Departure
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
SUNRISE, SUNSET
this morning the red sun came up
hung above two trees
created the new day
we took chances
.
we rescued a silver dog
but it was blind and deaf
and old
or was it just a silver dog
of our kindness
.
tonight the red sun will lower
into the black trees
through wide clouds
made famous by forest fires
where it will bury the last howl
of our sadness
(prev. pub. in Acorn, 1995)
this morning the red sun came up
hung above two trees
created the new day
we took chances
.
we rescued a silver dog
but it was blind and deaf
and old
or was it just a silver dog
of our kindness
.
tonight the red sun will lower
into the black trees
through wide clouds
made famous by forest fires
where it will bury the last howl
of our sadness
(prev. pub. in Acorn, 1995)
Shadows on the Fence
DUSK SHADOW
A shadow in the headlights—
that time of night when shadow
and imagination meet—a passing swiftness,
cutting across the road in front of me . . .
A dog, I thought. But it was long and lean
and swifter than a dog would run.
It stretched and leapt.
Dingo, I thought—
though our city
would seem a strange place
for such a thought to stretch across reality.
Then it was gone,
into a wide dark field that stretched into another field
before the buildings took the darkness over.
I knew I hadn’t hit it, but it was so close to my car—
I could not even brake—no time!
What was it then?
A shadow, I thought—
only a shadow—
daring to cross the twilight streams of light.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2006)
___________________
THE DEATH DOG IN WINTER
I’m sorry. You are a death-dog.
I hear you howl in the night
when I am cold
and I am afraid of you . . .
I know how pity
is a stone in my heart.
And I do not love you . . .
I cannot take you in . . .
for you would curl into a warmth
and stay forever.
(prev. pub. by One Dog Enterprises, 1996)
A shadow in the headlights—
that time of night when shadow
and imagination meet—a passing swiftness,
cutting across the road in front of me . . .
A dog, I thought. But it was long and lean
and swifter than a dog would run.
It stretched and leapt.
Dingo, I thought—
though our city
would seem a strange place
for such a thought to stretch across reality.
Then it was gone,
into a wide dark field that stretched into another field
before the buildings took the darkness over.
I knew I hadn’t hit it, but it was so close to my car—
I could not even brake—no time!
What was it then?
A shadow, I thought—
only a shadow—
daring to cross the twilight streams of light.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2006)
___________________
THE DEATH DOG IN WINTER
I’m sorry. You are a death-dog.
I hear you howl in the night
when I am cold
and I am afraid of you . . .
I know how pity
is a stone in my heart.
And I do not love you . . .
I cannot take you in . . .
for you would curl into a warmth
and stay forever.
(prev. pub. by One Dog Enterprises, 1996)
The Dog's Out
DOG FIGHT
The dogs of death are innocent of harm;
you cannot read their eyes.
Their jaws upon your wrist intend no hurt;
their eyes express no guilt.
Their bloody heads will mend . . .
their golden eyes will swell and sleep.
The dogs of death are only what they are;
next time, don’t get between.
The dogs of death are innocent of harm;
you cannot read their eyes.
Their jaws upon your wrist intend no hurt;
their eyes express no guilt.
Their bloody heads will mend . . .
their golden eyes will swell and sleep.
The dogs of death are only what they are;
next time, don’t get between.
The Night
SOOTHINGS
Who do you think I am in the moonlight every night
by the dreaming window, watching stars leap
above ghostly cows,
the moon growing dizzy with love?
Who do you think dries the bones of light
that shudder the curtains?
And who do you think howls the dogs to sleep?
Who do you think is in love with impossible sounds
from the mouths of flowers,
those moans of dying in unfamiliar vases
on moon-dusted surfaces?
Watch with me—help me remember—since you
are the one who started all this with your sighing
and crying—refusing to enter
the terrible dreams.
There is only one more hour before light
comes swaying over the distance that is night . . .
