Lie On The Dreams

The World in Neon Glow

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE FAIRY TALE
—Joyce Odam

All night the captured dreamer must ride on the
back of the bull through the forest of her own
dream through tangles of vines with white leaves
that catch at her hair, and through the four direc-
tions that keep pointing and quarreling to keep
her lost. Morning is at the other end of the dream
but she is holding her arm across her eyes as if she
can stay asleep and not believe where she is—her
sleeping-gown in shreds—her posture one of mes-
merized foreboding. The night is heavy and deep
and  has no dimension—it has swallowed every
sound and left her this muffled passage where the
bull, like an old protector, must bear her along—
for as long as she needs, in this precarious half-
sleep, where she cannot feel or hear the comforting
snort of his effortless breathing, or the carefully
stepping delicate tread of his feet.

                                                                     
(prev. pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 1999) 

 

 

 

Fallen Rocks

 

 
SHALE DREAM
—Joyce Odam
   
… a wide rock road becoming narrow
shale, slipping away under my footsteps,
falling into canyons—at first I was driv-
ing a car

on a rocky path, now the car is parked
like a toy in its misdirection, a slow
rumble of thunder hanging like dread, I
balance on sharp, slick,

peaks in a wet gray wind—cold darkness
coming on—someone calling out in-
structions—holding out a hand—the
glass I hold
 
impedes my rescue—finally I realize
that if I put the glass down with one
hand I can reach out with the other, but
when I put the

glass down it falls with a magnified clat-
ter, and I am still precarious, but now
I can almost reach
the fingers …


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/1/19)

 

 

 

Fragile

  

 

VERY NEAR 

—Robin Gale Odam  

Now the road is steeper still,
steeper still and near the top—

and the child of fear is yet so small
and the edge of the world is very near.

___________________

SOMEONE CRYING BY
—Joyce Odam

Someone crying by this morning
sends his voice into the house
in a disturbing half-cry, half-
laugh, song-like and loud, and
out of place for this neigh-
borhood.  A dangerous sound.

The room goes still, pulls in,
where I have lost my thought,
fringe of other sounds becoming
loud while I try to measure
the direction of this one soul, cry-
ing by so peaceful-early.

Thus the day begins, with appre-
hension—and I think of this.
He has gone by, taking his
misery with him, and I can let
the noisy day continue: that air-
plane    those birds    this clock.

 

 

 

Frame of Mind

 

THE PUPPETEERS
—Joyce Odam
After John Singer Sargent, Marionettes.

fire-lit against a glowing wall
marionettes dance
clashing    
falling
dangling
against the strings—
obedient . . .

in brimming dark, an audience stares

at the whimsy of the real
their own lives
at conflict and peril,
laughing at the
jerky performance—
the sad relief of metaphor . . . .

 

 

 

Artifice

 

 

MARIONETTES
—Robin Gale Odam
After John Singer Sargent, Marionettes

the others made us dance
but there was one in the shadows
pleading, listen to this song—heavy
your heart and cry with me—heavy your
heart, the one voice said, and cry with me

                                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/14/23) 

 

 

 

Mystic

 

 

THE SORCERESS LOVES
—Joyce Odam

If I say red,
you see red.
such is the power of my language.

I lean close to you,
let you feel waft of lavender
from my old flowers. You love me.

I read my book of spells,
every night and into the morning.
You never catch on.

I sigh blue at you
and you hold me. I moan
silver . . .   silver . . .   and you weep.

You cling to my gray cliffs of peril
and I create white gulls
to release us into flying.

Look! We are everywhere,
as in
a swirling kaleidoscope of color.

It is your dream, and I have entered it.
A long thin stream of black
cuts under us, and I rescue you.

                                                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10)

____________________

VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY H.D.
—Joyce Odam
After “Chance” by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)

Chance—whatever Chance is—says,
Come here,

and if I hear right, asks me,
Can you bear…?

And I can bear much,
and enough.

And Chance says, Sweetheart….
and I blush at the endearment

and take it for my own.
And Chance goes on about

love and loneliness,
and I commiserate,

and Chance confesses
all its fears and longings :

wind, bird, sea, wave, low places and the high air,
and I regret repeating so much of this,

but Chance forgives if only I will
promise…,   promise…,  

but there is such worriment
and so much peril in the world,

and Chance calls me Dear,
and says: I’m here,

and don’t you want me
anymore?

And I consider all the verities
of Chance—and no chance—and how often

Chance has guided me,
and I turn, and answer, Of course I want you.
                                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/10/15; 2/16/21) 

 

 

 

Variant 

 

DRIVING FORCE
—Joyce Odam

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. 

 

 

 

What Is There

TAKING THE DANGER AWAY
—Joyce Odam

A long walk away from danger. I do not like these
vast and unimportant streets, vague neighborhoods,
houses closed against our wandering past—too sad
for talk—only the long slow walk away from our-
selves—everything crumbling behind us. Only the
present moment that is real—only this cold satura-
tion of winter giving us this heavy momentum—
away from the sad house where our safe children
wonder where we are and why we are gone so long.
Numbness follows like a lethargic dog. We hold
hands lest we fall dizzily apart. We keep only the
silence, the echoing silence, that keeps filling ahead
of us, that we must enter, and continue to follow,
the meandering of this direction.

 

 

 

Lure

I HAVE LEFT YOU AN EMPTY ROOM
—Joyce Odam

I have left you an empty room
filled with music
and the last scent of my leaving.

When you arrive
you will find the cold tea
waiting in two cups.

There will be two cushions
on the floor
and an ashtray for your cigarette.

One soft light will be burning
to protect you from the dark.

The cat will be curled asleep
as if there were no danger.

The window will bring
summer breezes in
to make a small comfort of fanning.

The second LP record
will be playing what our love
remembers.

There will be no note.
You can stay
as long as you wish.

 

 

 

Self Portrait

 

 

HOMELAND    
—Joyce Odam               

Come to the hawk land.
Bring bones.
Wear necklaces of teeth.
Watch for the slippery shadows.

You will become as one of those
who have always lived here.
When you hear wings,
climb stones
till you reach the nest.
Climb in.
Lie on the dreams.

The children you own
will thrive here.
They will be wild and hungry.
They will choose their own names.
They will live precariously
on the cliffs of your fear.

Whoever loves you
will never undo your power.
The shadow is your love.
The nest is your land.
The hawk is your mother.

                                 
Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets 1988

1st Prize, Theme Poem Category:
Realms of the Supernatural;
Pub. CFCP Forty-Ninth Annual Convention
Prizewinning Poems

Also pub. in The Bridge, 1998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/10; 10/2/18;
2/1/22; 10/15/22)
      
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

dreaming in the dream
distance far away from here
closeness on the heels

ever since the faraway
ever cast the runes of shade

—Robin Gale Odam

___________________

Our thanks to the Odam Poets for casting good spells over us with their poetry and pix today for our Seed of the Week, Danger! (Watch out for those dangerous dreams!)

Our new Seed of the Week is “In Nature there is darkness as well as light, and all shades in between”—a quote from a PBS Nature program, "Soul of the Ocean". 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. And remember: The hawk is your mother.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

By Day She Made Herself Into a Cat
—Painting by Arthur Rackham

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