Into the Dream
—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE TRAIN STOP
The terrible train
is bearing down on the night.
Its whole voice is calling
and its loud feet are clacking
on the rails.
It is heading for this room
which is trying to shrink
to fit my dread.
I am not making sense,
but the train
is an empty one this time,
with room only for me,
if I will enter.
But it is still so far away
and I have a long time
to fear it
and listen to it
arriving.
Airplanes pass over,
but the train
pays no attention,
it keeps clacking and howling.
Cars race by
in an anger of
screeching and blaring,
but the train
keeps boring its eye
till it finds me,
standing on a
shaking windowsill
with my overnight bag in my hand
and my gray hat on.
I am going.
__________________
WOMAN ON THE TRAIN
After Woman on Train by Estelle Tambak
Round. All coat, scarf, muff,
bundled warm. Settled deep,
making a dent against the seat.
Family somewhere—somebody’s
wife, mother; face gone slack
against the rhythm. Eyes shut.
Perhaps asleep; face set in the
old expression that she wears
for public transportation, for
times alone with her thoughts
which lull and wander. Night
outside the window, cross-hatch,
deep, her other face nodding
there beside hers, watching
for landmarks, signs, her stop.
(prev. pub. in Ekphrasis, 1997)
Distorted Mirror
NIGHT FRAGMENT
Long ago,
when life was new,
trains came through
with ghostly sound
and easy distance.
Nights were long
with listening
and what I knew
was whole and strong
—not like illusion.
Where this goes
is just as far
as nowhere is—
I’ve been there, too.
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2011)
_________________
TRAVEL NOTE
Old Lake Castles.
Nowhere to
be found.
Only on
the sign
that I misread.
Old lake castles?
Where?
I want to see them.
There is the sea
and the hills,
and the road between,
but where are
the old lake castles?
Maybe this road . . .
or the next one . . .
I know
they’re there.
(prev. pub. in Time of Singing, 2000)
Where There's Smoke
THE TRAVELING MOON
How is it the moon can hang so low
how is it the moon can hang so high
how is it no moon at all will show
in a certain sky?
How is it the old moon tugs me so,
how can the sea make such a claim,
how could the moon travel all that sky
with no sea to blame?
How would I want the moon to be :
forever low? forever full?
forever magnet in the sky,
with the sea at lull?
Oh moon, oh sky, oh moody sea—is that
why I can sometimes feel the same in me?
Mountain Slide
TRAIN WAIL IN FOG
That long train wail this foggy day, the winter sun too high
to burn-through where the train-wail carries like a slow in-
sinuation of somebody’s doom. It comes from everywhere
at once, fog-stirred and haunting—such an easy word to use
for what that sound can do to one, like me, who listens and
can use its sadness for my own.
Perhaps we’ll intersect at some
long track where I must wait in my cold car—a cup of coffee
by my side—the radio on some bad news, or music that I
like—or else decide silence will do, and sit and watch the
fog-dense cars roll past, and just relax, and put perspective
in a line with time.
(prev. pub. in Tule Review, 2001, Jane Blue, Editor)
Study in Squares
THE TRAIN
. . . . the
train
there
again
ghost
mock-thought
mysterious
clacking
heavy
on
the
dark
a
thing
of
felt
memory
not
your
own
but
someone
else’s
also
in
the
dark
alone . . . .
_________________
HOMESICKNESS
the way to hold against sunshine
no matter how real the
passing of hours
old beaks pecking in the rain
not that we have ever lost the sea
we keep the hunger clean
(prev. pub. in Contemporary Quarterly, 1980)
Brogue
_______________________
CRY
I am the babe in the winter cold,
left on the doorstep of a stranger.
My mother’s warm arms lay me down.
She recedes from me like a shadow.
I know enough to cry
from my small and terrible depth.
I thrash with all my might
at the new-born forces that assail me.
Maybe someone will come.
My mother is a ghost now.
I’ll carry her ache forever,
if I have forever.
I am the babe in the winter cold,
left on the doorstep of a stranger.
My mother’s warm arms lay me down.
She recedes from me like a shadow.
I know enough to cry
from my small and terrible depth.
I thrash with all my might
at the new-born forces that assail me.
Maybe someone will come.
My mother is a ghost now.
I’ll carry her ache forever,
if I have forever.
________________________
THE SOUND OF THAT TRAIN
Long clackety sound just a mile away—
train that I write songs about
for children that I know—
telling them it is their
train—when
it is mine . . . .
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DISPUTATIONS
—Joyce Odam
It is how we are geared to jump
to conclusions, like Jack be nimble
and where’s the fire, and all that
itchin’ to finish the race.
But here is where
we get off the track—so to speak,
so to speak—off the track we’re on.
It’s all in the gist of things—and
that’s where all the quarrel begins.
____________________
A big Tuesday Thank-you to Joyce Odam for today’s gourmet poems and artwork, including some fun concrete poetry, as she brings us the sound of railroad tracks, our Seed of the Week.
Our new Seed of the Week is Monsters. 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.
And don’t forget to keep an eye on our calendar of upcoming poetry events—some are added during each week at the last minute, such as the Escritoires Anthology Release at Luna’s in Sacramento this Thursday. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about such things!
—Medusa
—Anonymous
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