Rain

—Poems and Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE EARLY MORNING RAIN

Early morning—hearing the rain—
the long-awaited rain that even wants in—
that patters against the house
and flickers through the trees.

I can see it through my listening.
I can feel the rain-shadows
under the street lights.

What is this absorption that I feel—
that I listen with such attention, as it builds,
that I close my book and listen to the rain . . . .

_________________

RAIN            

oh the rain   oh
the rain
falls so loosely

it has little spaces between it

the air is opening its mouth
and drinking

the rain is closing around thirst
the rain is pressing its spaces together

the gills of the air
are letting the people swim through
without drowning

they huddle and hurry
bending their heads
under plastic umbrellas
knowing only about themselves
learning no new love

outside     in the exultation
the rain and the air
are tasting each other


(first pub. in Hard Pressed, 1975)

WINTER ROOM, FILLED WITH RAIN

In a room filled with rain, the windows
are bleared so the wind can’t follow.
The curtains make no movement. The
bed is smoothed and the mirror is dark,
without a reflection. The room is filled
with rain; and it is not a weeping, it is
a soft relinquent rain.
                                 The walls stream
with rain-light, pulled back to a feeling
of lost dimension. The floor becomes a
soft mud. In an old wet picture on a wall
two staring people are looking back into
the room, for the room is filled with such
an archaic perfection they long to return to it.

_________________________

AGAINST THE ELEMENTS
After “Summer Rain” by Amy Lowell

It was not rain,

but the blue sound of listening,

our defense against the elements—

a blue swirl like a sea of changing colors,

like the churn of emotion that leads to tears,

—tension thick as a dream.


The room was too full of electricity.

We sparked at word,

or touch.

Shadows went haywire.

We could not find the door,

it had grown into the wall.

The ceiling bristled. Window glass

threatened to break and drown us.


Rain was never

the question—

too literal—

only the old rumor

of tidal waves and tsunami ever/

always in their path swerving around us.


Tears are not the rain.

our weeping was useless—

always threatening to love each other,

the blue sound growing louder—sense of

pattering on the roof—the way our eyes

held each other in the cold fury of calmness.

I HAVE NOT WALKED IN THE RAIN
THIS YEAR

you
in your little safe house
being the wife
touching the things you own

cannot know where the edge is

it is in this poem
where it cuts
your life
as it does my own

your children
are jealous of the
telephone
and your words must be
quick and loud
and filled to the brim with
wine

we spill ourselves
this way
so many afternoons
of living the fragments
only

I cannot tell you any more
how the vision blurs
to any clarity

little by little
you believe my sadness

I have told you
how it will be
each stage of resignation

there is no warning
we use the habit of
love
to deny the desperation

NIGHT RAIN BLUES
“Our house was in sound of the church bells”

Who hears the bell-sound in the rain
      —the soft wet dripping as it
                  muffles the neighborhood,

or is it the hollow song of the
         rooster from somewhere in the
                   distance—somewhere rural.  

The rain makes everything
         hollow; its waning fills
                  the night, which is morning.

How can one bear the realities that
         stifle and insinuate themselves
                  with such knowing ?

It is all helpless irony—the rain
        that is here, and welcome—
                  the rooster’s wet crying.  

There are too many sorrows to share.
         They are swift and brimming.
                  They are released at this hour.

Oh, do not mind them,
        they are harmless
                        —beyond crying. 

OLD CITY-SCAPE IN ITS RECALL
After "Rain" by John Salminen
 
Soft as its own shadow in the receding mist,
the gray building—not really there—not
the slow figures moving in the rain, nor
the wet trees without their leaves, or
the black posts of the street lamps
in long formal rows. Wide blue 
shadows catch at the light the
rain keeps pouring through.

The strolling figures
never reach the end
of the public walk.
Cars stay parked.
Nothing echoes.
This is a silent rain
for the time it takes for
memory to remember : it was like this,
just like this rain, only longer and farther
than this place, only a depiction, only this
slow recall, the gray transparent building
still shimmering apart against the sky.

DRIPPING, THE RAIN   

drip-
ping, the rain
in all ser-
ious-
ness be-
gin-
s to fall
downthedry-
eyed world which
needs
to      weep

for-
get how long th-
is has ta-
ken
to
get this far

how
soo-
n
will you turn and look
at any-
thing
s o
n   e   w   ?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

UNDER THE SLOW BEGINNING OF THE RAIN

Caged moment.  I lie like an invalid.
Sounds carry now and I am their listener.
The rooster in the cage crows just the same.
The sound is round.  I look through sound
and become hollow.  Fever must be like this.

_________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her beautiful poems and pix today, recalling our recent Seed of the Week, “First Rain”. Our new Seed of the Week is Midnight. Send your poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for more SOWs than you can shake a computer at.

—Medusa

—Anonymous

Celebrate poetry, and the rain! And scroll down to the blue 

column (under the green column at the right) for info about 

upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more 

may be added at the last minute.



 

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