Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
You had just found the fabric—
the airy cloth for your dance;
you described how it would rise in the air
and stay—it was that light—
how it would flutter down,
and rise again, in the hands that held it—
how the hands would sway it up and down
in the sea-waves it would be.
Later I saw the dance,
and yes,
the cloth was that light,
and it held in the air like you said.
____________________
TO AN UNSEEN BIRD SINGING AT NIGHT
—Joyce Odam
Pretty Bird, Pretty Bird, where is your cage—
not this tree of rain, not this room of poem.
Bird of childhood, I found your feather
and saved it. It is purple and blue.
The rain has left it scraggly.
I remember you.
_____________________
SIXTH SENSE
—Joyce Odam
Something waits to be found. I feel it,
slow myself to be ready.
I sense the presence
all around. Whatever lurks
outwaits me. It is
the edge, and I am the center.
I feel it follow,
as if I am a spiral, turning.
How will I know if I am caught?
There is only the idea—
the sensation. It is still,
and I am moving outward—inward.
____________________
NOT WHAT I LOOKED FOR
—Joyce Odam
I have sent
sorrow after sorrow
into memory—and found mirrors
that kept sending them all
back to me.
(From Hidden Oak Poetry Journal, 2003)
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
FABLE
—Joyce Odam
In the book's forest
live the bears of harmony
who dream beneath trees
amid the gold butterflies
and other wraiths of heaven.
_____________________
—Medusa
Thanks to Joyce Odam and Michelle Kunert for today's contributions. Joyce sends us these "found" poems (our SOW) with the following caveat: I agree with your comment that "all poems are 'found' poems," and send I accordingly. I was going to begin with the same comment, saying: "I proclaim that all poems are found poems and recognized as poems... " (but you beat me to it).
Photo from the Antiquarian Book Fair
by Michelle Kunert
