November 30 -- Ellaraine Lockie

After “The Bath” by Pierre Bonnard in the Tate Modern Art Gallery in London

The Bath

by Ellaraine Lockie                                                 

                                                               

She stares straight ahead

Stretched out soaking au naturel

in a stark white tub

and trance-like state

Blind to his brush strokes

Pierre Bonnard's wife subject

Portrayed at a time

when water therapy

was treatment for tuberculosis

Or obsessive neurosis

One wonders whether she

wasn't already dead

The water having fatally failed

And the corpse prepared for viewing

with oil paint preservation

Bonnard's depiction

a conjugal composition inquest

Or whether she has

succumbed to coma

Paint-paralyzed by the parade

of people invading her privacy

The Tate Gallery

a modern municipal bathroom

Previously published in Taproot Literary Review

Painting can be viewed: 

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/bonnard-the-bath-n04495


Ellaraine Lockie is a widely published and awarded author of poetry, nonfiction books and essays.  Her chapbook, Where the Meadowlark Sings, won the 2014 Encircle Publication’s Chapbook Contest.  Her twelfth collection has been released as an internal chapbook, Love Me Tender in Midlife, in IDES from Silver Birch Press.  Other recent work has received the Women’s National Book Association’s Poetry Prize, Best Individual Collection from Purple Patch magazine in England for Stroking David's Leg, winner of the San Gabriel Poetry Festival Chapbook Contest for Red for the Funeral and The Aurorean's Chapbook Spring Pick for Wild as in Familiar. Ellaraine teaches poetry workshops and serves as Poetry Editor for the lifestyles magazine, Lilipoh. She is currently judging the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contests for Winning Writers.

November 29 -- Mel Goldberg

FAIRY TALE ROMANCE

When sunrise in our land washes the hills
Painting the depths in yellow, brown, and gold,
Your stroll beside the pond fulfills

Not let you walk away from one who loves you.
I ache to be the flower in your hand,
Moistened with your kiss and morning dew.
I will one day be king of all this land,
Will you then be my queen?  These castle walls,
In the harsh mountain’s craggy arms held fast
Cry for your pure heart’s innocence.  Heed the calls
Echoing through each hall from first to last.
O clutch me, like that flower, to your breast.

Sonnet based on Maxfield Parrish’s Romance, 1922

November 28 -- Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Ceremony 

“Farewell” by Sara Umemoto

The woman wraps her head

in folds of white cloth

twisted and tied

in loops and fluttering tails.

On a mountaintop

near her home

the breeze snatches and whips

the fragile silk.

Through the cloudy sky

drifting

a white crane floats

to her upraised palm.

Eyes fixed

on the paper bird, she ignores

the trail of long thoughts

written in fog.

Published in Words & Tricks, 2010

November 27 -- Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Poems Spill  

“Sumi” by Sara Umemoto

She can’t help it,

the poems spill

at the most awkward times.

Leap out of her head,

write with the tips of her hairs,

dribble down the nape

of her slender neck.

Poems spatter

the fabric

of her life.

Published in Words & Tricks, 2010

November 26 -- Andrena Zawinski

The Largeness of Flowers

 “...So I said to myself--I’ll paint what I see--what the flower is to me, 

  but I’ll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking the time to

 look at it.”--Georgia O’Keeffe

(after A Poetry of Things,  San Francisco Legion of Honor exhibition)

Rising into a day shivering in a rare western gray,

clouds run ragged by wind and rain across the range, 

even hottentot sun cups curl inward upon themselves 

and I become afraid the world might turn to black and white 

so I make my way to you, Georgia, inside a gallery garden 

filled with the largeness of flowers, a poetry of things. 

Like you I love to linger inside the bud and fold of color 

upon those petal palettes, whole continents of blooms swelling

in a garden party of the grand. I think as I look in, how can you say

there is no sex in the fiery poppy, no birth in its blood rich petals,

no thought of death inside the deep and dark center, no drama 

in these big beauties that dizzy and dazzle as any first love might.

You say these flowers mean nothing more than their own largeness, 

lines spiraling in upon themselves and taking their natural course.

What starts beneath the soil line appears above the ground 

then plucked by you, you bequeathed them to these gallery walls.

On my wall, your wild iris blazes and poppies swell like bodies, 

like any love at first sight might in a new found intimacy.

