The Religion of Figs

 A Mysterious Life

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

 

 

ALONG THE FENCE
—Joyce Odam

The dog barks back and forth
along the fence
and agitates the darkness
with his frenzy . . .

underneath the open window
on the narrow path along the house,
where the shape passes . . .
where the sound listens . . .

all along the white fence in the
darkness, where something moves
and pauses . . .  moves and pauses . . .
while the dog barks. 

                                                                                  

(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, Sacramento)

 

 

 

 Timing II

one shake of dust at the ghostline—
voucher for another toll

                         —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2020) 

 

 

 

 Beautiful Weeping Bird II

BEYOND THE BORDERS
—Joyce Odam

Above the fence line, beyond the borders,
a bird was singing,  “stone . . .  stone . . . ”

and the heavy day was drifting . . . drifting
. . . in my direction; and I was turning from

the window which was broken by the singing,
and the violence of love was almost worth

the danger.  How did I find myself here—
in this country—burdened by such gray

weather—burdened by your eyes which tore
the listening between us?  The bird followed

its song into the glass and we shattered—
one of us from pity—and the other from

the awful impact of the silence that resulted.

                                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/26/13; 4/23/19)

 

 

 

 Life Span II

PASTURAGE
—Joyce Odam

The ghost horse in the city field
is content with the surreality

of traffic blurring past
and roams the fenced width

or just stands quietly
since it is I who have loved him

and allowed him to remain there—
as he was—in his lonely life.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 05/17/13) 

 

 

 

 A Long Time

YELLOW PICTURE WITH LONG BLACK LINE
—Joyce Odam

passing the
country by train . . .

yellow blur of
time between towns . . .

fields growing up around
the legs of stationary cows . . .

farm houses low behind
fluttering clotheslines . . .

the thin and narrowing sounds
of the train whistle . . .

small figures shading their eyes
and staring . . .

the imaginary sounds of shrill dogs
barking . . .

the ineffectual fences tilting off
into windy distances . . .

and the near fences holding their birds
from entering or leaving . . .

the telephone poles, too dizzy for counting
the hypnotic lulling, as if this were a forever . . .

transparent window-faces pulling the scenery
    by . . .
passing the country by train . . .   a long time
    ago . . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/16/12; 3/18/14)

 

 

 

 Allegory

THE FIG
—Joyce Odam

I have brought this fruit for your mouth
that you may know the religion of figs
so dusty and warm
still pulsing
in the cup of my hand
that offers to you
like a flower
this gift
from the waving young tree
that bends ever-so-delicately
its thin stem
like a long neck of the giraffe in
the zoo
as it bobs above the fence
this is
the first ripe fig of summer
and I give it to you.
                                           

(prev. pub. in Cellar Door, 1979;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/1/18) 

 

 

 

 In Harmony II

 

THE ULTIMATE RELIGION
—Joyce Odam

Unable to breathe
city man
longs for deep woods

for green silences
for snap of little sounds in
night’s sharp cold

for long hill to climb
to find
a virgin place

in which to plant
the acorn that he carries
in his pocket.

                        
(prev. pub. in Driftwood, 1972;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/15; 6/25/24)

 

 

 

 Musing II

THE PURE OBSERVER
—Joyce Odam

He needs capital letters to hold him in.
He is afraid of the women in his poems.
He would seduce them, but they are evil,
Dressed cheaply, and with eyes on him.
He almost makes sonnets for them,
Fourteen unrhymed lines of dread,
With lots of punctuation, all the
Lines beginning formal as fences.

He writes the women sleazy.  He stays
Aloof, on a high poetic bluff,
Cold sea-wind in his hair,
A pure observer.
They are new and old to him, with no names
He can mention, since he does not know them.

                                                   
(prev. pub. in Cimarron Review, July 1977)
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/12/23)

 

 

 

 Little Butterfly

ORPHAN POEM   
—Joyce Odam        

paints a sun
makes it round
and yellow

draws spikes of warm
into the ground
where the grass
is hard lines of green

the dog
with all its legs
on one side
smiles at the face of
a flower

and the boy
and the girl
with the straight-stick
arms and legs
are brother and sister

and the smiling
mother and father
are looking
at the boy and the
girl and the
dog and  the
flower

and the house
with the black curls
climbing from the chimney
stands behind them all
and is very happy

and the blue blue sky
with the fluffy
white clouds
is full of birds

draws them singing

                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/17) 

 

 

 

 All Just Because

OK, NINE
—Robin Gale Odam

I will give you
seven poems
and then I will say
goodbye.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2014;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/14/23) 

 

 

 

 Memento II

THE GODS, DEPRIVED
 —Joyce Odam

Nothing here is familiar—
a land of whispers and sighing.
The sky has lost its color.
Rusty mountains guard its borders.
At night there is a crying.

Old dreams gather to escape from memory.
But memory follows them
like timeless travelers.
Giant flowers lean and murmur—
offer the gravity of answers.

Morning will be cold again.
The land will wake to loneliness.
The birds of sorrow
will return
but without their singing.

The spirits of love and loss
will resume their searching.
The moans will sharpen everywhere.
The mournful gods will say, not yet . . .
not yet . . . and speak of love to one another.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/12/11; 6/26/12)

 

 

 

 Quiet

BOUNDARY LINE
—Joyce Odam

rest yourself
upon my
narrow
I am
a thin haven
not too much land
on either side
I leave myself
stark
and open to
those silences
that listen
I am
the one vibration-line
they cannot hear
you can hide
with me
for awhile
if danger comes
we will be
so small
it will
pass over us
hush
I will not entertain
you
or love you
I am a
quiet resting place
of kindness only
     
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NOT DATED
—Robin Gale Odam

I’m going to go take a walk through the
mystery—I’ll be back in a long while.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2020;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22)

___________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Fences” , and the Odam Poets hit the nail on the head with their fine post today. (Get it? Hit the nail on the post on the fence?) Anyway, our thanks to them for all these riches..

Our new Seed of the Week is “Serenity”, and coincidentally, Joyce has sent us a piece of artwork by that title—see below. Grab yourself some Serenity and 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 Fridays for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Serene

—Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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