Whispers in the Dark

 

The Situation

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

A CHANT OF SOMEONE COMING WITH SAD NEWS

Is it Death they’re bringing in a long box?
Is it only a mockery of life, that self-love?

Nearer and nearer now. I can almost see their
faces. Is it me? Is it you? Is it some perfect child?

Closer and closer the vibration of their walking,
the swish of their musty robes. Are they priests?

Are they women? I can almost distinguish
one from the other of their blended forms.

Slower and slower they move down the avenues
that are so long. Such an old city.

Softer and softer now, they arrive and surround,
wrapping their heavy sleeves around my shoulders.  

I shudder free and stand in the cold unwelcome night,
dread and whispering all around me.

 

 

 

Branch, What It Means

 

HE WHISPERS AS HE BRUSHES BY

I almost hear his word.
He whispers and averts his eye.

We touch the narrowed walls
that soften down the muffled halls.

I think he threatened me
with love. I think he said goodbye.


(first pub. in ¡Zambomba!)

 

 

 

Turning to Gold

 

I WHISPER INTO THE TELEPHONE

I whisper into the telephone.
You whisper back.

We talk of silent things . . .
we talk of silent things . . .

repeating ourselves
and offering questions.

Oh?
and, Yes?

Dyings are like this.
And waiting for dyings,

which is what we
have no words for,

though we speak and speak
in these whispers.

 

 

 

It Could Be A Lullaby

 

MOTHER NATURE
After Mother Nature by Ben Kwok

The stars align and turn hot to the eye.
She appears as an old warning, the day
draped in red sunset, slanting behind her.

A forest of burned trees holds back the
terrible distance of her power. She is who
she says she is if you choose to believe her.

Her orange hair tangles in the green-leaved
wind. She is halfway between moods,
benevolent and destructive.

She smiles through her hair.
Love me, say her eyes, treat me well.
Her eyes smolder, but not with love.

Something whispers around her,
ash-tasting, coal-scented, she listens,
turns to you. It’s a secret, she says.

 

 

 

Dark Harmony

 

DARK REVERENCE
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch (1887)

black fire, somewhere in the dark, your
arm around my waist, supporting me,

offering the old betrayal, the lie
that I endure, allow your presence,

leading,    guiding,    tenderly,
as a lover would—ah, you are holy,

knower of the dark, soothing
as I cling to you—I am wooed,

your arm around my waist,
your head bent down to mine,

your voice consoling—urging.
The dark opens, takes me in,

your arm at my waist,
your mouth at my ear, whispering.

    ____________________

    THE FAR END OF TIME

     Here in this haunted time and
     place a woman whispering by
      a woman made of memories
       your name on her cold lips
        following the shadow of
       your life, a woman made
        of shadow out of the far
       end of time, she whispers
       and you answer, she turns
      and looks back—you grieve
      for her—floating in scarves of
         gray and you wish she would stay.
         How often have you imagined this?

                                        
        (first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1998)

      _____________________

QUAVER

At last I was able to write the poem though it lived in the
forest of itself. It had long beautiful leaves like fingers.
It stroked the surrounding branches for the sensation
of love. It quavered with words, and it spoke,
though I did not understand it.

~

What is the use of it all, I asked the silence, but the silence
only offered me more silence, and I understood. But, why?
I whispered to the solace, but the solace was
stroking the grief of another. Thus was I
chastised for my jealousy.

 

 

 

Brown Leaf No. 20

 

Poems on the wall,

as on the wind,
poems written in passing
waiting to be read by
lonely strugglers of life
on their way
to exile, or to
unknown destinations
—oh, through all weather
and stories of strife
—oh, limping and falling forward
into time passing before them,
                                  and there I am.
                       waiting—
           having left my words
in little time-cracks—whisperings
that fade there, holding
the thoughts I had to leave,
dateless now, and viable,
though very hidden
under shadow-dust and grime,
and it is for this that we say such things.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HUSH
—Joyce Odam

Hush now.
It is only the dark.
It is only the winter.
The day will close.
You will go home to yourself,
to whatever is there. You will enter.
You will be safe, there will be no terror.
I will not lie to you—you will sleep.
You will waken again tomorrow.

_____________________

Wow! Today, Joyce Odam has skillfully used her poetry and photos to wrap us with whispers in the darkness, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Whispers. Thank you, Joyce, and happy new year to you!

Our new Seed of the Week is Rainy Forest Road at Midnight. 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

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo

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.