You say none of this means anything, that they are simply flowers

and big. But in the largeness of flowers I can almost see the blood rich 

petals of my own mother’s lips as my head tunneled past

the spread wren bone, she a sky adrift in twilight clouds like a city

a blur in fog, the sun setting down, unaware of her own pain or of me.  

My mother is dead. You are dead. The flowers return. All really big.

A garden party of the large, colossal, mammoth, but only flowers

pushing their stubborn heads toward the incessant chatter of birds.

Previous Publication Credit: Rattle: 15, Poetry for the 21st Century

November 25 -- Michael Minassian

   HARLEQUIN’S CARNIVAL

         I enter through the window, a sky

of impossible blue over my shoulder,

the sun, a spiky black and white,

above a red spire in fluid motion

and the black pointed mountain

that cuts the air like a razor sharp

Catalan sword:

            the room I am in now

is in full nightmare bloom,

all severed eyes and creatures

real and imagined from deep

in the subconscious stream;

objects I recognize from far and near,

instruments of music or torture,

body parts and a festival of fear,

floating bits of undigested food

and prancing amoeba who seem to be

looking straight at me –

while the severed body parts

and eyes captured on full display

have a worried look

            but what frightens

me even more is that I have been

in this room before, and despite

the warnings sounding in my head

begin to climb the ladder

past the waiting creatures

whose eyes follow me even out of sleep.

http://www.joan-miro.net/harlequins-carnival.jsp

Artist and Title: Joan Miro "Harlequins Carnival"

November 24 -- Judith Offer

Sunlight on Shadow’

Oil on Canvas

William Merritt Chase; 1884

                                                                One remembers the moment

                                                                                past all forgetting:

                                                                The pale pink cotton one wore,

                                                                                limp in the heat;

                                                                The languid cologne on one’s hankie

                                                                                against the cheek

                                                                (Not quite masking his musky,

                                                                                insistent cigarette);

                                                                The strain of hammock hemp

                                                                                measuring one’s right hip;

                                                                Annie, the cook, banging something

                                                                                by the water barrel.

                                                                When one’s carefully-wrapped life

                                                                                becomes unsealed

                                                                The moment of breaking

                                                                                burns the brain:

                                                                One can close one’s eyes and

                                                                                feel the pillow itch the cheek,

                                                                Hear one’s heart begin to rise,

                                                                                see the flickering of dapple

                                                                Sunlight and shadow

                                                                                on brown dust

                                                                                in the fresh paint

                                                                                of the mind.      

 “Sunlight on Shadow” was written about a painting I saw in the DeYoung. It is in my third book, THERE IS THERE IS THERE, 1992.

        Judith Offer has had two daughters, five books of poetry and dozens of plays. (Eighteen of the latter, including six musicals, have been produced.)  She has read her poetry at scores of poetry venues, but is particularly delighted to have been included in the Library of Congress series and on “All Things Considered”, on NPR.  Her writing reflects her childhood in a large Catholic family—with some Jewish roots—her experience as teacher, community organizer, musician, historian, gardener, and all-purpose volunteer, and her special fascination with her roles of wife and mother.  Her most recent book of poetry, called DOUBLE CROSSING, is poems about Oakland, California, where she lives with her husband, Stuart.

            More detailed information is available at www.JudithOffer.com

November 23 -- Mel Goldberg

Mel Goldberg

Once you had glory, now you bang your drum,
And march through Mexico in sandaled feet.
You do not think about the hell to come -
The end of drumming down these dusty streets.
Then, with Juarez, you fought against the French-
A thousand years of war experience
Against some peasants in an unmarked trench -
To cleanse your land of foreign influence.
Now your name is forgotten, though your deeds
Live on.  What though with patriots you lie
In lonely graves with flowers strewn?  The seeds
Of unborn soldiers take your place to die.
Thus it has always been, and so will be
Until each man, in his own way, is free.

Sonnet based on Frederick Remington’s
“Drum Corps, Mexican Army”

Published in Autumn Sky Poetry Art Issue, October, 2009

November 22 -- Susan Solomon

Thoughts on a life

 

I paint you a painting of cobalt blue.

You love its possibilities and know

that blue sometimes isn’t just a color.

It is the stars,

your cold and crashing California coast.

 

An artist once taught me:

great painters understand the darks.

You don’t paint, but you understand

the dark.

You are the best kind of wild.

 

And I cry as I write this,

not trying to be mysterious,

just sketching down

these thoughts on a most special life.

