Shadows of Pull and Resistance

Untitled
—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

WEB OF SUNLIGHT
            “Your own shadow sits in silent study”
                    —Charles Simic (Night Picnic, p. 37)

You sit in your yellow shadow in brazen sunlight,
haunted by the dark eyes of my watching. You
glow for me, now that you are aware of
my staring. You almost burn with the
shimmer of blindness—how can I
turn away?—I have yet to love
you. The light forms around
you with such fierceness.
I must penetrate the light
with my possessive eyes.
You emanate and draw me
in. Now I am in the blaze with
you—the web of sunlight holding
us together till I am merely a vibration and
you are a stunning presence waiting to absorb me.

_____________________

IN THE GALLERY
After The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even, 1915-23
(Oil on lead between glass) by Marcel Duchamp

Between glass panes, the image struggles,
torn by the light when discovered,

caught as reflection
when eyes glance past—

uneasy at what they imagine:
nothing     is nothing     there,

but nothing      stares back,
defies perception,

impressed by its own distortion—
this abject dance—this shattered resistance.

 Nerve Endings

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone, but their
pace is faster, yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged. The
sand grows heavy under your
slowness. The day will not
hurry. Your eyes are
playing tricks, scouring
the distance which wavers
and changes. There is no one—
no one to follow, only the two
shadows—shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven, living again, some
long ago betrayal, failure of proof, the distance—    
ever-widening—the following as useless as the love.
 

 The Darkness In It

OUTRAGEOUS SUNSET

A God-Figment that levitates above us,
vomiting sunsets, a drunkard lost in dreams,
his body spread like a confession there—

we cannot stand the closing of his eye,
it leaves us driftless—held against the view,
while we check camera and talent for

some proof of this. How easily the night
completes our thought. His spreading
presence gone relaxed and dark. He sleeps.

We turn away and stagger back to the light
we make in rooms that fill with night.  
All night he heals—that indestructible—

that true. He sifts above the roof tops
and our reverential wine. His particles
shine through. We call him what we call him

while the east of waking creeps toward us—
All the while his mind creates new chores
of love. Dependent now, we plan the revelry, 

to which—of course—again—him we invite.

 Edge of Dreaming
 

FULL MOON, MIDNIGHT
July 25/26, 1999
 
Today it still is summer, last night cool enough
to think about the change of season still to come,
though not yet August, not yet those
unbearable days and nights that swelter
when we yearn
for rain,   for rain,   for rain,
like some denial that one must endure;
and last night’s moon, so full,
outside my window—
so full it seemed
to move—it
seemed to move
in the mild night,
—a pearl-white
moon of midnight—
perfectly arranged for me
to blubber on and on about—
the full moon—window-framed—and I—
attuned to everything, not limp and weary,
but drifted down to one day’s closing hour,
yielding to it, like a comfort ritual, and then
this morning, groping for these words with
which to celebrate in simpler admiration.

 Time Lost

THE UNBEARABLE SADNESS

               I carve up-     -ward with you
             out of the     caves of dreaming
         through the     breaking waters of
       sleep, those      rhythms that pull us,
           from both      directions,
              that drift       with no volition.
              The art of       breathing
           is not known      to us :
       We are part of      a vast sensation
    that is made of      pull and resistance,
   helpless in our     surrender to it.
    Even the value     of love
     has no fathom        here. It feels
   like a sea, or the     awful thinness
         of air beyond      our being.
      Bubbles of light      float around us.
    Our eyes are open      and expressionless.
    We trust the slow     evolving into
          each other’s     surrender, knowing
  that if we waken,      we will know
         an unbearable      sadness,
       though we’ll not      remember why.

 Emblem of Faith

SHE SPEAKS OF HER SADNESS

These are the stones of my heart.
May I give them to you?
Will you be my river?
        _______

Nothing is as heavy as sadness
with its unbearable weight
that becomes the mind’s gravity.
        _______

My heart cannot become stone.
It resists,
I tighten around it.
        _______

Oh, you who are sad for me
how can I bear your eyes
that look at me like that?
        _______

If you will let me wade
in your cleansing waters
I may learn to weep healing tears.
        _______
   
Look how beautiful
my heart-rocks are in the water
that caresses them with sunlight.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE VISITANTS
—Joyce Odam

What are drawn to our sills
are unbearable birds
who eat our bread,
are error of leaves
gone astray in flight,
are disattached shadows
of all that passes.

What if they cut the window
with their diamond eyes,
the wine-hungry birds,
the poisonous leaves,
the thirsting forms
that reach for
our newly poured glasses.


(prev. pub. in The Third Leaf Has Fallen,
Mini-chap, 1968)
 
_____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam today for her fine poetry and artwork! For more about the Duchamp painting mentioned in her poem, “In the Gallery”, go to en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bride_Stripped_Bare_by_Her_Bachelors,_Even/.

Last Tuesday, I forgot to post the Seed of the Week, "Outrageous", in the green column at the right. Instead, I left the "Missing" one up from the week before. So, to wipe out any outrage and confusion (since I HAD talked about it in the text of Tuesday's post), we'll just continue this week with Outrageous—the Seed of Two Weeks (SOTW). Confused? Well, as they say about the government right now, if you're not confused and outraged, you're not paying attention...

_____________________

—Medusa

 The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even, 1915-23
(Oil on lead between glass) by Marcel Duchamp

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.

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