—Photo by Joyce Odam
TO MUSICK
(After
“To Musick” by Robert Herrick)
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
I take your word—spell it
olde—
impose the distance ever
between
the now and then—enter—and
be
there—listen for the
beginning
that leads to here—that
fills
between—that resonates—
that endures—only a
thought long
and a yearn away
from what still charms the
soul.
and enchants the ears.
________________
SPELLS
—Joyce Odam
Take my reluctant hand
with its seven slow lines
that go outward from the palm.
Trace my
sad histories
with your
discerning fingers;
hum a
soft song.
Pull my
eyes to your face
and there
erase the seven sorrows
that I
hide from myself.
Mention
the tomorrows;
mention
the seven lies that fit.
I will
love you. I will leave
my hand
in your hand while you
hypnotize
my oldest terror.
I will
follow you through
your
language made of praise
while you
gaze me deeper.
Soon I
will float through your eyes
and there
disguise myself with
seven
veils. You will get lost
in them.
______________
SUMMONED
—Joyce Odam
True as
the gold light in your eye
that
fastened like a sun
to my
dark mirage,
a circle
of stars, a core of words,
like a
power surrounding you.
I was
only heat-shimmer—
spinning
in the light.
We did
not reach,
I was
dreaming on a blue ice floe,
you on
another.
There was
nothing to save us,
but love. Even our souls wept.
—Photo by Joyce Odam
CHANT FOR
ROPE JUMPERS
—Joyce Odam
catch in
a pony tail
tangle
the curl
twist in
the fingers
rope trip
a girl
rope be a
measure
rope be
the lie
jump to a
thousand
and we’ll
never die
slap on
the sidewalk
snag in
the grass
here
comes a cripple
don’t let
him pass
we never
stumble
we never
cheat
death
fears the rhythm
of our
feet
jump into
moonlight
night is
a hole
rope is a
circle
that
hands unroll
ninety
nine hundred
jump till
we drop
here come
the mothers
to make us stop.
(first pub. in Yankee, 1964 and
Chapbook: The Confetti Within, 1964)
_________________
MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam
one by one I arrange them
on my shelves
sharp and brilliant
like glass
light-catchers
dust-holders
vain and useless
poignant and repetitive
giving in at last to new ones
~
how my collection grows
conjured real
by tricks of incantations
become semi-precious
like stones
held by a spreading shimmer
till they dull and blend
by loss
by years
each indiscernible
from the other
__________________
BREAKING THE SPELL
—Joyce Odam
It is how you repeat sad
phrases to me
in your soft voice that
diminishes . . .
~
If only you could give me
music
I might hear . . .
~
Had you died, I would
grieve, but silence
is only silence, as death
is death . . .
~
Your body moved in a quiet
dance—
a slow wreathe to the
music I could not hear . . .
~
How clever, the music, to
escort you
into somewhere unreachable
. . .
~
You turned away into
yourself.
Not a shadow, not a mirror
followed this . . .
~
I pulled from myself what
I knew of you,
all your spells and
confusions . . .
~
When you returned, it was
with nothing you
remembered. I wept and named you love.
______________
Thanks to Joyce Odam for
today’s gourmet cookery, and congratulations to her on her 88th
birthday! We are celebrating the occasion with her first-ever photo album on
Medusa’s Facebook page—be sure to check it out!
This week’s Seed of the
Week is La Golondrina. It seems like I see her nests everywhere, with giant
beaks peaking over them, peering down at me. What do you have to say about La
Golondrina—and why hasn’t she returned to Capistrano??
Also: last week our Form
to Fiddle With was to write entire stories out of six words. Carl Schwartz
stacked the six words rather than putting them out on a single line, giving
each one more visual weight and making the form more poem-like. Taylor Graham
invented another variation, making each line a six-word story that could stand
on its own and then stringing them together with a very loose thread. (See her
example, “60-Word Bio”, on our August 1 post.) But Taylor’s form needs a
name—any ideas?
And we have a new Form
With Which to Fiddle—the idyl/idyll (apparently nobody can decide how to spell it). The examples on Wiki are beautiful but somewhat
archaic—nobody says you have to use old-fashioned tongues to admire the bucolic
world around you. Let loose your idyllic self however suits you...
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
LOYALTY
—Joyce Odam
You have
brought me a love poem,
and I
learned its words and sang it back to you.
Your
prayers were chants of sorrow.
You made
me learn them, and now I pray for you.
You make
circles and circles, which I enter.
They are
both vanished and deep. Where am I.
Your eyes
pull downward, and I find drowning
and a
dark sleep. We are so old here.
Our eyes
have turned to a grave of sadness.
The other
mourners have left, and we no longer weep.
______________
—Medusa
—Photo by Joyce Odam