 

My little sister:

Please don’t die

Please don’t leave me.

November 21 -- Hollie Hardy

In the  Mouth of the Dead:  A Metaphor for Tenderness

by Hollie Hardy

Cooing softly to win its trust

he strokes the coarse fur to calm the lamb

a gentle soul, his favorite of the flock

Yesterday his nieces had come to visit

to feed the sheep through the fence

lettuce and sweaty fistfuls of grain 

giggling at the snuffle of furry lips and dry tongue

tickling their tiny hands

The older child put an arm around her little sister

to reassure her that the lamb was safe

brown eyes

big and round

shiny with excitement

she wanted to touch this earthly cloud

but she was nervous of the mouth,

the teeth, the eyes

Like this,

her sister offered a flat palm to the hopeful creature

What’s his name, asked the girl whose name was Elle

I don’t know, said her sister, maybe he doesn’t have a name

But everyone deserves a name! Elle insisted

Let’s call him Snowflake

They were too young to understand

sacrifice or suffering

the way animals carry our burdens

in the warm soft of their innocence

too young to know death or pain

the woes of childhood thus limited to skinned knees

momentary desires disappointed by bedtimes

or the denial of ice cream

the grave injustice of being forced

to share with one’s sister

  

Soon enough life would betray them

a dog would die or a father would stop coming home

mother would lose her job in town and spend long

nights smoking on the front porch, crying into a bottle,

ignoring smeared mascara and broken fingernails

perhaps a fire in the kitchen

But for now, the sun was shining

before the whole nasty affair,

before the back-stabbing, and then the slaughter

before the knife slipped under the skin to slice away the pelt

as the tortured lamb screamed in terror at the white-hot shrieking pain

Without sin, this sacrifice would be unnecessary

Without god, this solitary tear, this stone

A metaphor for tenderness

Now Uncle leads Snowflake to the wooden tub

to be lathered and scrubbed clean

palm print of a devoted killer

man holds the lamb in his arms

like a beloved pet, or a favorite child  

This is the kind of man who can stare endlessly into a grey sea

a man of ritual, a reader

he works in his garden, studies the Torah

enjoys the simple things

fresh bread with butter and salt

the smell of burning wood

orange and yellow flowers

growing wild along the roadside, where he takes his evening walks

like any man, he finds comfort in dailyness

and the power of his hands

Windows open like a heart

night air touches his naked body as he pours the tea

he washes his hands slowly, preparing

he knows that this is necessary

They are together now

in the small spare room

with its wooden walls

the light is on because this is a love story

no music, just the sound of the night

then the screaming haunted eyes

the thrashing heartbeat

hot breath of the lamb

The man is transfixed

in this moment the outline of teeth seems to matter more than anything

he is focused

he does not notice the empty sound of the rain

which begins softly outside, then grows stronger

Until wet winds roar and bludgeon the night

a ferocious wrath, a beast stalking closer

the storm blows wild through the cabin

like a ghost swallowing a lighthouse

There is blood on the light switch

blood running down the walls

blood pooling on the snow-white fur

aching on the floorboards

rivering along the cracks

never to be clean again

Lightning dances in the near distance

scent of sulfur

damp earth hums humid in yellow air

percussion slows

as the screaming subsides

a candle flickers and dies

the deed is done

The man whispers tenderly into the mouth 

of the dead, the sacrifice

this is his punishment,

the price for what he has done

Alone in the shattering stillness

with the blood, the body, and god

he finds something sensual

in the aftermath of atonement

the intimacy of the room

adrenalin ebbs and eases

he waits for the feeling to fade

soon the sacrifice will erase the sin

as it always has before

~Hollie Hardy

HOLLIE HARDY is the author of How to Take a Bullet, And Other Survival Poems (Punk Hostage Press, 2014) She teaches writing classes at the SF Creative Writing Institute, San Francisco State University, and Berkeley City College. She co-hosts Saturday Night Special, An East Bay Open Mic, curates Litquake’s Flight of Poets, and is a founder and core producer of Oakland’s Beast Crawl Literary Festival. www.holliehardy.com

November 20 -- Robbi Nester

Juxtaposition

After a photograph: Salvador Dali With Vermeer and Rhino (1955)

By Robbi Nestor

Art is about nothing if not context.

Shown here, the artist,

perched on the edge

of the keeper’s wheelbarrow,

ponders his canvas.

