The Feral Wind

Songs From The Wind

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

YELLOW TREE LOSING ITS LEAVES
—Joyce Odam

Sound of wind in sudden bursts
in yellow autumn sunlight,
howling free—letting be—all

the restrictions of the mind—
in the half—into the whole, of
listening. What of such a sound

to the ever-lonely—or the
seldom lonely—there—outside
my late-morning window—

interrupting my book, my music.
Come to me, it cries—
has always cried—come to me.
                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/12/13; 11/3/20)

 

 

 

Early Light

                                                                                   
out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

The Passionate

 THE FICKLE LOVERS
—Joyce Odam

We are full of that furor known as love.  
We are not to be trusted.  We are always
bereft.  We are always without conclusion.

You should not respond to us—who
among us can be constant and never change
our stage-setting or conditions :

the light is never enough;
the dark is always too much;
we have the temperament of the weather.

You cannot hold us—you can only
regret us.  And when we abandon you,
you can only tell us goodbye.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/11)

 

 

 

 Gauge

 

THE POET IN THE PARK
(“Sacramento Reads” Event)
—Joyce Odam

He bends like a sad whisper to the grace of her
eyes.  She is saying goodbye to him, there in the
park, in the turbulent day, children all around.

He seems to need her, his vague melancholy upon
him like a familiar thought for which he has no
control.  He is a mute gray in the catch of light

that finds him lingering; he will stay a little
longer in the crowd—some purpose here that
holds him; she will wander off among the others,

the children following, straggling apart in future
directions.  He will watch them from the shade of
a tree awhile, then turn away, forgetting or

remembering this or that of himself, of her, of
the why of anything he cares about, then turning
to listen to the something else of himself that

is so quiet now in the family-light that bears the
summer down upon him.  He sees her and the
children
disappear in the crowd as if into time, that mystery

through which he suddenly feels so cut apart.


(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998)

 

 

 

Somewhere

IF THEN
—Robin Gale Odam

What if you meant to say a thread of
uncertain synonyms for if and then,
and then I looked away—a fine strand
of twisted fibers—

I tried to write this letter, I thought
I heard you say,

for if and then, as statement of fact—
and then you looked away

—starlings in the sky again, the flurry
of startle—

evening divides into two evenings.
If you arrive then I shall go.

 

 

 

Whispers

 

WOMEN MOVING AMONG WOMEN
—Joyce Odam

You see how it is—women moving among
women like a dance of loneliness—or like

a practice of memory when life was free and
no one guarded their secrets, which were pure,

when only the long blue sands of twilight
would remember their dance. The reaching sea

would try to belong—but it too would leave them,
pulling at them to follow, or let go. The white gulls

would turn silver and vanish, leaving their
threading
shapes in the turbulent air. The women would try

to forget those cries and emulate that grace;
the sands would cover-over as the sun lowered

and erased everything but this memory of women
moving among women in a dance of loneliness.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/9/19)

 

 

 

Something For The Dreamer

TERRAIN
—Joyce Odam

I will take the sad earth of myself
and make a poem.

Hear me.
Speak me well.
Arrange me in lines of sound.
Your eyes will know when to pause.

I will be hills
and more hills.
I will be
bleak weather
and go barren of everything.

I will be
desert stretches of emphasis.
No map will cure me.
I will not come to an end when I am done.

I will begin again,
uphill.
I will begin again.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts)

 

 

 

Saying Nothing

             

TO BE SET ADRIFT
 —Joyce Odam

To be set adrift in the boat,
the water lapping at the sides
the companion sitting at the other end
comparing me all this time to its own silence . . .

and the thought of land, and the thought of sky,
and the turbulent depth, and to learn the motion
and sense of direction, and learn the patience
it takes, and never ask where we are going.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 6/14/11; 9/1/15;
9/15/20)

 

 

 

Landing

 

WE’LL JUST STAY IN

, watching through the windows—
the trees catch and cast the wind,

the last of autumn’s leaves cling
to their branches in brightness

of gray, the morning holds the sky
over the city—the baying dog,

the hollow of cold, the tameless
raging shadows, the feral wind.


—Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 Beckon

 

PRAYER OF A LATE SEASON
—Joyce Odam

Come, let us
dance the joy of words,
speak music.

Come, let us enter
the howling house
with its swirling of leaves.

Let us assign ourselves
to each other’s prayer.
Let us kneel and hold each other.

And if the wind stops howling
to hear its own silence,
let us sweep leaves.
                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/25/14)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I AM SO SORRY
—Joyce Odam

One by one the animals disappear.

The land that held them
yields to houses.

Windows
glint at other windows.

Ghosts of animals drift between.

__________________

It’s a Blustery Day (our Seed of the Week) when the Odam Poets are on board, and here they are today, telling us about the wind and love and the final flutters of dying autumn leaves. Our thanks to them for their fine poetry, and for Joyce’s eye-catching visuals.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Refuge”. As always, go wide, go deep; the types of refuge are limitless, one might say. I, for example, find refuge in Medusa’s Kitchen… 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.

And be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Come, let us dance the joy of words . . . 

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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