of the sky admitting a few streaks of blue, puddles shining
with gray light, the houses wet through, eaves sloppily
dripping in a brief lull—a block away—strangely-textured

through the beaded window screen, the slow cars moving
like whale-shadows—and on our street, an impatient red
car slowing for undulations where a street-hogging gang
of boys animate and shout—their voices carrying—cutting
the air to distraction . . .  boys out playing in the rain . . .


        the day turns hollow
        as when children were children
        and I was not old

___________________

FROM THE TRAVELS

Faded signs would never name the towns.  It always    
rained, and there was no one to give directions.  The     
sole café was sad—like in the movies—or in the   
Hopper paintings.

A child always stood in the road behind us, bouncing
a red ball in the shadows between the few thin trees
that stretched toward each other across the lane. 
A woman always appeared in an open doorway,
watching us leave.


        A voice speaks to me,
        no one there, but I answer—
        who is it this time  ?

(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99;Peripherals—Prose Poems, Rattlesnake Press, 2009)

 The Agenda

THE UNFINISHED CHILD

Oh, babe in blue dress in straw cradle, serene-faced
against a white pillow, floated there like a dated
drawing, the musics that you hear are shown on your
listened face—the flutes in the air—the trembled
after-space—the weeping that comes from another
room—soft tears of mother that drift and lullaby you.
You turn your face to the reaching but her grief has
forgotten you. She picks up a thread, runs it through
a needle. The room slips a shadow, cuts you free; you
float to her with your little shining life. She holds you.


        her arms so empty
        she tries to remember you
        you are holding her

__________________

THE IMPORTANCE OF SOLITUDE

Two strangers meet on a bridge, increase their distance
from each other, try to remain alone. But they have been
invaded by each other’s presence, each with his own
reason for being there, lingering at the edge of private
thought. The view can belong to one only : the roiling
sky, the shimmering detail of disturbed weather, the
changing motion of the waters beneath the bridge.
They stand far enough apart to have no need to speak.
They stare into the building moodiness of the morning
that is too early for direction, or decision. If only
the other were not there . . . what might be different . . . ?


        instead of a dream
        I am throwing away my cross—
        I am on the bridge

__________________

THE MOON ON THE WATER

“Look at the moon on the water,” you said. When did you
say that? I wrote this line when I was in some memory-throe,
and why did I think it was important enough to save for a
poem? Did I look at the moon on the water? Where was it,
and when, and was it a real moon on real water, or is it just
a metaphor? It’s driving me crazy because I want to know
why I thought it was so important. And who are you—did
I make you up—did I make me up? Are we both an assign-
ment—a meaning to decipher? Oh, how hard I try to return
to that quiet place with you and look at the moon on the
water.


        the day is ending
        with no reflection—the lake
        turns into a moon

 Deepening

THE BLACK MOOD     

How were we to know that dark was so long and so low to
the ground, how it took our shadows to itself and hid us
from all sound, how far it went to muffle what we almost
said in time, it was so simply everywhere, it caught us in
a mood, precisely right—precisely toned—with last light
trembling near, so like a last chance that we took. I do
remember fear—the way we somehow pulled ourselves
away and out, and how the dark snapped shut and swal-
lowed back.    Mygod, we could have disappeared . . .


        —even this red sunset
        flaking into blackness,
        —like a disposition


(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99)

Where the Dark Thickens

PROVING WHAT IT PROVES

Here is where the dark thickens. I reach in and pluck one
silver thread of light from the center to let my hand and
eye be amazed at my skill. I take it to the heart of the
mirror where the other waits . . .

