The Vision
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE DRESS
Tomorrow I will wear the dress.
Oh, seamless thing.
It will be torn
where I have fought the sleeve
that tries to form
the shape of my life.
Its buttons will resist
the buttonholes.
I will not let its small stain rest
where my heart is—
making its memory too tight.
I do not like this dress.
Sighings
TRYING ON HER RED DRESS
This is me in a long dress, full of wrinkles
from being packed for so long in a box.
It will never iron smooth.
It will never fit.
It is an endless dress
of somebody else’s body.
I am a child in it.
I should never wear red.
Red is a death color,
said a whispering fortuneteller.
Red is a painful color,
said a startled mirror.
Red will never
let you go once you wear it.
It will never stay boxed as it was.
Red must be seen and worn. Red insists.
Prophecy
GLASS LADY
IN RED DRESS SONNET
In her red dress
she shimmers bright;
she’s made of glass.
The ceiling light,
turned by the fan,
directs our gaze,
for quicker than
her lowered eyes,
she glints a smile
beneath her hat,
with flowers piled—
light sees to that—
turning to keep
its light that deep.
Dream of the Rose
I DREAMED YOU WERE WEARING
MY DRESS
I dreamed you were
pulling
my dress off
above your head.
You were
glaring at me.
I wanted you
to be
careful with the dress.
It was an old one.
Its sleeves
Were torn.
It was
faded and thin.
Almost a rag.
Why were you
wearing
my dress,
I wanted to ask.
but you were
so angry
standing
in front of me
with the dress caught
on the bind
of your shoulders.
Help me out of
this thing,
you said.
But before
I could help,
you had pulled
it off
and flung it
in a heap
between us
on the floor.
Clarification
THE EYE THAT BETRAYS THE VISION (I)
After Dettaglio (1875) by Wm. Adolphe Bougereau
Her eye, her earring, the silken drape of her scarf,
her blue dress buttoned at the shoulder...
her unbidden blush of skin.
Her eye is following your perusal—
does not blink—does not tear,
her eye is a judgment and a question.
She peers through the corner of the curtain.
Her earring brushes her scarf and makes
a small tinkle of movement.
She is the epithet of Beauty,
with no other reason but this—no other
purpose but this. Her artist loves her.
Her eye is both haughty and pleading—
never to be worthy for anything
beyond this. Dare she grow old...?
Dare she love another... ?
Dare she lose the intensity of her look…?
Her eye darkens at the conjecture.
Her eye possesses your eye—accepts the
vanity that is given her—forbids your look—
does not question past your curiosity.
Commiseration
PERFECTION
After “The Beautiful Princess” costume
by Léon Bakst from Stravinsky’s The Firebird
Attending women dress her in a flowing
paisley gown with glowing red buttons.
Hovering women comb her hair into
shining and perfect smoothness.
Whispering women advise her,
and warn her. She bends her head aside.
Silent women place her before
a glowing mirror of contemplation.
She holds a red orb of light in her hand.
She waits for the force of your admiration.
She looks at you demurely
and hands you the red globe.
The discreet mirror sees nothing.
You wonder why she loves you.
_________________
TIMELESS BEAUTY
She is here to tease :
the fan, the hanging silks,
the pearls around her throat—
that languid look,
her rumpled white dress
and
the cushion
that she leans against.
How young is she . . . ?
A century, perhaps.
A century
takes its time—
remembers as it will.
Though she
is many centuries gone,
she teases still.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SUFFOCATIONS
—Joyce Odam
I am so cold. I pull on endless dresses. I pull on sleeves
and dark skirts and become small enough to fit in all of
them, until my closet is empty—and it shivers—and it is
only a naked room now, full of whispering.
I am still cold—slipping into dreams which wrap around
me in different textures and patterns—each night I wear
their costumes, and cannot get out of them. There are so
many, and I keep getting caught in all their folds.
_________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetry about dresses and buttons (our Seed of the Week)—and about red! As she says, Red Insists. In fact, red is the December color, and even the signature of November, along with its yellows and golds. So our new Seed of the Week is Red. 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 head up to El Dorado Hills tonight, 5pm, for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around at the El Dorado Hills Library, 7455 Silva Valley Parkway. 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
I am so cold. I pull on endless dresses. I pull on sleeves
and dark skirts and become small enough to fit in all of
them, until my closet is empty—and it shivers—and it is
only a naked room now, full of whispering.
I am still cold—slipping into dreams which wrap around
me in different textures and patterns—each night I wear
their costumes, and cannot get out of them. There are so
many, and I keep getting caught in all their folds.
_________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetry about dresses and buttons (our Seed of the Week)—and about red! As she says, Red Insists. In fact, red is the December color, and even the signature of November, along with its yellows and golds. So our new Seed of the Week is Red. 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 head up to El Dorado Hills tonight, 5pm, for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around at the El Dorado Hills Library, 7455 Silva Valley Parkway. 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
Celebrate poetry!
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