Dancing Without Music

 

  Think of Nothing    

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, 

Sacramento, CA

TEA LADY, 1907
After Old Woman Drinking Tea,
c. 1907 by Antonio Mancini

Prim as ever,
tea-cup held
in dainty hold,
fingers curled
just right,
prim look
upon her
silent face—
a judging look—
a guest look—
one that bores—
that wanders
everywhere there is
to look. The room is brown
with shadows of late afternoon—
a tiny glow of light behind her chair,
and still she does not sip, she holds
the cup like duty—or to let time
lapse a bit before she speaks.

_________________

THE JUNE RAIN

A June rain and a cup of tea.
Which flavor?  Sweet Orange
will do while I stand above the
window-grabbing leaves from the
third-floor window and gaze down
at the cars—the Sweet Orange Tea
on the window sill, steaming, while
I watch the puddles, while I wait for
the tasting—the tea soon cools, but
I must watch the Canada rain pour
down the trees and watch how the
raindrops plop and circle on the
asphalt—all black and shining—
but not for my camera—all set—
and not one slick raincoat running . . .

 

 

 

Beyond Yourself

 

HOW DRUNK OF HIM

the drunk who was crossing the street
on red
did a dance to the bus

when the bus had passed
gave a finger to the bus
did a drunken maneuver

and before he got to the corner
slanted off
from between the safety lines

turned east
and was silhouetted into the sun
of 8:00 a.m. and Friday


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1-14-2014)

_________________

NOTHING-STREET BRIDGE   

The bridge is for
old men walking

the long way back and forth
from sleep to drinking

over the gray-green water
lisping—lapping—

silvering in the wind’s
constant deeping.

Cold is the shiver of time
in the daily passing.

Hot is the sun’s bright pressure
in the pale eyes, glassing.


(prev. pub. in Driftwood, 1972,
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9-20-2011)

 

 

 

The Shiver of Time

 

THREE MILES THROUGH OCTOBER
      (for Ann)

For lunch today we had tuna
with lots of mayonnaise, two
kinds of olives, cheese, and
oranges cut in wedges,

I drank milk, you drank wine.
Later we walked three miles
through October—at each fence
horses walked with us—we took
pictures of each other. This will be
the third day, I said, about drinking.

I’m proud of you, you said. When I got
home, I had a can of beer, three whiskeys,
and fell asleep beneath a blanket on
the floor, where I shivered.

___________________

SORROW FRAGMENT

frail shape of butterfly
in curtain light

a wet sound
like rain

you waking to your
old sorrow once again


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7-15-14)    

 

 

 

 Interpretation

 

               

DANCING WITHOUT MUSIC
         (for Ann)

You know how the dance must be :
futuristic,      slow-motioned,
before a large mirror

in a silent room,      beyond the music,
which has stopped.
And the hours stop

too, and you dance through
whatever you are feeling.
Hypnotic,      somewhere else,

somewhere long ago,
and you dance because
you are movement without music,

only your own interpretation,
what you feel,      beyond yourself,
as if being danced for the room-space,

and for the space in the mirror, which
cannot dance without you. You are
the life of the mirror,      and the dance,

and the impulse
that compels you
to dance with yourself in the mirror.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1-16-18)

____________________

A DRUNKEN SLANT

Diagonal,
like a hard rain,
or a dash
for an exit
across a sweaty
dance floor—
any shortcut
from one
to another
place
or situation.
It’s all about
falling—
that wound of balance,
or last embarrassment
of failure—not just
a sad direction
made of vertigo,
or body-tilt
against wind—
more like a glance
in a falling mirror
as it takes you with it.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11-27-18) 

 

 

 

A Silent Room

 

            
WARP

Everything is tilted now—this law—this
life—this patient flaw—this red bottle of
perfume leaning to the lamplight—this
string of fallen beads, broken.

Oh, things gone wrong—the emptiness is
full—of dragging time, of speeding time—
the emptiness is all.

___________________

PHOSPHORESCENT
After Celan by Paul Perry 

 

We were dangerously young.

Lights sparkled on the ocean—

the nighttime lights of Balboa—

like stars on the ocean.

                                                   

Lights sparkled on the ocean
like tiny nibbling fish—
like stars on the ocean—
altering our perspective—                           

like tiny nibbling fish.
We would swim with them.
Altering our perspective,
the lights flickered all around us.                    

We would swim with them,
call ourselves starfish.
The lights flickered all around us.
We would bite each other in pleasure,           

call ourselves starfish.
Starfish cannot drown.
We would bite each other in pleasure.
We were phosphorescent.                              

Starfish cannot drown.
We dove into the churning breakers.
We were phosphorescent.
We were drunk.                                              

The lights sparkled on the ocean.
We were dangerously young,
altering our perspective.
We were dangerously young. 

 

 

 

 A Very Intoxicating Liqueur

 

 

 
PARIS
After Celan by Paul Perry

Make me bitter.
Count me among the almonds.
Drink
From my mouth.

Count me among the almonds.
The night is the night.
From my mouth,
You almost would have lived.

The night is the night.
In the swell of wandering words.
You almost would have lived.
Without words, too.

In the swell of wandering words.
You fill the urns and feed your heart.
Without words, too.
Under the angels.

You fill the urns and feed your heart.
And I lie with you, you in the refuse.
Under the angels,
Twelve-mouthed.

And I lie with you, you in the refuse.
Get drunk and name yourself Paris.
Twelve-mouthed.
As if we could 'be we' without us.

Count me among the almonds.
Make me bitter.
You almost would have lived.
Make me bitter.


(prev. pub. in Cape Rock, 1988)

 

 

The Telephone

 

 

NO MORE DRUNKEN NIGHTS, MY LOVE

You poured wine over my head, and I
poured wine over your head. Then we wept.

Now you come over the telephone with foolish
words, a bouquet of praises in your mouth.

What am I to believe? I have closed the door.
I have sealed the envelope.

I am an old woman now in a wooden chair.
I sit and think of nothing . . . I stare and stare . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12-2011)

_________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

COLD HANDS
—Joyce Odam

my hands stayed cool
because you were made of glass

into which
a very intoxicating liquor

was poured
for my drinking

         
(prev. pub. in Urban Voices That Matter)

__________________________

Last week’s Seed of the Week was “You Are What You Drink”, and Joyce Odam has sent us some skillful poems about her take on that subject. Thank you, Joyce, for poems and photos!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Forever”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

__________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Old Woman Drinking Tea, c. 1907
—Antonio Mancini, 1852-1930




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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