                                         the other is in need of proof,
something to verify its need of existence. The light
shatters when it touches glass. The dark closes its wound.
I don’t know what has just happened.


        imagining this :
        dark thickens—light cannot see
        there are no mirrors

____________________

NIGHT KEEPER

She is holding the night together—cold and deliberate of
being. Who knows her, who regards her, beyond blame or
temporary use? This is not to enter her thoughts with
question, but to eavesdrop from the distance of strangers.
Who is she beyond the night—so thick with meaning? The
hours pass with no condition. She is whoever she is to
anyone who loves her, holding the cold night together to
keep them from being lonely.


        the night so cold,
        nude before night’s store window
        promising so much

 Farewell

THE SILK ROSE

Pale yellow in early morning light—a silk whisper in the
room. How subtly it shines against the red book and the
old jewelry box with all the tossed things cluttered around
it. How it seems to reach toward the transposing window,
the cracked vase catching the meager light. And it seems
to move. Oh, the yellow rose seems to move when my
eyes seek it out—my room-seeking eyes that fasten—
fasten to this touch of softness in the hard, cold, early
light of this November day.
 

        Day begins—strange light
        transfers with color-texture
        yellow-silk, rose-scent

 Watching

LIVING THING

It was a creature made of light, tame and beautiful. It
came to her hand but backed away when she tried to
touch it. She could almost name it, though it made no
sound and had no definite shape. Still she recognized
it as something that she loved and used to own, though
only in a book that she cherished and had to return. It
appeared to her now on the edge of its existence. She
wanted to save it as she always had. It followed her
for this.

               something is watching
               you weep uncontrollably—
               only with regret
 

______________________

Today’s LittleNip: 

moonless night…
a powerful wind embraces
the ancient cedars

—Matsuo Bashō

______________________

So many thanks to Joyce Odam for this bushelful of haibun, our Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is Love, the obvious, given that Valentine’s Day is next week. Send your poems, photos & 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.

Tonight from 5-7pm, the El Dorado Hills branch of Poetry off-the-Shelves will meet at the El Dorado Hills library on Silva Valley Pkwy. 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.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

 —Anonymous 

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

It Could Have Been Verse

—Alpaca Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

IT COULD HAVE BEEN VERSE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(following the trend of James Lee Jobe,
Medusa’s Kitchen, February 2, 2019)


If the greatest percentage of attorneys were poets, we would more  easily see the meaning of things, the point, the relevance.  As is, we have huge libraries of countless laws, often worded so that only a select few persons immersed in a certain specialized field, and proven successful in an excruciatingly painful process that is actually designed to exclude most people, will have any idea how to decode these unruly rules that are supposed to guide us through the maze of life.

Wherein, hereafter
a license to practice law
must have poetry

__________________

LITTER RIOT
—Caschwa

Taking a nice, freshening hike at the river trail.  Beautiful
trees, animals, flowing river, abundant life and motion. 
About anywhere one points the camera awaits a captivating
scene of color and life. 

There are exceptions, of course.  Manmade implements
like power lines and phone lines quickly transform Mother
Nature to something much less photogenic.  Add to that
little bits of debris littering the trail.  Cigarette butts, candy
wrappers, paper scraps, used bandages, broken plastic
pieces from who knows what.

Maybe a good, natural chaparral fire would get things back
to normal, but it is certainly not within the purview of casual
hikers to play God with such forces.

My chewing gum has now lost its flavor, so I spit it into the
little wrapper I kept in my pocket for that very purpose.  Hate
to say it, but I did briefly experience a tiny bit of temptation
to just drop it on the trail.

Despite the evil,
joining trends makes one act seem
inconsequential.

 

ECHO CHAMBER
—Caschwa

A tiny flashlight battery
dead at both ends but
sufficiently active to
contaminate a landfill

Two matched people meet
one gives the other a ring
now they are fighters in the
ring where only one can prevail

The old elementary school
where I was taught that Pluto
was a planet was demolished,
replaced by new misinformation

All in favor of having an
argument, say Dictator
All opposed, forfeit your vote
Dictator wins the argument

Higher education is the key
more so than a degree
you will understand why
when I charge you a fee

____________________

OLD MEMORIES OF FRESH
—Caschwa

Tuxedo buttoned and ready, I took my
seat among the orchestra long before
the concert hall filled with downbeats,
harmonies, or grateful applause.

There was cold cream, valve oil, rosin,
and other concoctions for the instruments,
plus unlimited, undying cologne and
perfume aromas for the players.

