Smoke Before Fire
—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
BURNING INCENSE FROM CHINATOWN
So I am sitting here
on this chilly Friday
burning incense from Chinatown,
trying not to turn the heater on.
It will be hot today.
But this morning
I am surviving in sweaters
and cups and cups of coffee.
A draft from the door
pulls the
gray
musk-scent away . . .
twin lines of smoke,
lifting and breaking as I watch,
twine curving patterns in the air.
The gray ash tower
(though I have not breathed upon it)
falls from its tiny coal.
Not enough to warm its own life.
(Or mine, I smile.)
(first pub. in Calif. Quarterly Magazine, 2000)
Rain Against Flame
STEPPING UP TO THE MICROPHONE
another sad singer
steps up to another microphone
and stands there amid the music
and sings his song
and sings his song
and sings his song
to the microphone
and the smoky spotlight
turning on for him
he stands there
in the lonely light
his face so tense and haunting
and the music knows
all that he sings
and harmonizes back to him
the musicians all but hidden
in the background of it all
he musicians hidden
while the lonely singer stands in the smoky light
and sings his song
(first pub. in Nanny Fanny)
Abeyance
BLUE SONG COLLAGE
After Francis Bacon, Man in Blue
When he sings, he sings blue,
sings to the black piano,
sings to the hushed audience
of his memory.
Soft smoky light swirls through him
and away—
diffuses into
the surrounding darkness.
Beyond the aura of his tragic face,
the stale dark listens—
leaning forward with admiration.
He braces for the applause.
(first pub. in Red Owl, 2006)
_________________
ENVIRONMENTAL
1.
The fake owl sits on the service station overhang above
the gas pumps on the corner of Franklin and Florin,
watching for the audacity of city birds that would dare
his imposing presence. He never ruffles a painted feather
or closes his fierce eyes from the tireless position.
2.
Underneath the bird-chattering tree, a large Calico cat
leisurely inspects his paw—seems unperturbed at the
ruckus above him—looks anywhere but toward the sound—
stations himself against the old leaning fence and seems
to be merely enjoying the morning sunshine.
3.
Perched on the long telephone wire going to the house,
one tiny red-crested bird lets go a burst of song so beau-
tiful it seems too much for its size. It waits a listening
moment—then sings again before flitting to another wire—
all but invisible against the sunset sky stretched out in long
smoky strands of red behind him.
The fake owl sits on the service station overhang above
the gas pumps on the corner of Franklin and Florin,
watching for the audacity of city birds that would dare
his imposing presence. He never ruffles a painted feather
or closes his fierce eyes from the tireless position.
2.
Underneath the bird-chattering tree, a large Calico cat
leisurely inspects his paw—seems unperturbed at the
ruckus above him—looks anywhere but toward the sound—
stations himself against the old leaning fence and seems
to be merely enjoying the morning sunshine.
3.
Perched on the long telephone wire going to the house,
one tiny red-crested bird lets go a burst of song so beau-
tiful it seems too much for its size. It waits a listening
moment—then sings again before flitting to another wire—
all but invisible against the sunset sky stretched out in long
smoky strands of red behind him.
Peak of Recognition
IN BURNING LIGHT
(The Old Gods...)
It is as quiet as the shimmer of gold.
And timeless. The moment holds :
A deer and a crow
looking at each other in a knowing.
There is no menace.
Why fear?
The old trees flex their shadows against
the golden patch of sunlight.
There is no evil.
Why fear?
Clean Air Through Bright Windows
LIGHT, BURNING THROUGH
It was too much light; I could see everything;
the room swarmed with it, though my eyes
remained closed. My eyelids were too thin.
The light burned through to my trance—this
was not real. I was without power to move
or cry out. I was without power. The light
came down and touched me—traced me
for its knowing of me, as if I were a memory.
Then the dark came back. How much time
had passed? Why was the room so cold?
It was love, I said, though I felt empty.
The room was shuddering, then went still—
still and heavy. The light fell over me like
a great exhaustion, which I could not explain.
Hurry Toward Rumor
DESIRE
take this incident of love—this love
that is so perfect—that you believe in,
take this round thought—let it blur,
gaze into the first desolation,
O, take this love—this hesitation—
this round thought, this blurry passion,
—alas! you take this blinding shape—
repeating to a blur—becoming fire.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
COMING TO THE FLAME
—Joyce Odam
here comes death now
on its little gray wing
I can hear it down the hall
I have lit a
low candle for it…
moth…
oh moth… oh moth…
(first pub. in The Hearkeners, 1973)
___________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her smoky poems today, fiddling with our Seed of the Week: Smoke. For more about Francis Bacon and his Man in Blue series, go to www.dailyartmagazine.com/man-in-blue-by-francis-bacon/.
Our new Seed of the Week is When All Else Fails. 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, who, when all else fails, eats cake ~
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.
