Little Nests of Words

 

Apophthegm as in Daffodil

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

TITLES LIKE THIS

belong to poems—
come to you
first or last,

a little nest of words,
perfect for what’s
coming to you,

easy, or
with difficulty,—
like something

erratic—
something
peripheral—

that word that keeps
getting in the way,
as if it would, could, lead you astray.

 

_______________________

 

CIRCULAR

I go to the moon
for the first dream—
how far and round.
I fit.

I lie down and sleep.
A round dream enters my mind,
like a moon. I fall,
then fly.

After I have flown/fallen
a great distance, I enter your sleep
as a dream. How curious—
to know you like this.

 

 

 

Centerpiece

 

DREAM OF DESPAIR
After “Ah vastness of Pines” from Pablo Neruda's
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

You held me and loved me.
This I know
from my first memory of you

though you looked away,
and looked away,
at something of your wanting,

I never woke from my sleeping
for this dream was perfect
and I did not want to leave it.

You are holding me still—
looking away from my quietude
into your restlessness,

though I am what you are looking for.
I am your dream.
Why did you dream me?

 

_________________________

UKULELE  

My first love had a ukulele that I longed to play,
secretly I tried to learn. But the sound went through
the walls, and down the halls, till the landlady made
me be quiet.

I sang to my first love—and love sang back. We
became a duet—even composed a new song that he
played on his ukulele.

My first love has stayed young. I became old. How
incongruous is that! Or maybe he is dead now—
grieved by another. Maybe he has given his ukulele
to a son.

 

 

 

Valse des Fleurs

 

 

FIRST DANCE

They measure for the dance. He is old and she is young.
It’s an old story. Music blares and smoke wreathes.
The girl’s mother is drunk again, dancing on the bar.
The girl does not want to remember this. How old was she?
She thinks back : what year? They measure for the dance.
She must repeat the memory : a vague figure, smothering
her up close, he breathes in her hair, she follows like a doll.  
Her mother is laughing in the background. They measure for
the dance. Mothballs—she remembers mothballs—his suit—
and sweat—the stumble-drag of music. The music is hardly
necessary. The dance is the thing. He is dancing her up close,
saying something lewd. She is young, caught in the clumsy
tangle of the dance. She wants to be sophisticated. Older.
Like her mother. Her mother is crying in a chair. She thinks
back : Mothballs. Sweat. Measure for the dance. She follows.

      
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 2027)     

___________________

HEART IN FIRST DRAFT…

If I am
the heart of love,
why do I pain, why do I suffer—

I who am old and young,
in myself,
in my heart,

what is my memory
that I ask these questions.
I who am lonely and complete.

My heart beats, and I live.
I am all metaphor now—
of my distance, my body is there

where my heart is,  
near me,    near me,    in me,
like a river.  

I do not know the truth of this.
I ask, and I answer,
but I do not know.  

 

 

 

Emotion

 

                                                                 
SIGNS OF LIFE AT THE EDGE OF WINTER

I wait for spring at this sad edge of winter—wait
like a leaf that has no metaphor but me—I am
the thought that made it real, it was never there.

I needed its symbolic presence saved from what I
knew was not enough—just some thought to chew
upon. This is the time of year such thoughts intrude.

Insomnia. Regret. All those reasons. I wait for birds
to sing at my dark window— wait for the light to
lengthen—wait for signs that all is well with me.

This is the stubborn edge of one more winter,
counted, hoped upon, and gotten through. And spring
is what I want to transfer to, as if I, too, deserved

another crack at life’s old metaphor I have yet
to figure out. But still I watch for signs—first
swellings on the trees—first blossoms—first sigh

not a sigh of sadness, regrets to lay aside and not
sort through. I feel the slow year turn in my
direction—bud by bud—and clue by subtle clue.

__________________

The haunted flowers,

shining in her garden,
leaning toward her
weeping among them,

her tears would water them
she was their griever
they loved her—

taking her daily sadness
to them like lost confessions,
they thrived on this,

moaned softly
in the breezeless air—
they were her duty,

she was their despair—
these nameless—wretched—
haunted—flowers of ancient Eden.

 

 

 

Mood

 

SPRING FERVOR

This worried sky, this field of yellow grass,
this birdless hour,

and that lonely man, lonely or not,
taking a simple walk through fields of swollen light—

oh, here the season changes—maybe not this day
or moment, but soon—

soon as the rustling starts and builds
and the sky overwhelms the shadow-heavy earth

and the man heads home, and may not make it,
this blending man, caught

in the roil of swarming shadows that move in and out,
this man, at one with everything, storm caught.

 

 

 

Thank You Sun, Thank You Rain

 

 

 

REPROACHES
After “Year’s End”
     by Ted Kooser  

go where you must
—it never changes,
wait in the sameness,
no mirrors correct us

                ~

it is still dreary here
accept it, we like it that way
—have nothing to change, or want
to do over, we are not travelers
          
                ~

you will come back to the same old roses
holding the fence up, but we are painting
the screen door first because of the rust
—mauve like the sunset

                 ~
       
when the year turns, we will turn with
a sigh of relief to give it blessing,
as if we had made some determination
—you, of course— not here to tell of it

________________________

ITINERARY

This is the first difficulty,
the one disguised as snow,
a landscape of vast patience—
no other way to go.

The road that is monotony
becomes as hard to follow
as any dire-felt tunnel
claustrophobia would hollow.

What else remains is endurance,
those paths we limp upon
with stones, and ruts, and dwindles—
way-laying everyone. How rhyme

one’s time with timelessness !
—enunciate its clock !
avoiding its time-tables !
with talk    and talk    and talk.

__________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE CHILD OF SPRING
—Joyce Odam

Here I come with my words in a bonnet to
filing at winter across the warming weather
. . . white rose petals . . . strewn by me . . .
anxious to be liable for all this joy you are
feeling from the poetries . . . .

___________________________

Yes—lots of joy from Joyce Odam’s poetries today, ushering in spring and definitely liable for all this joy! Thank you, Joyce!

Our new Seed of the Week is Ants. 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

 

 

 

Spring Fever

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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