This Seeing
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
STOPPING FOR FROSTY FREEZE
IN OCTOBER
Susy with frosty freeze
is as happy as she will ever be.
The gleaming ice cream
twirled upon the cone
is the moment’s desire.
The hamburger
in the small white sack
is dessert.
She will waste that later.
Susy believes it still is summer.
October holds her in its
moody sunshine,
wrapping its loose-sleeved winds
around her like arms.
But Susy is
as unholdable
as four years can make her, twirling
in golden circles toward the car,
taking her time,
her frosty freeze held out
to the licking air.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10-30-2012)
AT NIGHT, THE ICE CREAM TRUCK
At night, the ice cream truck—monotonous
and slow—rolls down the street, its tiresome
song grown sad and tinny—like hope too poor
to give away what little chance is left. The
driver looks and looks into the shadowings
toward the houses—drawn back now to un-
invite their cautious windows. Emptiness pulls
itself inside. The grind of music clings about
him till he doesn’t hear the way it feels against
the dimming night—displaced and eerie—
winding everywhere in hopes the fading day
may yet relent with ice cream customers,
rushing out before he turns the corner like some
lost prayer in contact with another dissonance
of time and chance.
TARIANCE AT A SMALL SIDEWALK CAFÉ
Eating a white dessert, all by myself,
with small red bites of strawberries in it
—rich as a sugar—disguised in many
ways. I savor
the treat, melting against my tongue.
Outside: the threat of rain—
not here yet—at this gray window
with its ominous gathering of clouds
and glassy blur of people. Sated, I linger
over my cup of lukewarm coffee.
Every day I try to diet. When I am thin
again, I may forgive the obesity of tears.
BAKING THERAPY
All day I measure and sift
create and fill the oven
mess up the kitchen
fill the tables and the counters
spill peach juice everywhere
leave rings of flour
pick at the cake crumbs with my fingers
drink coffee after coffee
read recipe books to their endings
like a good novel
I am a baker
I send you to the store
for more flour, sugar, spices
expensive ingredients
for my fever
I make one thing after another
until I am done
and we, not hungry, eat none of it.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12-20-2011)
THE SIMPLE JOY OF TASTE
on a slow afternoon in a shady spot with sunlight
patterns flickering all about, a pause in time that
removes from the time of others—that simply
suspends—and the one with the ice cream cone
sits at a round stone table in the small breezeway
and licks the drips at the edge of the cone and
licks at the thumb the ice cream has melted down,
and a leaf decides to fall right then onto the table
where it is duly noticed and admired
(After “Man Eating” by Jane Kenyon)
______________________
WIDOW FOOD
Popcorn. Peanut butter. Toast. (Still learning
how to live, talking to the ghost.) Fried egg
sandwich. Bananas. Ice cream. (The easy food.)
Conscience-vegetables that spoil in the fridge.
Baked potato, microwaved. Tuna, drained.
Crackers. Cheese. Or—binge-cook, to reheat.
Talk to the clock, in off-guard moments, forgetting,
turning to share the strange lining-up of numbers :
3:33…4:44…5:55…10:10…11:22…12:34…etc…
saying, “Look at the clock, Honey,” to the room.
(“6:66”, we used to joke.) Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
No one to cook for, so why eat? But, eat, eat, eat.
All the wrong food. Finger food. Plate of cookies
with late T.V. Ignore the crumbs. Long, heavy naps
in the swallowing chair. Chocolate when all else
fails, and only you and the ghost are there.
STANZA
Yes, it is true. I am in the loss—spaced far between it;
my hands cannot find the edge. I housekeep, but the
dust wins. Balances surround me. I accept my gravity,
fall through the television where the silence is. I re-
ward myself with candy, stuffed in my starving mouth.
I ignore the bottle—my last strength, drown among
cups of coffee and diet Pepsi. I cannot mend the holes
in my love, though I praise it with birds that can sing.
Ah, season, full of the right weather, fill me with maps.
WHISTLING THE MILES
tuneless traveling
past hills
and windmills—
ice cream stops
and recent reminiscings
now your singing,
smudging through
the freeway-humming
under wheels—
all the scenery blurring by.
Now your asking—now your
telling—little things to
ask and say, filling up
the homeward travel.
(Will we make it home today?)
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOURISHMENT
—Joyce Odam
After “Poem” by Teresa Torres (Argentina)
Here is a table full of words. Flesh and wine.
Gorge yourself. Never be hungry. Even the
crumbs are precious. Ask for more.
Fill your mouth and eyes.
Push your chair back. Fall asleep.
It’s all useless language. Do not speak.
(prev. pub. in Brevities)
_______________________
Today, Joyce Odam has turned her many talents to our Seed of the Week, which was a photo of a big scoop of ice cream—something to get us through the heat season. Thank you, Joyce! Cool poems and cool photos for a cool subject! (To see Jane Kenyon’s poem, “Man Eating”, go to poets.org/poem/man-eating/.)
Our new Seed of the Week is “Bored”. 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.
IN OCTOBER
Susy with frosty freeze
is as happy as she will ever be.
The gleaming ice cream
twirled upon the cone
is the moment’s desire.