We dutifully tuned up to concert A, which
enabled most of the brass players to
publically give it their middle finger.

Being inside, there was no apparent
need for clothespins to hold the sheets
of music in place, but then there was
always that one, even-numbered page
unwilling to be flipped.

The proscenium, now artfully bare of
instrument cases, gleamed a smile that
welcomed bright notes to join its sheen,
while the outer edge of the balcony was
trimmed with luxury cruise ship railings
waiting in place to deflect all those loose-
flung ledger lines that occupy the hall when
woodwind players engage the octave key.

Enough jabber, the director has taken the
stand to testify that all those rehearsals
were really worth it.  Deep breath…

HOT TEA
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

In the damp night air
A pot of tea
Will be my only
Company.

My windy friend,
Whistling wild,
Will let me know
She’s ready
And will serve me
The only thing she offers:
Scalding-hot water
With which to brew my tea.

________________

BURGERS ON WHITE BUNS
—Joseph Nolan

Usually, there will be
At least half-a-dozen
Amply dotting the roadsides.
Often, in a single strip-mall,
You will find two,
Along with a
Fried chicken-wing shop.

The chicken wing shops
Are the new-boys on the block,
Trying to elbow into
The food chain
That stretches along
Each American highway
In any major town.

Which kind of hamburgers do you like?
There are many kinds,
All so well-known to us,
We could name them in our sleep,
McD’s, BK’s, Wendy’s,
Carl’s, J-in-B’s,
And, at any of those
Mechanistic purveyors of burgers,
You are able to stuff,
Within five minutes of ordering,
A burger on a fluffy, white bun
Into your salivating mouth
With an entirely replicable
Dining experience,

Combined with fries
That grow cold
As you drive away,
And cold fries aren’t worth
The damage they do,
In combination with
Burgers on white buns. 

IN THE NAME OF EFFERVESCENCE
—Joseph Nolan

In the name of anaesthesia
In the name of effervescence
We’re encouraged to participate
In national elections.

We all know the game is fixed!
All the votes are bought,
Or else switched,
By black-box vote machines
That leave no paper trail
And the number
Of registered
Voters
Exceeds all deliveries
By the U.S. Mail.
Nominees don’t like to fail!

_________________

RAW TROUT
—Joseph Nolan

It tastes more like food
When you cook it.
It reads more like poetry
When you book it.
But feeling inches in
Through everything you do
And demands
Just a little
Of your time,
Whether
Free-verse or rhyme.

Why borrow sorrow
And wear a face
That’s long
When you can visit
Majestic brooks
Under forest trees
Get down on your knees,
Bless the sky
And catch a trout
With your bare hands
Eat it raw,
Then go on, about? 

Today’s LittleNip(s):

PAR FORE
—Caschwa

No skill required
just shout as loudly as you can
then if others yield to your voice
strut around like a winner

* * *

WINTER DRIZZLE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

The snow pack
thins
to rotting
grass
and weak beer

__________________

Thank-you to today’s contributors, including Katy Brown for the wonderful alpaca photos she took a few years ago, when we visited a local alpaca ranch! Caschwa has summed up our recent Seeds of the Week as “Sometimes writing poetry can make one feel like an Alley Cat at Twilight Marooned on a Dead End,” and he even tackled the current one, the haibun. And Michael Brownstein, huddled back there in Chicago, knows whereof he speaks when it comes to snow pack.

Speaking of haibun, I came across Contemporary Haibun Online (contemporaryhaibunonline.com), a busy journal that might be interesting to haibun fans. They encourage submissions, including ones for an upcoming anthology, The Red River Book of Haibun 2019. Deadline is Feb. 28; see contemporaryhaibunonline.com/pages144/A_Announcement_Anthologuy.html/.

Also now open for submissions throughout February: chapbook submissions to The Poetry Box. Info: thepoetrybox.com/the-poetry-box-chapbook-prize-2019/.

Tonight, Sac. Poetry Center will feature Sean King, Ooh Bay Kool, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Tuesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves will meet at the El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Pkwy. in El Dorado Hills, 5-7pm.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop for writing poems, facilitated this week at SPC by Mary McGrath, 6pm.

