So my turn to take a poem, I'm from Nevada County, Chris Olander, and I'm going to be
joined on a CD with Hosom Ramsey, Phil Thornton, and Karachi.
This is called At the Gates of the Citadel, and this poem is about one of the beauties
of what happens in the spring in our area, which is the wild iris coming up.
Laughter, women, flutter out of drapes, opening our obsidian crystal,
portal to our garden's nocturn delights, maple leaves lift their breasts,
the breeze veiled in full moon glow, skirts whispering,
overture our dark pond, rippling stars into our window's reflection,
a civil iris in a vase, five-inch lavender fluted column,
some neck curves elegant, classic laced lip, the flowering centers to candles,
lapis lazuli set in silver, our glass jewels enshrined to archetype flames,
still in mahogany table glow, globular, the iris's incandescent smell,
the petals' crown triad, arcane oval, ruffling silver, indigo filigrees, gold gliss,
illuminating breath rippling the cholera's generation, musk desire, muscle drum, shimmy,
the pineal crown, flowering angel hair, zura, dust, and flesh,
oh, she is bathing now above us in her golden bubble rainbow,
architecture nearing perfection, her pink parts of perfume,
hot water lapping at her breasts, she rises with moonlight and steam,
thighs triangle, apex glow, glistening curls in her woman's charm,
erect she-tow wraps, nipples, toes, pattern her footfalls, her ankles crescendo our
light-gallery nuance, gather erotic glow, fuel her flesh true over the carpet
renaissance, and her abyss, reminiscing angles enlighten her thighs as image,
lapis lazuli, threshold, portals all flame, iris centered,
light chalice, man, woman, embracing zygotic dance, brief breath,
hormone fumes veil, the flames flick, lick classic
fluted column, flutterly, wild,
moonlight ripens what our lips speak,
the body's elixir exudes mercurial, blue veins, silvery new triad,
tunneled wisdom, alchemy, the elemental divine conception,
triple stitch throat fleece golds in deeper tone,
resonant, the fiber hum,
embracing a cream,
oh, an iris to be sure, just an iris,
discovered below the young pine, rising from new bay slope clave,
oh, mystical origin, wherever blue-white tones,
silvers and moonlight, summers, gold, swelter, fades it.
Thank you very much.
Okay, our next reader is John Choptau. John was raised in the Swamp East, Missouri.
He teaches poetry in the UC Berkeley English Department and has recently finished a book
of poems on the Mississippi River called Times Beach.
