Sunday Drive
—Poems and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
BYWAY
what is the route of nowhere—
somewhere a map has given it a place
I follow such maps and find myself
on a new island occupied by me only
unfold yourself
to me
I am here—
lonely
___________________
TRAGEDY AND TRAGEDY, FADING-OUT
After Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau
Where are we now but in some dream
together, emerging a dark woods—
two mimes in white costumes,
wandering through a night-sketch—
late of a country carnival
(how long ago)?
Displaced by time, perhaps,
the winter-stricken trees already lonely
for our presence
as we slowly diminish—
two cloud-wisps emulating us—the cold
and following white moon about to weep.
There and Back
ASKING DIRECTIONS
Strangers with endless road maps
stop by my house
I cannot tell them where or how
to find where they are going
I am lost between the
staying and the leaving.
Will It Rain
FENCE LINE
(Wyeth)
Down the long gray hill
his shadow follows
like a reprimand,
lurching against
the steep uneven ground.
The old fence struggles
where it leans
and the loosened light
spreads weakly
across the winter miles.
Old tractor ruts
along the fence line
turn at the last
where the fence turns
back toward the house.
His cold face
finds a random ray of light
while he looks off
past the boundaries.
(Which way . . . ?)
His shadow must decide
against this old consideration;
it seems to pull
to some direction of its own.
(Where would he go . . . ?)
It is a colder day than any other
of this stark and tedious winter,
each one shorter than the last.
Dark settles
and obliterates.
Anywhere has always been
too far from here.
And here is what is known.
He reaches the bottom of the hill.
(Perhaps another year.)
Mid-Season
SUNRISE AS FAR AS IT REACHES
This morning
the sun comes
up over a small
grave somewhere
in a far country
, and I can feel
my mother’s bones
move to the warmth
, and waken to
the bright sound
of the birds
, and rap back
at the squirrels.
________________
A GLITCH OF TIME
Mother, I approach you on the road;
you are looking down,
picking your way carefully,
looking at the stones and flowers.
I am wearing a yellow dress.
I wave to you and begin to run,
but you, somehow, are receding—
keeping the same distance
between us—never looking up
to help me reach you.
Harvest
HOW FAR WE HAVE COME TO BE HERE
A town set apart
in the midst of sorrows.
A long, thin road
and the small lights of houses.
And now the mountains around us
loom with possession.
We will
never leave here.
Winding Down
THE REUNITING SELF
I have slept where there are no dreams, and I have crept
down formless hallways of night toward a beckoning door
where I, myself, was standing,
and I have taken so long to do this—all night, through the
dark—all night, through the sleep, which never protected
me, which only opened its tunnel,
and I always thought I could get through, for I was standing
at the other end, small as a glimmer of escape from such an
old country as I come from,
Sleep Country, where I imagine I am real.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE RIVER BANK AND THE RIVER
—Joyce Odam
All summer, the long grass
reaches out toward the river…
the long grass leans and leans,
but the river is too swift
and will not wait for the slower grass,
but just keeps urging, hurry… hurry…
________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for taking us traveling down those country roads that are our Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is First Rain. 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.
—Medusa, still wandering those dusty poetry roads after all these years…
Carnival Evening
—Painting by Henri Rousseau, 1886
(see www.henrirousseau.net/carnival-evening.jsp)
(see www.henrirousseau.net/carnival-evening.jsp)
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.
