Awakening
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
1924
That I was born
that brimming summer
of my life
which was given me
though I was nowhere
and nothing
before then.
I note the year
as significant to
my own mysterious being
—that forces moved
and I was among them
with all my senses.
My mother bore me
and I was part of something.
Now I search that year
for clues—enter it
again and again
to find whatever I lost
or need
for all my questions.
I search that year as touchstone
to myself.
Morning Glory
THE DIRECTION
The year comes trailing in like an innocent
bystander and finds me in the first hour
and we size each other up and take some
sort of stance to suggest intention,
we greet each other carefully and ask
direction of one another,
and here we are at the same beginning—
dependent on one another, somehow,
to make it work—whatever we say
and mean. And we wander off together—
down the days—and become destined—
though the particulars are yet to be realized.
_________________
SONG FOR A NEW BEGINNING
In the great brim of morning
I feel a bird about to sing
I know that its song will fall
upon the blue silence and be broken
I know that I will listen
and be startled
I feel the small bird shudder now
and waken
I feel its eyes
upon the morning
I must prepare myself…
I must prepare myself…
there… there now…
its singing.
Generation
LIVING THING
It was a creature made of light, tame and beautiful.
It came to her hand but backed away when she tried
to touch it. She could almost name it, though it made
no sound and had no definite shape. Still she recog-
nized it as something that she loved and used to own,
though only in a book that she cherished and had to
return. It appeared to her now on the edge of its exist-
ence. She wanted to save it as she always had. It
followed her for this.
Red Scissors and Corsage
THE SAME STORY OVER AND OVER AGAIN
And this too is a death:
the latest despair of the heart.
Once the whisper of morning
was a light that moved over us
like a tongue of memoried flame.
Time of love past and love to be,
time of in-between the
disaster and the ecstasy,
let me tell you
of inevitable desperations:
Love was a child once,
innocent of failure,
and with an inquisitiveness
born of danger—
hands touching and eyes seeing.
And this is the final irony:
love comes with weary claws
to stroke our faces.
We accept the crumb of tenderness,
for love is the bitten animal,
hungry nonetheless.
And finally after we have seen
all the disguises
and applauded all the performances
we admire love for the old fraud it is
and accept this as its truthfulness.
* * *
And there is the young girl
standing before the tree and holding
a branch down with her fruited hand
and looking toward the young man
who smiles behind the camera.
(first pub. in Second Coming, 1972)
Chicory
THE NEW ENERGY
After Photograph by Michael Nye from
What Have You Lost? by Naomi Shihab Nye
Here runs the child—
a blur in his notion of the world,
too quick for camera
in his catching of the moment,
even his eyes a blur
as he runs past—
one foot on ground,
one foot in air.
Behind him, the still world
catches back a skip,
makes room for him,
lets him through—a blur.
(first pub. in The Aurorean, 2007)
_________________
COMMENTING ON YOUR NEWS
you say your mother
is coming to take care of you
she will wash all the dishes
and watch your sons
she will not tell lies
or get drunk
you will pay her rent
like a good son
and you and your wife
will go on a honeymoon
how the days will thrill
to your goodness
you are looking forward
to her arrival
(first pub. in Broomstick, 1980)
Rose at Rest
EFFORT
I push through barrier after barrier with my life
which is crowded with intention and failure.
I am huge; I fit everywhere, for I am forceful;
I am my own jungle of resistance.
Trees crowd into me—
challenge my right to be among them.
I push them aside.
As long as I am strong I can do this.
At night I sleep among
the sleeping trees.
Each morning
we begin again.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
FORCE AGAINST FORCE
—Joyce Odam
There is
such a
resistance—
such a
resistance
in me—
I do not know myself.
__________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poems and photographs on the theme of Rebirth, our Seed of the Week. Our new Seed of the Week is the obvious one from the season: Love. Send your poems, photos & 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 plenty of others to choose from.
Drive up to El Dorado Hills tonight to the EDH Library, 5-7pm, for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around, 7455 Silva Valley Pkwy. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Celebrate the poetry of love!
—Anonymous Photo
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
