A Long Time Before Now
—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE GHOST ON THE USED-UP ROAD
Hello, the voice says, coming from
the shape of the ghost on the road
made of moonlight and footsteps.
Hello, I answer, and the form that
I sense is beside me and says,
Can you love such a stranger?
And I say, Yes I think so,
And the voice says, I am old
you know, only twenty or so
and I have lived a long time before now.
And I smile, Yes, I know, It’s the same with me—
only older and younger. Ghost sighs. And I weep.
And thus we comfort each other.
Hello, the voice says, coming from
the shape of the ghost on the road
made of moonlight and footsteps.
Hello, I answer, and the form that
I sense is beside me and says,
Can you love such a stranger?
And I say, Yes I think so,
And the voice says, I am old
you know, only twenty or so
and I have lived a long time before now.
And I smile, Yes, I know, It’s the same with me—
only older and younger. Ghost sighs. And I weep.
And thus we comfort each other.
Mind Frame
OUT OF RAGE,
We sat down by the silent River, its silence
in our bones. Sunlight glittered, turned
to moonlight, stars too far away to
remember—all of them fallen.
We gathered the fallen stars
filling the river, wanting silence,
but the moon was caught on rivulets
of indirection. When we spoke it was
too late : words, out of meaning.
The river tore at its edges,
breaking our thoughts,
filling the world,
a dam breaking
behind us—
a blockage
building
ahead.
Soon we were in position to remember—
the river, pouring over its banks.
_____________________
WHITE SHADOW OF LONELINESS
Tonight the white shadow of loneliness
flows down upon the silent room
where someone sits in reminiscence
in the quiet hour—
something mentioned
long ago, or
only sits and looks at the white chairs
caught in similar emptiness, or
simply drifts away
from any meaning.
Beam by beam
the white shadow stretches
into moonlight
and the hour thickens.
The walls take on the brightness
that searches the room for some connection.
Tonight, the white shadow of loneliness
flows down.
The Mind’s Abyss
OLD MOONS
The moon comes up each night and floats
across the sky,
I am that sleepless one who stares
and marvels why.
Full moons leave me wandering
the mind’s abyss
where I explore my restless thoughts—
that endless list.
Alas, for all those dark-moon nights
when life enshrouds—
those nights that let no moonlight through
night’s heavy clouds.
Time’s Immensity
RED MOONLIGHT
On the red strand—
in a certain moonlight,
two transparent maidens look for
their shadows in the sun-setting waters,
one holds her hand to her eye
while the other
bends to splash her image in the
seawater
flowing past—
all the way from shore to horizon,
the thin layered sky
becoming their mind-frame now, holding
everything at ebb with no reference
to self but themselves,
wraithlike, transparent,
the enflamed water flowing
from the enclosing pull
of the moon in the flickering
play of light—the willing fire of discovery
for the two ethereal selves,
only this once
in time’s
immensity.
_________________
THE POEM ABOUT LIONS
“read me the lion poem again”
said the girl with the bad teeth and
the wet words
“i like that one
it should be copied down for children
little children would like
to read that poem about lions
that’s really swell”
i
like
lions
she said
through her bad teeth
with wet words
(prev. pub. in The Green Fuse, l977)
On the red strand—
in a certain moonlight,
two transparent maidens look for
their shadows in the sun-setting waters,
one holds her hand to her eye
while the other
bends to splash her image in the
seawater
flowing past—
all the way from shore to horizon,
the thin layered sky
becoming their mind-frame now, holding
everything at ebb with no reference
to self but themselves,
wraithlike, transparent,
the enflamed water flowing
from the enclosing pull
of the moon in the flickering
play of light—the willing fire of discovery
for the two ethereal selves,
only this once
in time’s
immensity.
_________________
THE POEM ABOUT LIONS
“read me the lion poem again”
said the girl with the bad teeth and
the wet words
“i like that one
it should be copied down for children
little children would like
to read that poem about lions
that’s really swell”
i
like
lions
she said
through her bad teeth
with wet words
(prev. pub. in The Green Fuse, l977)
Inventing the Mirage
THE LION IN MY DREAM
I am in a wide field.
Distance is pervasive with its shimmer.
A lion is loping toward me
in a lazy manner.
There are edges I must find
but I am in a dream of yellow languor.
My peripheral is blind to any other motion
but mine and the lion’s.
