The Field of Language
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE FIELD OF LANGUAGE
To use words—
play with them,
like captured birds.
Hark against the light,
the dark.
Listen.
Now come the silences.
Caesuras. Whispers.
Hesitations.
And the looks. Glances.
Surprise of mirrors.
Those old metaphors.
And the luxury of
eloquence. Waxings.
The reaching after.
The right one—the
right one—slipping away,
playful.
The field of language:
meadow—vast
as you can manage. Yours.
The Girl in the Field
THE GIRL IN THE FIELD
young woman standing in waist-high grass
of an old field far as a dream
is turned to look at you
with such lonesome eyes
you must go toward her with great
tenderness and longing
she is shimmery
in the sunlight
as though she were a mirage
her hair is loose and dark and
parted in the middle
there is a sadness upon her
you think is love
she is holding
one long yellow stem of something
in her hand
as though she means to give it to you
her eyes are as true to your own
as the centered eye
of a camera
you cannot turn away from them
silence is upon her mouth
do not ask her a question
for though the wind is
blowing the grasses behind her in
long bending distance
her hair hangs down in stillness
her dress is not fluttering
there is no expression on her face
except the steady
compelling gaze of her eyes
and you will hurry all your life
to reach her
(1st Prize, NFSPS Poetry Society of Texas Award,
1974, first pub. in 1994 anthology)
________________
OF BARNS
one tumbled down
leaned to the earth
and died
its shredded roof
uprooted
and the failure of
its walls
surrendered
hanging on
to clinging air
that sighed and entered
sighed and left
and nothing felt
the fragile moment
or the yield of history
that slipped away
except
the light
__________________
THE BARN DANCERS
The room widens until it encloses what it reaches—
through the vast doors and open windows—rays of light
pouring in from the golden fields—the whole day entering
to watch. The dancers brighten to the watching, guided
by the levels of music. Each dancer plays to the rhythm,
known and followed, and learned again. Even the air
listens and flows where they flow—costumed in light—
each transparent dancer connected to another dancer and
the idyllic energy in the expanding spaciousness of the day.
About Cows
POEM ABOUT COWS
cows stand in a field
or hang on a hook
life flows in the veins of one
and in the other death
the milk in the bottles
is cold and fresh
blood is both warm
and cold in the cows
the hook turns slightly
in the room
the cows stand easily
in the field
the fences control the
grass from the grass
the butcher puts on his apron
and selects a knife
the farmer gets on
with his milking
(first pub. in West Coast Poetry Review, 1976)
________________
THE OLD ARM-WRESTLE
Between the son and the father
the old ritualistic force
abides in the ruts
of father-hood
and son-hood—
divisional—
with
such
a hard
incision—only the
blessing-curse of love
holds hope against the stubborn
grip that fights against submission.
(first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2012)
Oleander
OLEANDER WINE
(an Octo)
Come taste the wines in my cellar:
old wines, as tempting as desire—
dark wines in old dark casks, long-saved,
growing as bitter as my kiss—
love never more bitter than this:
dark wines in old dark casks, long-saved,
old wines, as tempting as desire.
Come taste the wines in my cellar.
Self Esteem
SELF ESTEEM
After Self Love by Winslow Homer
It’s not the curious self-deep mirror now,
or this wide field that’s yours for the scything,
it’s more the vast expression on your face,
the way you pause and seem to listen—
knee-deep in daisies—wearing the sky
like an inner movement
as you lean from your shadow—
it’s more like that : you, absorbed
in a moment of self-admiration,
proud of your thoughts, of your grasp
upon the infinite, and the power you think
you have—it’s more like that.
One Last Field
OH VANISHING SMALL FIELDS
When I was that crane, stand-
ing in my perfect balance, in
a shallow field-lake, and the
stillness held me—forever,
that long moment—as long
as a glance, and a gray wind
ruffled against me as I stood
watching my ruffling shadow,
and I let myself be taken by
the admiration of others watch-
ing me—I knew I was doomed.
I knew I would have to lift,
suddenly and alone, into time’s
sad distance, would have to
leave my perfectly balanced
shadow behind and never return
to this one last field of
swayed and deciphering grasses,
that I would startle and feel
my own life hollowing-out
as the small field disappeared—
where would I go? How would I
not grieve for this? For all
my life, I had been taken ser-
iously as a thing of beauty—
to view from afar—in passing.
Is that not still true, oh, van-
ishing small fields? Is that
not still true?
(first pub. in In the Grove, 1999)
Rural
Today’s LittleNip:
RURAL
A wood fire in the
old black stove,
a saucer of milk for the
old black cat.
fire-shadows
lapping at the walls.
—Joyce Odam
(first pub. in Of Cats mini chap, 2002)
____________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine harvest of poems and photos as she barn-dances around our Seed of the Week: Harvest. Our new Seed of the Week, in fact, is Barns. 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.
For the form of the octo, go to poetscollective.org/poetryforms/example-Index/#O/.
Apparently the fires in Paradise had Medusa bumfuzzled yesterday, because I left out several happenings coming up in our area this week, and it's a busy one! I won’t list them here; instead, you should 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.
Tonight, for example, Sol Collective in Sacramento will present speakers, film clips and hip hop from Central American history and politics, 6-8pm. That’s at 2574 21st St., Sac. Info: www.facebook.com/events/518778651925199/.
I think the truth is, I couldn’t believe we were in the middle of November already!
—Medusa
Needs a coat of paint.
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate Poetry and “the field of language... Yours.”
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate Poetry and “the field of language... Yours.”
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