The hamburger
in the small white sack
is dessert.
She will waste that later.
Susy believes it still is summer.
October holds her in its
moody sunshine,
wrapping its loose-sleeved winds
around her like arms.
But Susy is
as unholdable
as four years can make her, twirling
in golden circles toward the car,
taking her time,
her frosty freeze held out
to the licking air.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10-30-2012)
To Fathom
AT NIGHT, THE ICE CREAM TRUCK
At night, the ice cream truck—monotonous
and slow—rolls down the street, its tiresome
song grown sad and tinny—like hope too poor
to give away what little chance is left. The
driver looks and looks into the shadowings
toward the houses—drawn back now to un-
invite their cautious windows. Emptiness pulls
itself inside. The grind of music clings about
him till he doesn’t hear the way it feels against
the dimming night—displaced and eerie—
winding everywhere in hopes the fading day
may yet relent with ice cream customers,
rushing out before he turns the corner like some
lost prayer in contact with another dissonance
of time and chance.
To Grasp At Meaning
TARIANCE AT A SMALL SIDEWALK CAFÉ
Eating a white dessert, all by myself,
with small red bites of strawberries in it
—rich as a sugar—disguised in many
ways. I savor
the treat, melting against my tongue.
Outside: the threat of rain—
not here yet—at this gray window
with its ominous gathering of clouds
and glassy blur of people. Sated, I linger
over my cup of lukewarm coffee.
Every day I try to diet. When I am thin
again, I may forgive the obesity of tears.
To Hold Beauty
BAKING THERAPY
All day I measure and sift
create and fill the oven
mess up the kitchen
fill the tables and the counters
spill peach juice everywhere
leave rings of flour
pick at the cake crumbs with my fingers
drink coffee after coffee
read recipe books to their endings
like a good novel
I am a baker
I send you to the store
for more flour, sugar, spices
expensive ingredients
for my fever
I make one thing after another
until I am done
and we, not hungry, eat none of it.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12-20-2011)
To Love the World
THE SIMPLE JOY OF TASTE
on a slow afternoon in a shady spot with sunlight
patterns flickering all about, a pause in time that
removes from the time of others—that simply
suspends—and the one with the ice cream cone
sits at a round stone table in the small breezeway
and licks the drips at the edge of the cone and
licks at the thumb the ice cream has melted down,
and a leaf decides to fall right then onto the table
where it is duly noticed and admired
(After “Man Eating” by Jane Kenyon)
______________________
WIDOW FOOD
Popcorn. Peanut butter. Toast. (Still learning
how to live, talking to the ghost.) Fried egg
sandwich. Bananas. Ice cream. (The easy food.)
Conscience-vegetables that spoil in the fridge.
Baked potato, microwaved. Tuna, drained.
Crackers. Cheese. Or—binge-cook, to reheat.
Talk to the clock, in off-guard moments, forgetting,
turning to share the strange lining-up of numbers :
3:33…4:44…5:55…10:10…11:22…12:34…etc…
saying, “Look at the clock, Honey,” to the room.
(“6:66”, we used to joke.) Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
No one to cook for, so why eat? But, eat, eat, eat.
All the wrong food. Finger food. Plate of cookies
with late T.V. Ignore the crumbs. Long, heavy naps
in the swallowing chair. Chocolate when all else
fails, and only you and the ghost are there.
To Save the Secrets
STANZA
Yes, it is true. I am in the loss—spaced far between it;
my hands cannot find the edge. I housekeep, but the
dust wins. Balances surround me. I accept my gravity,
fall through the television where the silence is. I re-
ward myself with candy, stuffed in my starving mouth.
I ignore the bottle—my last strength, drown among
cups of coffee and diet Pepsi. I cannot mend the holes
in my love, though I praise it with birds that can sing.
Ah, season, full of the right weather, fill me with maps.
To See the Sky
WHISTLING THE MILES
tuneless traveling
past hills
and windmills—
ice cream stops
and recent reminiscings
now your singing,
smudging through
the freeway-humming
under wheels—
all the scenery blurring by.
Now your asking—now your
telling—little things to
ask and say, filling up
the homeward travel.
(Will we make it home today?)
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOURISHMENT
—Joyce Odam
After “Poem” by Teresa Torres (Argentina)
Here is a table full of words. Flesh and wine.
Gorge yourself. Never be hungry. Even the
crumbs are precious. Ask for more.
Fill your mouth and eyes.
Push your chair back. Fall asleep.
It’s all useless language. Do not speak.
(prev. pub. in Brevities)
_______________________
Today, Joyce Odam has turned her many talents to our Seed of the Week, which was a photo of a big scoop of ice cream—something to get us through the heat season. Thank you, Joyce! Cool poems and cool photos for a cool subject! (To see Jane Kenyon’s poem, “Man Eating”, go to poets.org/poem/man-eating/.)
Our new Seed of the Week is “Bored”. 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.
This Thursday night from 7-8pm, Connie Post will launch her new book plus open mic on Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/81323282510; Meeting ID: 813 2328 2510. Info on Facebook: www.facebook.com/events/1365301977002230/. Hosted by Malaika King Albrecht.
_______________________
—Medusa
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.
