When Yesterday is Today
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
MOON SIREN
Why fight for sleep when the whole moon is
shining white and near through the window,
when words are waiting to become your poem,
the one you try to grasp out of such moments
as this—the clock anonymous with numbers
that mean nothing except how they trouble
you—move you forward into more of them.
How easily it is to give mind to such intrusion
of the spirit which strives to know itself.
A siren, and the moon shudders a little bit more
into the dawn; a siren, a little howl from
somewhere in the night—near or far,
it makes no difference, the trailing
echo swallows sound, turns it
into brimming silence;
a siren, more like the
pulling of distance,
both fading now.
A shadow blots
out the moon.
__________________
Why fight for sleep when the whole moon is
shining white and near through the window,
when words are waiting to become your poem,
the one you try to grasp out of such moments
as this—the clock anonymous with numbers
that mean nothing except how they trouble
you—move you forward into more of them.
How easily it is to give mind to such intrusion
of the spirit which strives to know itself.
A siren, and the moon shudders a little bit more
into the dawn; a siren, a little howl from
somewhere in the night—near or far,
it makes no difference, the trailing
echo swallows sound, turns it
into brimming silence;
a siren, more like the
pulling of distance,
both fading now.
A shadow blots
out the moon.
__________________
TREE SPIRIT
Old tree,
though you grow old,
I must stay young. I feel my powers
surge beyond your energies.
The gods
that imprisoned me in you
have not forgiven us.
Though I have lured too many
to the assignment of my loneliness,
my life is yours—
I needed them to fan the jealousies
of gods that risk their powers on resistance
such as ours. Essence of each other now,
I give you such dreams and memories
as you could not have had— now that I
am able to dream them. Old tree,
you must not grieve—
what I imagine
will be real, if you
imagine me, while we
live . . . while we live . . . .
Old tree,
though you grow old,
I must stay young. I feel my powers
surge beyond your energies.
The gods
that imprisoned me in you
have not forgiven us.
Though I have lured too many
to the assignment of my loneliness,
my life is yours—
I needed them to fan the jealousies
of gods that risk their powers on resistance
such as ours. Essence of each other now,
I give you such dreams and memories
as you could not have had— now that I
am able to dream them. Old tree,
you must not grieve—
what I imagine
will be real, if you
imagine me, while we
live . . . while we live . . . .
Mandala
A MOODY VOYEURISM
The long hill slopes upwards into the sky. One tree seems
to direct the other trees up the hill. A lone figure is settled
by the lone tree—a focal point. The figure does not move.
Perhaps it is only a bush, or a rock; perhaps the hill does
not climb and those slanting shadows have no significance.
The tree holds still. The rock, or bush, or figure, lose their
distinction. A thin swathe of blue light slants down into the
tops of the lower trees. The light explores. The light is
seeking—slowly seeking—through the dense treetops. The
sky holds still. The hill glows.
________________________
A PLACE LIKE THAT
After “Daystar” by Rita Dove
Yes, a place like that.
A chair in the light.
An unwinding place
free from thought or claim.
Somewhere unreachable.
Dreamed-up or real.
No matter.
Just a place to be unreal in
if you are not real.
A chair to hold you—heavy or light
—like a rocking boat that can drift away
into the edge of a passing current.
Simply lift and follow—
or inward-stay
unraveled
while a leaf drifts by,
or a bird sits watching from a tree,
shivering with happiness at a small breeze.
Yes, a place like that.
A chair in the light.
An unwinding place
free from thought or claim.
Somewhere unreachable.
Dreamed-up or real.
No matter.
Just a place to be unreal in
if you are not real.
A chair to hold you—heavy or light
—like a rocking boat that can drift away
into the edge of a passing current.
Simply lift and follow—
or inward-stay
unraveled
while a leaf drifts by,
or a bird sits watching from a tree,
shivering with happiness at a small breeze.
Blossom and Bud
TRYING ON HATS
My mother and I would try on hats at a little Hat Shoppe
in one of the towns we lived in. (Long Beach, I think.)