Say this again to yourself: only the distance
of the night . . . Now you can sleep . . .
___________________
HARANGUES
I am the pity and the sorrow now.
Do you not know me?
I am the mirror and the face.
.
Am I not also
the wind in the leaves
and the howling in the house?
(prev. pub. in Cotyledon, 1999)
About Fences
OUT OF BODY
Howl into light, holding yourself aloft,
mirrored, your mouth open on grief—
your own loss—singing into the wet air
of weeping, your other self beneath you,
feeling for your heart with fumbling hands,
your other arms opposite-moving.
Howl into light, holding yourself aloft,
mirrored, your mouth open on grief—
your own loss—singing into the wet air
of weeping, your other self beneath you,
feeling for your heart with fumbling hands,
your other arms opposite-moving.
How will you live apart from yourself?
The Other Side of the Fence
AN OLD DRAFT
There is something that repeats itself
until, like dripping water,
it is known.
Like dripping water it is known
as some tired truth
or maybe just a single mouth—
a single mouth that opens,
making a simple howl upon a word
gone deaf as a prayer, say—deaf as
a doubting prayer in the numbing mind
of argued doubt. Oh, who can argue
rightly or wrongly here, when,
rightly or wrongly, the terrors build
and take their timeless place
inside the heavy-minded head.
Inside the head, chaos turns to
old monotonous dreams where there is
always something that repeats itself.
There is something that repeats itself
until, like dripping water,
it is known.
Like dripping water it is known
as some tired truth
or maybe just a single mouth—
a single mouth that opens,
making a simple howl upon a word
gone deaf as a prayer, say—deaf as
a doubting prayer in the numbing mind
of argued doubt. Oh, who can argue
rightly or wrongly here, when,
rightly or wrongly, the terrors build
and take their timeless place
inside the heavy-minded head.
Inside the head, chaos turns to
old monotonous dreams where there is
always something that repeats itself.
Squirrel Crossing
POEM FOR A PUPPY, DIED LATE
Grandmother, I have let the young dog of that
young poem die at last, Mama made me change
the ending when I was seven. Don’t make Grandma
sad, she said; don’t have him die; she said, and I
obeyed and wrote a false line to rhyme some other
way and not express the true thought I had.
But, Grandmother, all the useful creatures of my
mind romp in my poems, live in the sun awhile,
make an important finding, and then die. And I
would have given to you, from our unreturnable
miles and years and tears apart, that broken puppy
of childhood’s poet-heart, to say the puppy was me,
and its dying, my sadness, at never knowing you.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CRISIS
—Joyce Odam
hey now, the siren
hey now, coming for us
coming through the far away streets
pushing dog-howl ahead of it
stirring up
the fog
sure of its destination
knowing its job
_____________________
Joyce Odam has shared some thoughts about dogs in her poems today, responding to our recent Seed of the Week: Puppies, and we thank her for those unexpected insights. Our new Seed of the Week is Love. 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
Grandmother, I have let the young dog of that
young poem die at last, Mama made me change
the ending when I was seven. Don’t make Grandma
sad, she said; don’t have him die; she said, and I
obeyed and wrote a false line to rhyme some other
way and not express the true thought I had.
But, Grandmother, all the useful creatures of my
mind romp in my poems, live in the sun awhile,
make an important finding, and then die. And I
would have given to you, from our unreturnable
miles and years and tears apart, that broken puppy
of childhood’s poet-heart, to say the puppy was me,
and its dying, my sadness, at never knowing you.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CRISIS
—Joyce Odam
hey now, the siren
hey now, coming for us
coming through the far away streets
pushing dog-howl ahead of it
stirring up
the fog
sure of its destination
knowing its job
_____________________
Joyce Odam has shared some thoughts about dogs in her poems today, responding to our recent Seed of the Week: Puppies, and we thank her for those unexpected insights. Our new Seed of the Week is Love. 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
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