Another workshop this week, Licensing in the Digital Age, on copyrights for artists, will meet on Thursday night, 6-8:30pm at Crocker Art Museum, sponsored by Crocker and by Cal. Lawyers for the Arts. Be sure to register. Also on Thursday night: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sac. with featured readers and open mic, 8pm; and Poetry in Davis will present Tim Hunt, Leonore Wilson plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery. And Second Saturday at Sac. Poetry Center will feature work from Women’s Wisdom Art. (More about that later!)

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)

 Talk To The Animals

Medusa with Friend
—Photo by Katy Brown

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

West Tree

—Anonymous Photo, Chestnut Tree

In the shade of a huge chestnut at the edge of a town, a monk made his hermitage at a refuge from the world. Saigyō’s poem about gathering chestnuts deep in the mountains refers to such a place. I wrote on a slip of paper: The Chinese character for chestnut means “west tree,” alluding to the Western Paradise of Amida Buddha; the priest Gyōki, all his life, used chestnut for his walking stick and for the posts of his home

.
Near the eaves


the chestnut blooms:


almost no one sees
 

—Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)
 
______________________

LETTER TO MOLLY
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

I still search for you in the back-lives of dream, that unconscious dark as a black mare glinting sun off shoulder and haunch, generous muscles of a wordless animal willing to bear my teenage mind bareback—reasonings whose reason grabbed at the bit, a runaway hard-mouth horse headed off to college. In dream I never sold you for the figment of books. I dream I call you Molly, whistling that you’ll come.

March wind in the mane,
a single trail of hoofprints
through wild arroyo


(first pub. on Poets Online Archive, July 2015)

_____________________

A surprise today as I was looking for examples of haibun and stumbled on this gem from Taylor Graham. And, of course, the one from the mighty Bashō! (Clearly the anonymous translator held to the school that you don't need to count syllables when you're switching languages.)

Here are some more links to articles about haibun:

•••www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/more-birds-bees-and-trees-closer-look-writing-haibun

•••www.globalvoicesradio.org/Andrew_S_Sam_H_Haibun_Tips.html#_ftn1

—Medusa

It Could've Been Worse

The Poet, 1978

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Friend, these are challenging times.
I wonder how those people who don't write poetry
Manage to get through it?
If you want the whole truth,
I don't understand those people at all.
Why do they bother?
Your body isn't the only thing that needs nourishment.
Your body is a house, and the person living in that house
Needs the kind of nourishment you get
From poetry, art, and music.

 The Poet and Wife, 1996

Between the rich and the poor,
Between the white and the people of color,
What really ever changes?
Only the names of the humiliated,
The names of the dead.
The size of the population suffering.
The Samsara of profit and hate.
How do we break free?
With sharing the world, with love.
With kindness. Open arms
Instead of a fist and a gun and a jail.

 The Poet and Wife, 1997

What day is today? The summer heat
Binds me down like heavy rope.
Above this, the sky is a cooler blue,
And below, the earth is baked hard.
Through this, our love moves,
Traveling back and forth as always.
My lips on your neck taste the sweat.

The Poet & Cousin Joan Jobe Smith, 1996

It could have been worse.
I might have spent my life
At some factory job, making hammers.
It would have been a steady paycheck,
But I prefer the wind on my face,
Watching the tree limbs blow,
And telling funny stories to my wife.
So I win.

 The Poet and Gary Snyder, Early 2000's

Friend, leave the unnameable be.
Not everything there is needs a name.
Friend, leave the unnameable be.
We needn’t define all of life and death
And the entire universe.
It’s alright to sometimes just smile
And watch.

 The Poet, 2005, at The Book Collector

Join me. Cast off your bowline
And sail your boat with mine,
Away from living in the Past.
I never was much for nostalgia
Anyway.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There must have been times when you opened up your heart and there, waiting, was your life.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine poems today and his tell-all photos about his visual chronology! (Remember the many readings at The Book Collector?)

