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| In This Together —Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA |
ROAD SIGNS : DRY COUNTRY
After “Road Signs” by Coreen Spellman, c. 1936
a confusion of distance
a mis-read of signs
turned every-which-way by the winds
a metallic ring of bullets against the posts
directing
each way to go
the ground swivels its post holes
and the poles resist
placed there forever for the traveler
who finds himself lost
reading the directions
of places no longer there
a few small rooftops try to suggest a town
the sky passes easily overhead
in all the directions
and the old winds bluster forth
whenever they want
tugging and shuddering against the signs
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A ROAD OF LIGHT
It is a road of light, going nowhere now;
to follow it is to become absorbed;
it dwindles out into a tired memory;
the house at the end has fallen in;
the tree has died,
and bones on the end of a chain gleam;
but the road shines with light
and you want to follow;
a bird sings out and you know
you can be happy there;
a smooth horizon trembles down,
flaring back for a moment along the road.
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| Holding Light |
A SENSE OF STARLINGS
Turning the corner, a flurry of starlings
blackens the dead field,
pecking at what must be something
of concern to them.
No time to count them—or why.
It’s just that there are
so many—
so busily pecking, lifting, and circling.
If I might rewrite this :
Turning the corner—the starlings,
a startled word—musical—rising and
lingering on the word.
But history abhors starlings. I wonder why.
Driving around the corner, I find the
surprise of starlings—sudden and black—
and busy of movement.
I try to count them
but they've flown . . . .
Turning a corner,
I wish to always find starlings—
blent—and small—and beautiful—and
so meaningfully important to themselves.
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5:55, ETC.
The intrigue of numbers, tallying through
the clock—the wakened eye following
the wondering of the thought—how count
the sameness, fasten to the meaning,
the quick ascensions
and descensions
little stairs
of
coun-
ting,
follow
them,
de-
scend,
what a
notion,
they have
no meaning,
but you can make a meaning in
this little trick of numbers—
small rows of them that flick past,
like silent castanets of lure—
you calculate and wonder at—
play at—superstition.
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| Time As Timeless |
THE CASUAL GLANCING AT THE CLOCK
How are the numbers measured—
aligned connections to the count
one:
and one,
two and twos,
the clock is just the clock
one and one
make two,
make three,
make four,
and then
the count un-ending
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AS I GO THROUGH THE TALLIES,
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
crisscrossing lines of careful counting,
slow and regular as matchsticks in
a game of fire—soon to quench with
an answer : how much ? or how many ?
approximate of meaning, only a metaphor
of mathematical precision or keeping
tabs on lending and collecting—
situations change the upshot—
only an interim of pastime,
card playing or adding up particulars
of no importance, how many somethings,
or how often nothing was.
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| Loved By Someone |
THERE IS MORE TO NOW THAN NEVER
—oh flowing time—oh moving river
made of tears
take the word away
and nothing changes
the count is nil
time is held in every moment
all now,
not when,
thought knows
how this
is so
life cannot hold you
it moves on
and you move with it—
say yes
say no
say oh,h,h
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THE COUNTRY OF GRIEF
Long slope of winter—
distant hill of sorrow—
graves along the edges—
thus, we travel.
Cold loves the country of grief,
knows how to freeze the heart,
knows how to stay
forever.
Forever is a matter of endurance
a question of faith—
a condition
of sorrow.
Every lure has its trap—
inevitable and lonely,
its purpose as certain
as the timing of the snow fox.
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| Life As Love |
HIS COUNTENANCE
I saw him first on a street of masks.
His eyes were the tortured eyes
of the self-gone mad.
His was the face
of a worshipper
of sad,
and sad beyond sad.
I loved him
at once.
His flesh was stone and his eyes
were dead. I took him home and
put him to bed by the window light
that shone and shone upon
his countenance.
I could not stand his beauty then.
My love for him was not
my own,
nor his.
I should have left
this love
alone.
I should return to where
I let some fatal yearn
play hard with me, for now I own
his misery whose name was love.
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YOU AND THE POEM
It was a mistake, maybe,
to use simile instead of metaphor,
in order to declare from
your diffidence
the power of exactness.
It made you less
an
opponent
of
assumption—
connoisseur of words,
that you were—
too slow
and impatient.
No,
I think not.
There was only you
in the argument—you and the poem,
sorting clumsily through words
too slow for your inspiration.
Never the less, you hurry,
you hurry—
take any word
that comes to you
in the race
between mind and hand
that will not slow down for you.
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| Ever So True |
HOW WE ALMOST PLAGIARIZE
After “Seven White Butterflies”
by Mary Oliver
Seven, or any such number to occupy
a random scatter of thought
not meant to be serious,
just something
that comes to mind—
fragment of image
or actual count—
like Mary Oliver’s
seven butterflies
in her poem I have read
and never wondered about—
a particular count of something
out of the blue as an example, but
stays with me now as a possibility—
an actual something to be a fixation
for something else, like…
like…
what…?
in place of the butterflies.
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SIMPLE THINGS
Fragmentary. This old light out of older light.
Repetitions. Believe in it. Let it lead you into its
farther self. You can go as deep as you dare.
Its name is night. It has many stars.
Count them. Take forever. A child sits
watching you, blowing soap bubbles into planets.
Wings without angels fly everywhere. Oh, this is
such a night. Go with joy, that old foe of sorrow.
Tell the child not to cry. The child does not listen.
The child rubs an old tear into its eye, watching
you for pity. You are both lost and at home in
this night-city which has opened up its wing
for you. Do not try to understand this, you are
not here. The child has dreamed you.
Hold the child until you die
(prev. pub. in Blue Violin, 1999)
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Today’s LittleNip:
ON BLESSING OR BLAMING
—Joyce Odam
It was only fate, on a rant again,
planning your downfall, or your gain.
It is always fate—counting on
your merciful belief, or your disdain—
whatever you must rely on
something to bless or blame.
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Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems and photos, visiting us like butterflies today, fluttering around our Seed of the Week: What Really Matters. Our new Seed of the Week is “We tried hard not to look into the black water, where there might not even be monsters...” 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.
Join Taylor Graham and Katy Brown for an online workshop, Capturing Wakamatsu, this Sunday (3/14) from 12-2pm. Info: www.arconservancy.org/event/capturing-wakamatsu-a-poetry-walk-workshop/. Be sure to register on that site; AR Conservancy has a new registration form.
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—Medusa
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