I Am The Place You Come To

Well, Hello

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

COME AT ME FROM THE MORNING

come at me from the morning
I will meet you like a
shawl

slip under my arm
I will tell you my heart lives
and you must
save it

hear me tell
of my beautiful lame life
that I am comparing
to this hard life that no life
can follow

you are in wonder-light
a real hero
such a long mountain away

but we will marry
I am the place you come to
I am not tired of waiting
you are faithful

_________________

THE FIGUREMENT

In the rich-blending odours
of the garden
where flowers vie for preference . . .

In the stimulations of the mind
for the immaculate view of white birds
ascending into a white sky . . .

In the icy feel of water on the hand
from a flowing stream where tiny fish
dart through your fingers . . .

How a taste will linger
beyond the
hunger for a food—as with a kiss . . .

How love only listens
for what it wants
despite the resistance of another . . .

How hard is this to realize
when all is nothing at the end of being
— a profanity to the mind

that cannot comprehend the sorrow
of the soul—or the figurement
of whatever God it needs    and refuses. . . ?

 Forefront

PATIENCE

It is no longer true that
I am direct descendent of goodness.
I am old nude in shadow attire.
Light falls upon me in
apologetic appreciation.

I hold my pose for the artist
who is nearly blind,
all of my rages cast down
under my eyes which are
closed in sympathy.

I ache for the gods to hold me
as when I was among them.
I am good. I am good.
I am perfect.

See how others like to look at me,
holding here so still
so I can be patient and
faithful to my artist
who tries so hard.

“Once more,” he sighs,
though we both
are weary of the attempts.
“This time,” he promises.
And once more I believe him.

 Hug-Tangle

COVER DESIGN AS A TORN PAGE

I like the way the cover is torn
against imagination,
a sort of artifice of design—

a deliberate tear to look real,
a corner of thought,
or afterthought,

to touch in chagrin
and frown with disapproval :
Books are to be respected!
on one side of the argument, and,
Books well-read, well-used!
from another point of view.

So why this
pretend tear, drawn there,
or photographed from a real tear,

in simulation—hard to know.
Somehow, though, I’m glad
the tear is not real—and only faux.
 

 Acclimation

ALL IS MOST DANGEROUS TO ITSELF
After “Empire of Dreams” by Charles Simic

Wakings are paragraphs, page-turnings.
Always ‘what next’…

Wantings are hollow at both ends.
Never filled.
Like hungers.  Like answers.

Truth is like time.
Slippery. 
Hard to reach / grasp / explain.

Let us not talk about sleep.
Let us not talk about dreams.
In this dream—

the experience is urgent—
has yet to get through to the dreamer
who will not allow the knowing.

 Praise

A DRUNKEN SLANT

Diagonal,
like a hard rain,
or a dash
for an exit
across a sweaty
dance floor—
any shortcut
from one to another
place
or situation.
It’s all about
falling—
that wound of balance
or last embarrassment
of failure—not just
a sad direction
made of vertigo,
or body-tilt
against wind—
more like a glance
in a falling mirror
as it takes you with it.

___________________

FIGMENT

In the room of grief there are two walls.
The third and fourth ones do not matter.
From one side comes the empty promise

—from the other the promise of the lie.
There is enough time to cry and wait
for clocks to stop and mirrors shatter—

two walls impose themselves upon the
grieving figure at the corner of the eye.

 The Way It Is

QUESTIONING THE SILENCE

If I could take words into my silence,
I might call you love, I might call you
ragged witch of  heaven.

But words are hard to hear. We never
speak. Great vowels of pain take form
and we are lost again in one another.

Once there were two of us, spitting and
snarling like cold water on hot stones.
It was a wilderness. We were the beasts.

Even the cities ignored our strange ways
of walking with shadows at night,
and dreading the lack of them by day.

What’s in a silence
that must be given form—
that must be taken apart  to be solved?

There is a loon cry—I have never
heard one—and an owl cry I think I heard
once. That comes closest to what I mean.

I am one lonely town. You are another.
How come we stayed, or left
and returned?

All is
confusion now.
Even the walls have stopped listening.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DUMB-DOG, TWITCHING IN HIS DREAM

Dumb-Dog’s dreaming that he’s off the chain;
once again he’s running with the pack . . .
running beyond the calling of his name . . .
he hears us calling, but he won’t come back.

                                              
(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2004)

____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poetry and photos. Charles Simic’s “Empire of Dreams” may be found at www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42956/empire-of-dreams/.

Our new Seed of the Week is another ekphrastic one: 

 —Anonymous Photo

See what this scene stirs up in your Muse, then 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. 

—Medusa

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