The Vertigo Of Life
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE CLAMORING OF THE BIRDS
After Frans Snyders (1579-1656), The Birds’ Concert
It was the gathering of the birds
in a thrashing tree
struck by lightning
before thunder.
The skies
shrieked and moaned.
The birds fought for position
in a harrowing of cries.
The vertigo of life
was out of balance.
The world was careless.
Shadows upon shadows
fell through
the confusion of air
and deepened into one.
The birds flurried with energy
lost in the world
of evolving dispersion.
A voice tried to rise above the din
but it was a human voice
and had no power.
A word
broke through
a flash of lightning,
but was overridden by the
desperate clamoring of the birds.
After Frans Snyders (1579-1656), The Birds’ Concert
It was the gathering of the birds
in a thrashing tree
struck by lightning
before thunder.
The skies
shrieked and moaned.
The birds fought for position
in a harrowing of cries.
The vertigo of life
was out of balance.
The world was careless.
Shadows upon shadows
fell through
the confusion of air
and deepened into one.
The birds flurried with energy
lost in the world
of evolving dispersion.
A voice tried to rise above the din
but it was a human voice
and had no power.
A word
broke through
a flash of lightning,
but was overridden by the
desperate clamoring of the birds.
The Mystery Of The Self
WINTER SOLILOQUY
What is left but the terrible ash
sifting on gray air . . .
I feel a twinge of some emotion, unnamed
and unremembered. Where does it center?
I track the season by its loss, knowing
it goes too fast. The season slips by, and I
am left in its slow wake as if I did not
belong here, questioning, and lingering.
What is life that I carry it in me so singularly,
praising it, and damning it.
I mourn the mystery of myself,
unfinished, and unsorted.
I feel like an unfolding,
but I cannot open, and I cannot close.
The sight of a single, resting heron
leaves me with such a mourning.
Where Shall We Go With This
PERFORMER TURNED AUDIENCE
He was so much
all over the place
singing his songs
playing his musical instruments
dancing for us
entertaining himself
for us
drinking his loud slow wine
in different glasses—
being infamous and holy
with gregarious conversation—
hogging the show
being able to do everything—
all his talent
compressed in him so tightly
it seemed he would burst with it—
and so—
out-hammed,
we gave up all our turns to him.
But, damn,
he was good!
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum, Winter 1998/1999)
The Clues
A SPIDER THING
Web is what touch would avoid—
the word—what it means to rashness.
It is not a spider thing
of realistic meaning.
It is what the curious or daring
test themselves against.
Let’s say it is a trap
with exit clues—
with fame at the end of the testing—
since we are a master of clues.
Realism and Meaning
DRIVING FORCE
Scorning death, we step too carelessly
into paths of our desire—
of near and far—of stone and rut—
where flowers grow across the perils;
we step across
the deep and shiny puddles
where something lurks
and something threatens—
only here
and never there—
we take no detours.
Paths keep yearning—we have to follow.
Untying the Knot
HER APPEARANCE
The careless way her clothing hangs from her in disarray :
a strap
a sleeve
a hem
: the way her clothes pull to be free :
when she
waves to someone
a neckline slips
a wrinkled red strap makes a satin bracelet at her shoulder.
Across The Perils
WEED PULLING FREE
poor damn yellow weed
pulling its life from the
ground under the crack in
the cement island between
the iron poles
in the service station…
never mind that…it is making
the wild sweet effort…
autumn-dancing…telling the wind
yesyesyes here i am….
(prev. pub. in The Small Pond, 1974;
Lemon Center For Hot Buttered Roll Chapbook, Hibiscus Press, 1975;
Weed Symbolism, Choice-Of-Words Mini-Chap, 2002;
Medusa's Kitchen, 4-10-2012)
poor damn yellow weed
pulling its life from the
ground under the crack in
the cement island between
the iron poles
in the service station…
never mind that…it is making
the wild sweet effort…
autumn-dancing…telling the wind
yesyesyes here i am….
(prev. pub. in The Small Pond, 1974;
Lemon Center For Hot Buttered Roll Chapbook, Hibiscus Press, 1975;
Weed Symbolism, Choice-Of-Words Mini-Chap, 2002;
Medusa's Kitchen, 4-10-2012)
Tired of Crying
THE NOTHING AND THE EVERYTHING
THAT MATTERED
We made it from moonlight and cold shadow
We made it from sinister winds
that tore through our worn-out barriers
we made it of every
remembered thing
we could not bear
dangerous laughter made of crying
that flood of tears from years
and moments of confrontation
we made it out of love
that was tired
of loving
we scattered words like epithets
coated with black-sugared innuendos
straight from the cauldrons we stirred
and stirred
until the air
could no longer breathe
there was nothing sacred
from our rage—enemies at last
our mouths bitter from kisses, threats
and promises—only shreds
of dissatisfaction left to deal with—
I would not (could not) love for all of that . . .
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
REASON AGAINST UNREASON
—Joyce Odam
Damned if you do,
and damned if you don’t,
well I’ll be damned….
_____________________
Today Joyce Odam is writing to our recent Seed of the Week: To Hell With It!—pondering the dark side of life and ending with a somewhat existential position: “Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t…”
Our new Seed of the Week is “Angry Winter Nights”. 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
Bananas Spooning
Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