The lion does not see me.
She sees the water behind me.
She does not know it is a mirage.
She thinks it is real water.
Or maybe I have invented the mirage
to divert the lion. Her fixed eyes
are indifferent to my presence.
Her rhythm is deliberate
and I am fascinated by how long she takes
to cross the yellow distance between us.
Is this reality, I wonder?
A blue haze is coming down around us,
or are we rising into a blue haze
of some other meaning?
I have not moved
and she has not yet seen me.
She has grown larger
but is no nearer.
Am I safe in my dream of her?
Will I harm her?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2017)
I am in a wide field.
Distance is pervasive with its shimmer.
A lion is loping toward me
in a lazy manner.
There are edges I must find
but I am in a dream of yellow languor.
My peripheral is blind to any other motion
but mine and the lion’s.
The lion does not see me.
She sees the water behind me.
She does not know it is a mirage.
She thinks it is real water.
Or maybe I have invented the mirage
to divert the lion. Her fixed eyes
are indifferent to my presence.
Her rhythm is deliberate
and I am fascinated by how long she takes
to cross the yellow distance between us.
Is this reality, I wonder?
A blue haze is coming down around us,
or are we rising into a blue haze
of some other meaning?
I have not moved
and she has not yet seen me.
She has grown larger
but is no nearer.
Am I safe in my dream of her?
Will I harm her?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2017)
The Hour Thickens
DRAMATIZATION
“Lions can run faster than us, but we can run farther.”
—Valeria SBM Mendes
How reflect these eyes of such resolve and
pride—strong will and strong stride,
fierce history and love of land,
innate power of the mind—
man of hunting,
human rage,
and skill,
face painted
to symbolize
the lack of fear—
racing lions in his dreams,
modern man of yesteryear,
primitive of Soul and God,
living in the now from then—
soon the lion must decide
the tally of the race from
its own pride : Lions can run
faster…but Man can run farther—even though
the jungle disappears—all on the endangered list.
Strange Connivery
ASPECTS OF THE TRIVIAL
This is how the world consents, with little sleeps
and long awakenings of dreams that conspire—
dreams that conspire—beating at the heart of
death, which is congenial and wary of your
trickeries. It will amuse you with your
anxious bargainings—crony of God
in strange connivery—all manner
of coincidence that makes you
paranoid and careless. Time is
present as it always is in the
moment of the now, nothing
vital to you—you who
cannot find the endings
to your lost beginnings—
they are all trivial and spent,
valueless, except for torment
and despair that have remained
to wear you down in a slow flounder.
And here is a new moment, come upon
you like a small reprieve. Feel it, watch it
come and go, priceless and measureless,
as any drop of life that is your own.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RESTIVENESS
—Joyce Odam
Ice in the moonlight—
the stars breaking like glass,
old, cold moonlight—
old rooster of the neighborhood.
In the protesting mouth of silence,
seven words left to say :
Innocent morning—
once more stricken with eyes.
___________________
Thanks to Joyce Odam for these poems and pix about our Seed of the Week, “Jungle Dreams”, and happy birthday to her (8/7/24—yes, 1924, which makes her . . . )!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Unravelling”. 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
This is how the world consents, with little sleeps
and long awakenings of dreams that conspire—
dreams that conspire—beating at the heart of
death, which is congenial and wary of your
trickeries. It will amuse you with your
anxious bargainings—crony of God
in strange connivery—all manner
of coincidence that makes you
paranoid and careless. Time is
present as it always is in the
moment of the now, nothing
vital to you—you who
cannot find the endings
to your lost beginnings—
they are all trivial and spent,
valueless, except for torment
and despair that have remained
to wear you down in a slow flounder.
And here is a new moment, come upon
you like a small reprieve. Feel it, watch it
come and go, priceless and measureless,
as any drop of life that is your own.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RESTIVENESS
—Joyce Odam
Ice in the moonlight—
the stars breaking like glass,
old, cold moonlight—
old rooster of the neighborhood.
In the protesting mouth of silence,
seven words left to say :
Innocent morning—
once more stricken with eyes.
___________________
Thanks to Joyce Odam for these poems and pix about our Seed of the Week, “Jungle Dreams”, and happy birthday to her (8/7/24—yes, 1924, which makes her . . . )!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Unravelling”. 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
The Rose Fairy
by Cicely Mary Barker
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.