On either side of the animal’s den,

symmetrically posed,

Vermeer’s  Lacemaker

and the rhino, ears perked,

regarding the famous painting

like a tourist.

The real and the human-made—

the artwork somehow affixed

to the cave wall,

the cave itself, not a natural

formation of wind and weather,

but composed carefully

of concrete, easy to clean

and care for,

nothing of the veldt.

Whose eye is this

that makes the artist

part of his own composition,

stationed among  hollow blocks

meant to resemble boulders,

a further comment 

on the juxtaposition

of life and art?

November 19 -- Kim Roberts

THE LANDSDOWNE HERAKLES
The Getty Villa, Malibu, California

I thought of you, recovering from your surgery,
here where the scent of rosemary hangs
in the air, the smell
of invulnerability.

For the hide of the Nemean Lion
can't be pierced by weapons.
He clutches a knobby club in his left
and the lion skin in his right.

The lion still has its teeth,
its claws, the curl of its wondrous mane,
and Herakles stares at the wall,
contemplating his next victory

among the distant hills,
his penis missing, his torso perfect.
Herakles wrestled the lion, strangled it,
skinned it with its own claws--

the first of his twelve
fabled labors--then wore it
like a magic shield
atop his heroic shoulders. 

Getty built his Herakles
a temple with a coffered dome
like the Pantheon's,
and a view of the Pacific.

How I wish I could give you that pelt.
We, who are merely human,
our shoulders soft and bare,
have such meager medicinals.

“The Landsdowne Herakles” appeared in Animal Magnetism (Pearl Editions, 2011)

November 18 -- Jennifer Lagier

Illusion

 

After days of brassy sun,

gloomy morning horizon.

Bronzed estuary

mirrors confused charcoal sky,

muddy pastiche of deceptive miasma.

 

Heavy fog manifests

delicate chimera of drizzle.

For a few weeks lush hillsides

costume rugged slopes with

emerald fescue, golden poppies, yellow acacia.

 

We tell ourselves meager moisture

will sustain ceanothus, succulents, sea grass.

Mist conjures cruel illusion

of impending rainfall.

"The Round of the Bay,"  https://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view;_ylt=AwrTcXqOCShWwT0AXYWJzbkF;_ylu=X3oDMTIzbzQ0ZWpqBHNlYwNzcgRzbGsDaW1nBG9pZAMxZjc2NzliYTUxMjg3ZTU5Yjk3N2M1ZjNkZjkxNTZiNgRncG9zAzQ4BGl0A2Jpbmc-?.origin=&back=https%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3DPaul%2BDougherty%2BPaintings%2Bof%2BCarmel%26fr%3Dmcafee%26tab%3Dorganic%26ri%3D48&w=640&h=478&imgurl=www.phillipscollection.org%2Fresearch%2Famerican_art%2Fartwork%2Fimages%2FDougherty-TheRoundofBay.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.phillipscollection.org%2Fresearch%2Famerican_art%2Fartwork%2FDougherty-Round_Bay.htm&size=96.2KB&name=%3Cb%3EPaul%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EDougherty%3C%2Fb%3E+-+The+Round+of+the+Bay&p=Paul+Dougherty+Paintings+of+Carmel&oid=1f7679ba51287e59b977c5f3df9156b6&fr2=&fr=mcafee&tt=%3Cb%3EPaul%3C%2Fb%3E+%3Cb%3EDougherty%3C%2Fb%3E+-+The+Round+of+the+Bay&b=0&ni=21&no=48&ts=&tab=organic&sigr=12njl16id&sigb=13egicore&sigi=12rki60tu&sigt=11jo46f3i&sign=11jo46f3i&.crumb=hi20OYh4.oS&fr=mcafee

Brief bio:

Jennifer Lagier has published ten books of poetry and internationally in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies. Her latest book, Where We Grew Up, was just issued by FutureCycle Press. She taught with California Poets in the Schools, co-edits the Homestead Review,maintains web sites for Homestead Review, Monterey Poetry Review, Ping Pong Literary Journal, misfitmagazine and helps coordinate monthly Monterey Bay Poetry Consortium Second Sunday readings. Web site: : : Poetry by Jennifer Lagier : :

		: : Poetry by Jennifer Lagier : : Jennifer Lagier's work has been published in U.S. and international anthologies, journals and e-zines.
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