—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
AS IF ALL TIME
somewhere
my death sits waiting
with gifts of apples
in his lap
smiling into the direction
from which i will come
and practicing
the word he will say
it is a brimming afternoon
everything lazy and green
and young
and he has eloquent eyes
for me to enter
when i see him waiting there
as if all time
were his to have
beneath that tree
(prev. pub. in Sou’wester, 1971)
___________________
THE TREES SO FULL OF FRUIT
The trees were so full of fruit this year that
you had boards to hold the branches up and
still the limbs broke with the weight and
bent their leaves to the ground and the
birds came droving and you cursed
the birds : those goddam birds you
said, and there was so much
fruit we could not eat it all
nor give that much
away.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 1999)
Centerpoint
BROWN BAG
At dark of morning
he prepares my lunch;
how he surprises me
with
unusual bread,
creative combinations,
a sandwich
of such taste . . .
and I, at work,
unwrap it slowly
on my half-hour,
to see
what delicacy,
or what plain fare,
is there.
Today—this bread:
Whole wheat.
Buttered meat.
Some carrot strips.
An apple, quartered.
Study in Orange
GETTING ALONG
After “Wearing the Collar” by Charles Bukowski
Black apples, Love, is what we share;
black seasons, Dearest, to compare
with who we were and who we are,
black reasons that have left no scar.
You sit quietly by the cat.
Dearest, I admire that :
One for one, and two for two.
That is me and that is you :
black cat purring at my hand,
nothing to misunderstand.
Darkest shadows to embrace
the walls, the room, each other’s face.
How we love our dark tableau,
neither one now free to go,
I with apple, you with book,
each of us with tranquil look,
now we’re married, with no ring;
we with only love to bring :
Black polished apple, sleek black cat.
Dearest, what is wrong with that?
Swirl
WHAT APPLE?
After “Adam and Eve”, 1932 by Tamara-de-Lampicka
How will we remember them?
We were not there.
We have only their history.
Must we believe? Must we not?
Imagine the intimacy.
Do not look.
His hand is cupped to her face.
How will we remember them?
Where is the accusation?
Where is the repentance?
Where is the purpose for the blame?
_____________________
COLLAGE
Three apples on top of three leaning silhouettes of three
women in mourning hats, holding prayers and rosaries,
and making their three slow ways toward dotted cut-
outs of flowers. How very old they are—three centuries old,
or three years, or three other increments. The apples
hang deliciously above them—a yellow, a red, and a green.
Dressed dark, the women tumble themselves toward prayer
to kneel in the snow—to outline themselves with black rib-
bon—so no one will forgive them. They bear their guilt
into eternity where it is proven again and again. Year after
year, they come back to this—their old trek through the
debris, symbols everywhere, their feigned permanence.
The perspectives unsettle them, the black shape that looks
like a fish, lying flat and still on a white tablecloth, while
the women are accurate examples of themselves—stub-
bornly real in this crude landscape, paste at the edges.
One can almost hear the scissors trimming around them.
One can almost wish for a better explanation.
(prev. pub. in Convolulus, 2001)
The Seas
Where the white mountains fall back,
into shining distance, the sky and white clouds
drifting slow above the expansive wall
of trees—another mind-challenge
from such a place—
suppose a staring child of summer
within eye-reach of this tableau
sits eating fruit at a white table
on a white porch
in her white dress
and sunny gaze
that probes
our curiosity
should we tell her
of our wanderlust,
of other places in the world
the world that protects
from here, or seems to—
the mountains never move, the trees
never open, the long white road grows narrow
between here and there, and her worldless eyes
stay unconcerned for the steady camera.
After “Portrait of Irina” by Boris Kustodiev
To Behold
SPACE AND TIME
There is a fence around time. It holds in the
portioned air, the unequal height of sky. It
guards the single fruit-tree that is such a
temptation—but thieves come and steal the
bright fruit anyway, and break its branches.
The house stands deep within the fence-
margins where the one who lives there meas-
ures past that measuring-line and feels secure.
But no fence is too high to be of any use. It
is at best a decoration . . . a contour-line, some-
thing an artist might use in a Sunday painting.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1996)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOURISHMENT
After “Poem” by Teresa Torres (Argentina)
Here is a table full of words. Flesh and wine.
Gorge yourself. Never be hungry. Even the
crumbs are precious. Ask for more.
Fill your mouths and eyes.
Push your chair back. Fall asleep.
It’s all useless language. Do not speak.
___________________
Thanks, Joyce, for today’s hearty breakfast of poetry and visuals celebrating our Seed of the Week, Apples! Our new Seed of the Week is “Deep in the Woods”. Send your poems, photos and 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.
If you’re of a mind to learn about Copyright law, Cal. Lawyers for the Arts will present “Copyright Law for Artists” this evening at the Axis Gallery in Sacramento, 6:30pm. Better reg. first at www.showclix.com/event/cla-copyright-sacramento-9-19-17/. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Deep in the Woods...
Celebrate the Poetry of the Mysterious!
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