A narrow little shop squeezed in between two others. The
hats cost only a dollar—maybe two—grown-up hats with
turned-down brims, some with veils, like the mystery-hats
sophisticated ladies wore in movies. We would finally buy
one apiece and saunter out on the sidewalk, feeling some-
how new to ourselves, changed by the wearing of a hat—
hers with a sassy brim—mine with a veil.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2012)
_____________________
ALONE NOW
“There is a community of the spirit. / Join it, and feel the delight
/ of walking in the noisy street, / and being the noise.” —Rumi
How infinite the consequence—how true—
how far the drift, alone in bright surroundings
with your thoughts and view—limitless,
and without sound and without shore :
where are the birds . . .
where is the sky . . .
and where
all that you thought you wanted,
all that you thought you knew . . . ?
~
It is like coming out of a spiral,
changed and erased of
all damage, making
one step forward
into a vast whiteness,
no memories impede—
you are the one made of
particles, as if you have yet to
become real and looking for the other—
the one you have dreamed—the one you love
without knowing love, the one you need for a mirror.
My mother and I would try on hats at a little Hat Shoppe
in one of the towns we lived in. (Long Beach, I think.)
A narrow little shop squeezed in between two others. The
hats cost only a dollar—maybe two—grown-up hats with
turned-down brims, some with veils, like the mystery-hats
sophisticated ladies wore in movies. We would finally buy
one apiece and saunter out on the sidewalk, feeling some-
how new to ourselves, changed by the wearing of a hat—
hers with a sassy brim—mine with a veil.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2012)
_____________________
ALONE NOW
“There is a community of the spirit. / Join it, and feel the delight
/ of walking in the noisy street, / and being the noise.” —Rumi
How infinite the consequence—how true—
how far the drift, alone in bright surroundings
with your thoughts and view—limitless,
and without sound and without shore :
where are the birds . . .
where is the sky . . .
and where
all that you thought you wanted,
all that you thought you knew . . . ?
~
It is like coming out of a spiral,
changed and erased of
all damage, making
one step forward
into a vast whiteness,
no memories impede—
you are the one made of
particles, as if you have yet to
become real and looking for the other—
the one you have dreamed—the one you love
without knowing love, the one you need for a mirror.
Shadows and Perfume
REALITY AND SPIRIT
(for Judith and Steve, her spirit husband)
She describes him to others,
says he is with her
all the time.
Even now?
Even now.
He waits until others are gone.
He whispers at her ear.
She will make him real now.
He gives her his words.
Gentle words.
Fragrant words.
His mind is full of her.
And she listens
to see where he is.
And he listens
with her.
(prev. pub. in The Poets’ Guild, 1998)
Heart of a Flower
This wound of man,
made of sand,
I need to re-write him,
make him real—
not an ocean man
edging toward land,
but a real sea-man with sad human eyes.
The tides erode him,
taking years—
taking a life-time.
His heart is open to love,
to despair,
to every reason to care—
more or less,
as the tides
decree.
Essentially,
he is free to become,
or return to, his beginning.
The Old Rose
Today’s LittleNip:
THE MOVEMENT OF THE LURE
—Joyce Odam
No more will I rise to bait
like an old blue fish
breaking the water
to those rings of sunlight
and the movement of the lure . . .
my old scars ache.
(prev. pub. in Pearl, 2000)
_______________________
Our thanks to the wily Joyce Odam, no longer leaping to lures, but instead re-writing those old scars to make sense of this world like the rest of us. And those beautiful flowers! Just the tonic for this summer we’ve been struggling through!
Joyce’s “Tree Spirit” is based on the Hamadryad, a wood nymph living only as long as the tree of which she is the spirit and in which she lives… Hamadryads were nymphs that presided over the woods; they lived in trees and each died at the same moment as her tree.
Our new Seed of the Week is an Ekphrastic one; see below, and see also this article on Ekphrastic writing: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry/. 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.
To hear Rita Dove read her "Daystar", go to vimeo.com/36990984/.
______________________
—Medusa, reminding you to stay shy of those lures…
______________________
—Medusa, reminding you to stay shy of those lures…
Our Seed of the Week
—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain
—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain
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