—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento
GHOST STORIES, FAIRY TALES AND RIDDLES
These are wine-drinking days.
We sip darkly into the deep hours
of our poetry.
Words are what we talk with
and we have gathered
to recite them.
Young singers come to the room
with words they have written
about the loves and the wars
of man.
They know how to save us.
They have broken-doll eyes
and serious faces.
We sit on the floor like
mesmerized children listening
to favorite stories.
We want to believe what we hear.
We pretend
and grow wise.
Those with guitars
have mystical fingers.
With the twang and the strum
of their hands
they make music for
our ghost stories, fairy tales
and riddles.
In our separate ages
we are
each other’s children,
trading our poems for songs
and our
answers for questions.
We leave wine, like thin blood,
on all our pages.
(first pub. in Arkham Collector, 1971)
These are wine-drinking days.
We sip darkly into the deep hours
of our poetry.
Words are what we talk with
and we have gathered
to recite them.
Young singers come to the room
with words they have written
about the loves and the wars
of man.
They know how to save us.
They have broken-doll eyes
and serious faces.
We sit on the floor like
mesmerized children listening
to favorite stories.
We want to believe what we hear.
We pretend
and grow wise.
Those with guitars
have mystical fingers.
With the twang and the strum
of their hands
they make music for
our ghost stories, fairy tales
and riddles.
In our separate ages
we are
each other’s children,
trading our poems for songs
and our
answers for questions.
We leave wine, like thin blood,
on all our pages.
(first pub. in Arkham Collector, 1971)
FROM THE CARNIVAL OF DAYS AND NIGHTS
The clown arrives with his black mask
and signature; he will amuse
with his pointed humor,
wait for the laughter—
who knows him?
who asked him here—
The audience propped in chairs.
His puppets.
He dances.
He juggles.
He rolls on the floor
He makes the spotlight follow him.
He offers his autograph
to the first one who finds him funny.
The audience cannot laugh or applaud.
FROM AFAR
There is a crack in everything
and that is how the light gets in.
—Leonard Cohen
Look how she is holy.
Look how she is circular.
Her eyes hold the light
that holds your darkness back.
She breathes
and moves the light around her.
Is it her stillness?
Is it her movement within the stillness?
Her eyes do not say; her folded hands
disappear in robes of light.
The dark wraps her shoulders
with its safe distance.
She is a page of longing—yours
is the only truth of this, she tells you.
.JPG)
FAT MAN DANCING
fat man dancing to a blast of music
rolling his great belly with his hands
light-footed and happy
to be showing off
unembarrassed
not even sweating
just offering his body to the music
laughing to be laughed at—
fat man dancing
________________________
Today's LittleNip:
THE SHY PERFORMER
You go out on the stage.
You know nobody’s there.
The building has been empty
all these years.
________________________
—Medusa, who is bemused by how fast this year is passing... Our Seed of the Week is The Tumble of Years. Send thoughts, photos, artwork on this or any other subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs, though.