Back to the present: The Modesto Poetry Festival takes place today at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Modesto, 9:30am-4pm. And tonight, 9-11:30pm, Word Candy happens in Elk Grove. 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!)

 —Anonymous

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

Astronomical!

Needle Craft by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon

1. MOON AND STARS QUILT
    “The moon hangs in the vacant,
    wide constellations.” —Tu Fu (712-770)


With satin silver star motifs appliqued on a field
of blue fabric... I quilt and think, yes, astronomy.

One golden Moon occupies a special place at
the edge of this quilt—my name, not astronomy.

Why the preoccupation of mounting star motifs
on a bed cover? Will it be seen by astronomers?

Viewing this quilt of many moons will have some
people counting Uranus’ moons, like astronomers.

My sister loves this quilt. When I’m finished quilting
she’ll praise it with her favorite phrase, Astronomical!


(first pub. in Common Threads, 2017)

2. ELEGANT

Ecru of bedspread eyelet—laced
indigo trim sewn on large bird pillow—
emerald, gold and tan, oval-encased
idyllic scenes. Appliqued scallops I’ll sew
on light green bed skirts that billow.


(Note:  This poem is an E-I-E-I-O, a poetry form created
by Carol Louise, fashioned after the English Quintet.)
 
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3. NEEDLE WORK
(an E-I-E-I-O)

Embroidery, or any needle craft on linen
in which one applies thread-color, was an
essential domestic art among women
in the generations of my Welsh kin.
Oh, what a lovely doily, apron or napkin!

4. SISTER VERSUS SISTER

A lot of work went into
creating this cross-stitch bag.
On black background she
stitched three-tone green leaves,
large camellias in shades of pink,
red rosebuds with olive-green
rosehips, stems cut short.

Me, I’ll go outdoors and
tend the camellia bush,
pull a few weeds, clip a single
red rosebud for a tiny vase
placed in my kitchen window
and leave the needle work
to my sister Gwladys.

5. ORGANDY

One seamstress gathers purple,
orange and pink on mauve wool.
Others gather baby blue on organdy
or royal blue and fuchsia
on black velvet—impeccable.
Of neon on gabardine, it is said,
Our eyes! Our eyes! Our sensibilities!


(first pub. in Brevities, Vol. 93)
 
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Today’s LittleNip:
 

Pity moment, blah! Let’s turn it around! We do not even need to go into the story of it. We acknowledge this moment and release it. We love and accept and forgive ourselves. And we acknowledge that this is a tiny stitch, a brief pinprick in the needlepoints we are creating of our lives. And we also acknowledge that this lifetime of ours is but a tiny little stitch in the ever-expanding, infinite needlepoint of the Universe. Self-pity is not a reason good enough for us to be out of alignment with peace.

―Alaric Hutchinson, Living Peace: Essential Teachings for Enriching Life

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Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for today’s five needle craft poems; she has made a “suite” of them by putting all five poems in one document called "Moon and Stars Quilt." Sweet! Carol Louise writes, “I have been sewing since age 10. I inherited the skills and interest from both sides of my family. My father's grandfather was a Swedish tailor from Stockholm, and my mom's grandmother and many aunts from Wales did all the needle craft, too.” I, too, and many Gorgons of my generative, learned needlework from our relatives at an early age. Alas, many of these art forms, including tatting (handmade lace), are disappearing…

Trina Drotar writes that Amber Moon Press is seeking submission of poetry and visual art for a National Poetry Month (April) series of chapbooks to be produced and distributed through the Sac. region and beyond. Some poems and artwork may also be displayed in library venues in conjunction with Nat’l Poetry Month and with Crossroads Reading Series events. Email no more than 3 poems or 3 jpeg images of artwork to AmberMnPress@gmail.com/. Deadline is 11:59pm, March 1.

Head up to Placerville tonight to hear Ladies of the Knight (Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, Angela James) read at the Good Earth Movement, 250 Main St. in Placerville. 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.

—Medusa 

 —Anonymous
(Celebrate Poetry!)

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