Some new work posted by Medusa's Kitchen today.

ON FINDING AN OLD DREAM ON HANDEL’S BIRTHDAY

The paper was a brilliant blue,

Though ragged, torn and pushed through

With holes that let the words unfold

themselves, full of summer and enclosing

Scene upon scene, each described and beamed,

Like coffered ceilings nooks full of such

Affairs that, when undone, set reeling

Long gazes of longer yet, such feeling,

That, when splayed out upon neglected pages

Of blue like this, have songs, bound to each

word and sing on and on as to some fictive muse,

Until it has consumed itself, mere ashes of a dream

That once breathed names and real dragons,

Dancing on forgotten plains, and steam;

Valley after valley dressed to half-conceal, all in steam.

January 14, Medus'a Kitchen

LE MAL DU PAYS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

We find evening wandering among
The trees of the park: taking
His name slowly from the late
Afternoon as she slips into
Shadow, stretching a bit, easing
Her language of birds and insect sounds
Toward evening, offering them as gifts.

Lights begin to blink on
Across the valley. From here
They could be angels who, having
Heard the vespers bell, hurry
So not to be late for the last hour.

We can want no more than
To be here together, a witness.
Perhaps it is only that we have
Chanced to find ourselves surrounded
By the hour that moves this feeling
Through us and into the landscape.

Perhaps it is a knowledge of something
We had not anticipated understanding
Quite yet and so are still unable to
Name it properly that does this.

We stand together here a long
Time. Finally it becomes so dark
I can no longer see you clearly.
Stars begin to blow across the sky.

_____

On January 12 Medus'a Kitchen published the following

WINTER IN THE SACRAMENTO VALLEY

(For Joyce Odam)

The winters here are mostly damp.

The days are grey. They form a camp.

A great and endless fog commands,

All thick and dense, a gauzy stamp.

This weather makes its own demands.

The days are ghosts with oak tree hands.

The morning and the evening change

Without a sound, their cold, white plans.

There is no landscape. All is strange,

Fog cattle grazing shadow range.

There is little here of any sun

To make a mark or rearrange.

A cloistered time. Each day a nun.

A silent time. A seamless one.

We speak another language; one

That quiets time, as days pass, stunned.

THEY ARE

They are standing on the edge

Of the stair, gazing at the jewel

That is the dawn unfolding, neither

Afraid nor apprehensive. The day

Will cascade upon them, then through

them, wiping its silly smile across

All that lies before it. A blessing

Of a kind, but without the quiet

Voice that calls the powers to itself,

Dispersing again in a million

Amens. They drift before

The wave crashes, before the fire

In the fireplace really takes hold,

Declaring the memory of trees

To the damp air, before the clanging

Bells that threaten to topple

Childhood, clear water and singing

Into a collective murmuring of illusions.

Still they stand before it, eager to be

Enveloped. This is the world, for heaven's

Sake. What choice is left at this point?

We kiss it full upon the mouth,

The surface of the eye floating

Scars and image alike, a gray morning

Suddenly relieving itself of the clouds

And exclaiming at the green presents.

A KIND OF SINGING

—D.R. Wagner

The light beginning to crackle and glow

Around the buildings on the horizon.

In traveling through this place

We have no idea why such a phenomenon

Should occur. It’s rather like a

Small child being born and immediately

Becoming recognized as a great king.

What are the chances of such a thing?

The evening scoots down the low hills

As if it were another child, on a slide,

Being called to dinner just as he

Finally gains his spot at the top.

What to do? Come home now?

Sit down, press one’s legs into the

Sides of the slide and take as much

Time as possible to descend to the ground.

Everyone will understand somehow.

When we reach the bottom of the hill,

The entire landscape looks embossed,

A storybook cover one could run one's

Hand over and still feel the real worth

The story has to hold. No one has

Visited this place below the hill

For so long we have forgotten the songs

That used to be sung about it.

We believe we are making up a new song.

________________

On January 8 Medusa's Kitchen published the following photos and poems