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When Time is Time
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam,
Sacramento, CA
BECOMING THE IMAGE
I am a water lily, floating upon a dream,
my petals breathe,
the air is green the light is cool,
I feel little touchings of love
~~~
when I was a reflection I felt the separation
from self, sinuate, textureless,
when touched, I broke
~~~
now you ask why I keep floating
in peaceful imagination
content, and enough
~~~
my petals breathe,
I feel little touchings of love
the air is green the light is cool,
I am a water lily, floating upon a dream
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BUFFALO SOUL
Buffalo Soul moves through pale morning,
lowering his head to the grass,
at peace with his surroundings.
He does not know of houses that clutch
in repetition around him
nor does he feel the traffic move through
the pale substance of his being,
there is no pavement beneath his hooves.
He wanders easily where
all the wilderness has ever been,
his sunrise to the east, his sunset to
the west, the whole sky between.
He has not yet become shape of tumbleweed
or hollow obstruction in wind.
He is there. He is Buffalo Soul. Eternal.
He remembers himself.
Buffalo Soul moves through pale morning,
lowering his head to the grass,
at peace with his surroundings.
He does not know of houses that clutch
in repetition around him
nor does he feel the traffic move through
the pale substance of his being,
there is no pavement beneath his hooves.
He wanders easily where
all the wilderness has ever been,
his sunrise to the east, his sunset to
the west, the whole sky between.
He has not yet become shape of tumbleweed
or hollow obstruction in wind.
He is there. He is Buffalo Soul. Eternal.
He remembers himself.
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Eternal
SUNRISE AS FAR AS
IT REACHES
This morning
the sun comes
up over a small
grave somewhere
in a far country and
I can feel my mother’s
bones move to the warmth
and waken to the bright sound
of the bird and rap back at the squirrels.
__________________
FOUR A.M. AGAIN
The intrusive cat—at my elbow, attentive to
my silence, filling my space, cleaning her fur.
.
I must love what I love, but nothing fits—the
darkness has a crack of light, and the light has a
patch of darkness—fabric and thread, pulling
and holding.
.
Nothing is mine. It all belongs to the figments
and the realities—like this invisible mosquito—
so intrusive, so intrusive—to my poem.
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Airport
DAYTIMES BEGIN . . .
Daytimes begin—
how can I steal this
with good conscience, your sunrise,
your observation, the many lanterns
you describe, all those listings.
Why do I hesitate, I want to praise and
honor what can be savored out of pain.
What drives me—just these two words
that make a path to my mind, that I follow.
There is hardship everywhere—how
can I steel myself from that of another?
Suffering is universal—I am immune from
such fathoming, though I touch everyone
with my senses : life still wants life . . .
this I understand about you.
___________________
THE HUMILITY OF THE CLIMB
Loving the mountains we climb—
ever with difficulty and patience,
knowing that when we reach the
peak we will look around and
marvel at our dedication and
accomplishment and if we
survive we will climb
back down and tell
of our suffering
and joy and re-
serve the
praise of envy that we feel.
Why is this so important to us?
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The Faraway
TO THE ACCUSER
In looking back I cannot bear the view—
too many scenes still haunt me. Some are you,
too closely following with your burning eyes
gone sad and brooding. And I hear the cries
of all the weepings love has ever caused.
And I still cringe to count the many flaws
that keep me crippled in my crippled mind—
all the regrettings that you still can’t find
forgiveness for. How can this be so—
you made me guilty, what is left to know?
There is no penance, only love to rue
in looking back. I cannot bear the view.
___________________
WINGED
After “Winged”, 1944
Illustration by Kay Nielson for
East of the Sun, West of the Moon
It was the stars that drew him.
How long it took through night skies,
moonless now and dark.
How eerily the quiet followed him,
shadowless
and without connection.
How famously he persevered
along the old intuitive way
to complete his mission
before the stars could diminish
into a bright and useless landscape
and the way be lost.
Old warrior of night—
wings too heavy at his shoulders now,
grounded by weight and weariness,
how else could he get there
other than by the stars,
but knowing the stars would shine
long past the deadline of his urgency
and the trust of his arrival—
resolve still on his face, eyes on the horizon.
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The Wolf That Howls
BEFORE IT RAINS
The ornamental rages are hiding in our lives.
We give them names like love and duty.
We hang our pictures straight upon them;
the Indian praying toward the sky as if
there were no ceiling . . . the wolf that howls
toward the cobweb swaying in the corner.
Our crooked years are forever falling,
lacking nails. Our strings are never
wide enough to guard the halls
which we creep down in search
of substance for our shadows.
The other day the mailbox blew apart
and in it all our letters, forever dated to
our search for meaning. I need
to tell you this before it rains,
before the streaming mirrors
disappear with all our faces.
(prev. pub. in Kindred Spirit, 1988-89)
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Whatever Can Bear
THE WORLD . . . THE SUN
When the sun came out this morning, it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness—the dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning—everything
that was too fragile thrived, then shriveled—know
that this light is forever— ; it borders the cold world
and the cold heart . . . bask in it . . . bask in it . . .
let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/7/18)
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An Old Summer
SUN-RUST
It is an old summer; let us play
while the air is golden and time is long
and lissome as a serpent
gathering the swift ground as it slips between
the heartbeats of the hour.
Let us pretend that is all there is
for us to know. Never mind
the ending. It is as slow as we make it.
Come, my shadow; it is a bright,
bewildered morning—let us follow
the sun-rust over the day. The sunlight
is bright as love upon us. Feel how it trembles.
Never mind the warning. The weatherman
is wrong. There is nothing coming.
__________________
THE CHILD
There is a child
yet unborn
I know by heart
that comes vaguely
to my memory
and reminds me of its being
that is the never-child of wonder and purity
that lives in slow time, in swift time,
in all the lapsed hours.
I mourn this child for its absence.
I love this child
that is real in its reality,
this child that is only,
this child
that is none,
this child
that will not love its perfection,
that will be born, when it is time.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE SUN, THE MOON
—Joyce Odam
I saw the day bend—I felt the day end,
I followed the glow, but always
too slow—
the window, the wall— the faraway call,
were still in the room—
the petulant moon
withdrew to a cloud—I whispered out loud,
don't leave me again. But the day
had to end.
______________________
“It is an old summer” says Joyce Odam, as August sun seems to rise and set with more difficulty. Our Seed of the Week was “Before Sunrise”—a tricky time whatever the season, and Joyce has written to us about that darkness and the light it foreshadows. The Sun, The Moon...
Our new Seed of the Week is “Seashells”. 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.
Joyce is a skillful purveyor of forms, and her form poems often appear on our Form Fiddlers’ Fridays. Watch for, not one, but THREE of her poems this coming Friday. We’re exploring Sonnets right now, and her poem today, “To the Accuser”, is a couplet Sonnet with repetition of the first line. See this Friday’s post for more fine poetry by Joyce Odam.
And click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about future poetry happenings in the NorCal area.
_______________________
—Medusa
_______________________
—Medusa
colors and shapes…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe 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.
The Sun, The Moon...
