Love is Falling

 

By the Little River

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

THE BETTER PART OF LOVE

Muse with me while we gather light for a poem.
We will read it later—

tell each other what it means,
then reminisce—

compare amazements—
how much our lives are parallel—

how many years—while we
confess or commiserate,
 
let down the burden of our cares,
hold each other’s dark,

find old new-words
to fill our silences with explication,

then laugh
or cry,

whichever is needed—old love—
old friend, as close and separate as we are.

—I muse these thoughts for you
from this old, well-worn and reliable, loving heart. 

    

 

 

Red Weeping Sun

 

 

DESPAIRING OF LOVE

A drop of love is falling
through the sky,
a perfect pearl,
still moist
from the heavenly oyster
falling in slow motion
as if falling through water—
a black sea of waiting,
tide after tide,
for the arrival.
Who will see it,
know what it is,
if not someone
mad with grieving,
never having known
the least drop of love,
someone who is somewhere
with hand outstretched in
one last supplication, in one
final prayer. If love will reach,
it will be when the distance has been
traveled between need and answer.

____________________

EXPECTATIONS

As if love wears a halo,
and it binds.

It’s not so much the aura
as the need.

What passes for love
is always

or never
what passes for love.

                
(prev. pub. in Lilliput Review, 2006
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 2016)

 

 

 

Étude

 

 

FOR THE WALTZ  

The floor is deep in shadows
and we are transformed
by our new necessity.

We hear the first strains
of music—and it is weeping—
weeping—and we cannot bear it.

Once we were graceful and knew
how to dance, but a waltz is difficult,
with smoothness and soberness,

and we are so torn now,
and the door is slowly opening
to the night with its moon and stars,

and the music is already
flowing outward into the silence
that cannot wait to close after

—and all has been said,
and the clock is ready to retire
—what is it we have forgotten . . .

 

 

 

Blue Notes

 

TANGO LOVE

When you dance the tango in the arms
of no one, and the music knows
only the arms of the dance
in the passionate lead
of the other dancer.

And the arms hold, and the arms
release, the background
swirls and the dance
is icy hot
and
darkly sweet,
and the faces bend—
still bend—into the kiss.

When the tango is for love—
for the love,
as for its loss,
and the passion leads
and the anger stays
and the dance belongs to that—
such love, or its loss, that is ever Tango.

__________________

VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY H.D.
     After “Chance” by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)

Chance—whatever Chance is—says,
Come here,

and if I hear right, asks me,
Can you bear…?

And I can bear much,
and enough.

And Chance says, Sweetheart….
and I blush at the endearment

and take it for my own.
And Chance goes on about

love and loneliness,
and I commiserate,

and Chance confesses
all its fears and longings :

wind, bird, sea, wave, low places and the high air,
and I regret repeating so much of this,

but Chance forgives if only I will
promise…,   promise…,  

but there is such worriment
and so much peril in the world,

and Chance calls me Dear,
and says: I’m here,

and don’t you want me
anymore?

And I consider all the verities
of Chance—and no chance—and how often

Chance has guided me,
and I turn, and answer, Of course I want you.

 

 

 

Valentine

 

 

HEART OF LOVE

You said, cut my heart out—
gave me the scissors—
red candy-heart on white plate.
To catch the blood on, you said.

You said—
wash the plate, make it pure—
love is un-conditioned—
the scissors, innocent.

The white plate, pure and conditioned
now—held under water with scissors
and red candy-heart—dwelling on the
subtleties : satisfaction with the truth.

___________________

LOVE PLANTING MOONLIGHT
IN THE SNOW
                                            
cold moment ringing over us
like stars singing down to us :
be cruel, be cruel, as we are . . .
be kind, be kind, as nothing is . . .
oh, we are so judged and wanting
and the darkness is so slow
how can we but praise
love planting moonlight in the snow

 

 

 

Alba

 

SIGHINGS

Song becomes song, which becomes
whisper, which becomes lament.

All has been told, and told again in silences.
There is a rage that has been tamed.

Something in the eyes commands light.
Darkness cowers.

Only love knows love,
which becomes honest. This is true.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

INFATUATION
—Joyce Odam

write me quickly,
I am delirious with joy,
I am in the arms of a vision,
I am ecstatic with the illusion
of love . . . whirl me . . . whirl me . . .

____________________

Joyce Odam writes to us about Love today, our Seed of the Week in honor of St. Valentine’s Day. I suppose we’re all ambivalent about love; Joyce expresses it so beautifully!

Our new Seed of the Week is Peace—and I’m not just talking between nations, but between people, and, of course, within ourselves. Peace. Peace out. Then 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

 

 

 

“red candy-heart on white plate…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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