Stan Zumbiel and Laura Rosenthal
Monday, October 1, 7:30 pm
Sacramento Poetry Center, 1719 25th St
Host: Wendy Williams
Stan Zumbiel taught English in middle and high school for thirty-five years and has had a hand in raising four children. He first tried to turn his thoughts into poetry in 1967 while serving in the Navy. In January, 2008 he received his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. In 2016, Random Lane Press published his firstbook, Standing Watch. Previously his poems have appeared in Nimrod, The Suisun Valley Review, Primal Urge, Convergence, Slipstream, Sacramento Voices, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. He continues to write in the Fair Oaks home that he shares with his wife Lynn.
Good News from the Other World
Each year it happens this way, each year
Something dead comes back and lifts up its arms,
puts down its luggage
And says—in the same costume, down-at-heels, badly sewn—
I bring you good news from the other world.
—Charles Wright
Rain gradually slicks the street and kicks
the last fall leaves from the gutter. Water pools,
reflecting leafless trees, each branch drawn
perfectly, lines curved without movement,
distorted only by ripples in the surface.
the last fall leaves from the gutter. Water pools,
reflecting leafless trees, each branch drawn
perfectly, lines curved without movement,
distorted only by ripples in the surface.
**
Stars are bits of crushed moon. Imagine God
sprinkling crushed moon across the night sky—
a little dust here and a little dust there, then brushing
His shiny hands together in satisfaction.
sprinkling crushed moon across the night sky—
a little dust here and a little dust there, then brushing
His shiny hands together in satisfaction.
**
Birds cause their own ripples, wading and washing,
heads bobbing into their own reflections.
They baptize themselves and accept on the tongue
insects and bits of seed. When they take wing,
they take wing in the water too.
**
heads bobbing into their own reflections.
They baptize themselves and accept on the tongue
insects and bits of seed. When they take wing,
they take wing in the water too.
**
If Daedalus had been able to see the future,
see Icarus plunging, his wings dragging useless,
behind him, his face frozen as the sea drew
near, would he have left him in the shadows
of the high walls of the labyrinth?
**
see Icarus plunging, his wings dragging useless,
behind him, his face frozen as the sea drew
near, would he have left him in the shadows
of the high walls of the labyrinth?
**
Birdsong doesn’t scratch its way into the cold
clear air. When night falls, water’s surface
goes empty, breathes as it moves against grassy
banks, reserving to itself the replica sky
clear air. When night falls, water’s surface
goes empty, breathes as it moves against grassy
banks, reserving to itself the replica sky
Laura Rosenthal published poems in the 1970s before turning to the full-time practice of law for close to forty years, focusing on access to health care and health insurance. She has returned to her first love,
writing, and has been published in Poetry Now, Brevities, Sacramento Voices 2017, the forthcoming Sacramento Voices 2018, and Tule Review. Laura has read at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Poetry in Davis, The Other Voice, and Poetry in Placerville. She attended the 2017 poetry workshop of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. She is grateful to the Sacramento Poetry Center’s Tuesday night workshop, Josh McKinney, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, and her fellow poets in Susan and Josh’s workshops, for nurturing her writing over the last couple of years.
writing, and has been published in Poetry Now, Brevities, Sacramento Voices 2017, the forthcoming Sacramento Voices 2018, and Tule Review. Laura has read at the Sacramento Poetry Center, Poetry in Davis, The Other Voice, and Poetry in Placerville. She attended the 2017 poetry workshop of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. She is grateful to the Sacramento Poetry Center’s Tuesday night workshop, Josh McKinney, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, and her fellow poets in Susan and Josh’s workshops, for nurturing her writing over the last couple of years.
Mothering
“What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?”
(Sylvia Plath)
If I persist in brooding now that you’re safe
think of me as a wheezy old scribe
copying out messages from extinguished stars—
think of me as a wheezy old scribe
copying out messages from extinguished stars—
my sighs
their musty exhale.
their musty exhale.
Every time the phone rings
it could be 911 calling to say
the business of the soul is still urgent
it could be 911 calling to say
the business of the soul is still urgent
Potluck BBQ 5-6 pm
