My Dreamless Cradle

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Here we are, born of light

How we shimmer and
reflect to each other.
   
We become
love.
       
We touch
and we shatter.
     
We are broken into
many segments.
     
We mend ourselves
with dark seams.
        
How could we have known
it would be like this.
 

BIRTHDAY

Oh, look, Lady.
You are old.

Are you ready…
are you surprised?

Do you celebrate
or pour deep lamentations
everywhere?

_________________________
 

WEEKENDS

It is August
and they are its birthday people.
In the heat of the day they drink,
but they should not drink;
and then they talk, which turns to quarrel;
but they are merciless,
intense as lawyers.

The house they try to save
lies ruined between them.
They kick at the pieces.
Two lions, pacing their life,
hating captivity,
but afraid to nudge against the bars
which are loose.

BIRTHDAYS (in verse)

It is just such a night as this that throws wind-shadows
at my winter house—those forms imagined
out of the texture of childhood fears—those gatherers
of some old debt that time declares is payable . . .
it is just such a night as this. 

My gleeful ancestors swarm outside my window,
looking in where I am sleeping,
their shadows looming on the walls.
They celebrate my sleep
where I escape
into the dream
of my existence.
They’re drunk and lonely.
I think they want to know me.
They call my name in tones I half remember.

My mother is among them, telling them about me,
saying, See? See? There is my daughter. She is old
like me. Look, look, look at her sleeping. And they
crowd in, the way they did when I was born—pressing
and peering over each other’s shoulders into my cradle.
                                                           

(first pub. in Sakano, 2005)
 

BIRTHDAYS (as prose poem)

It is just such a night as this that throws wind-shadows at
my winter house—those forms imagined out of the texture
of childhood fears—gatherers of some old debt that time
declares is payable—my gleeful ancestors.

They writhe outside my window. They are drunk and lonely,
looking in, where I am lightly sleeping. Their shadows loom
against the walls. I think they want to know me. They call my
name in tones I half remember.

They celebrate my sleep where I escape into the dream of my
existence. My mother is among them—telling them about me,
saying, See? See? There is my daughter. She is old like me. 
Look, look, look at her sleeping. 

And they crowd in—the way they did when I was born—
pressing and peering over each other’s shoulders into my
dreamless cradle.

THE RAIN POEM       

I have written the rain poem
and I send it to you in the summer
to surprise you.
I have put tall weeping ladies in it
whose hair smells like roses.
You are not to wonder about this.
They are not unhappy or lost
or looking for you.
I will let you name them
since you have
many names for what you know
and that is your part of the poem.
    .    .    .
I have written the rain poem
and I have made the day blue,
the color of evening.
The ladies are no longer there.
I was among them.
Did you see me?  Did you know me?
I had the face that would not look at you,
the one that was bent to my hands
when you would not touch my hair.
    .    .    .
Did you like the rain?
It was my gift for summer,
a birthday rain,
the one I saved for so long.
I have so much of it
I keep a whole roomful of rain
and I write it into poems
and fill it with ladies
whose hair smells like roses
and each time I am the one of them
you do not name.

________________________

Today's LittleNip:
 

BIRTHDAY POEM

I wanted to
write you a poem,
but all I could say
was love.
I celebrate you.

I wanted to say
happy birthday
in a special way,
but all I could
think of was
you are
a happiness to me.
And I celebrate you.
 
_______________________

—Medusa, thanks Joyce Odam for today's hearty breakfast, and noting that our new Seed of the Week is The Troll Who Lives Under My Desk. Send your poetic or artistic or photographic thoughts about same to kathykieth@hotmail.com; no deadline on SOWs.