Do Not Touch
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE FIG
I have brought this fruit for your mouth
that you may know the religion of figs
so dusty and warm
still pulsing
in the cup of my hand
that offers to you
like a flower
this gift
from the waving young tree
that bends ever-so-delicately
its thin stem
like a long neck of the giraffe in
the zoo
as it bobs above the fence
this is
the first ripe fig of summer
and I give it to you.
(first pub. in Cellar Door, 1979)
________________
AFFAIR OF THE HEART
It is seduction that they understand,
though it be folly, precursive to despair;
they yield to its addiction; they declare
themselves clairvoyant, yet go hand in hand
with Fate and Blindness, those misleaders. And
for passion that they always knew was there,
they wear whatever mask they need to wear
to keep illusion’s face. Their flame is fanned.
Wretched with love now, hopelessly confessed,
oh, they are tragic—they are tragic, true—
nor do they care. They are both cursed and blessed.
They grow possessive, and they grow afraid.
Too young to suffer less than others do,
they settle back into the beds they’ve made.
(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1997)
Tell Me More
BRUSHING SHOULDERS
That woman with her face bent
in her scarf,
shop windows
do not tempt her,
nor do lives of others
on the street the same as she—
avoiding all those
shoulders,
voices,
eyes,
that
man
who might have loved her
had they met—
the way these two do not,
the way
their shoulders brush in passing—
the way their auras don’t react to this.
To Night
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.
Thirst
THE DISILLUSIONMENTS
the disillusionments
cry in the trees
like starving birds
the trees are full of fruit
but the birds are blind
and crying such songs
that we listen with envy
songless and mute
and offer them mirrors
(first pub. in One Dog Press, 1999)
Whisper
HEAVY
Am I not the one with the heart made of lead,
eyes made of brass—hands without touch
through gloves of numb—am I not that one…?
I saw the peacock spread its fan,
and I wept for all women
vainer than seduction with its pretty ways :
how they preened back—in spite of
memory’s sweet haze. Never mind that :
I am the one without words enough to say
the deep yearn that lives
next to the leaden throb—the one
who pines away—who will foolishly sob.
Cubbyhole
COSMETIC
There she is
with her lipstick and her smile.
She has seduced the
mirror after all.
See how her eyes connect
and almost hold.
She is rather attractive
and really not that old.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE MOVEMENT OF THE LURE
—Joyce Odam
No more will I rise to bait
like an old blue fish
breaking the water
to those rings of sunlight
and the movement of the lure . . .
my old scars ache.
(first pub. in Pearl, 2000)
___________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poetry and May Day photos! Seduction, indeed… like our Seed of the Week: Forbidden Fruit.
Our new Seed of the Week is An Empty Suitcase. Send your poems, photos & 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.
Speaking of May Day, check out the beautiful roadside California poppies as you head up to El Dorado Hills today for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around at the El Dorado Hills Library, 5-7pm. 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
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate the poetry of Nows!
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