Every-Which-Way
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THINGS TO DO
After “Thither” Mural from the Temple of Longing
by Paul Klee
All arrows point to time in this crammed city with
dark foretellings if I don’t follow each of them pointing
toward their own clock-shadows which are
so many. I follow them to the vanishing edge of their
directions in the lowering swift sunlight where they blunt
against the soft gold walls of
incompletion. Something blue remakes at the beginning,
the entrance widens as a gold cock crows and one gold
sun comes up against each end
of the brimming day which merely repeats itself. Each
time, I find a new confusion to follow. The arrows shadow-
shift and shudder to instruct me
and I find myself routed back into the same old tangle
where all arrows point to this-way-and-that of time with
its dark foretellings.
All arrows point to time in this crammed city with
dark foretellings if I don’t follow each of them pointing
toward their own clock-shadows which are
so many. I follow them to the vanishing edge of their
directions in the lowering swift sunlight where they blunt
against the soft gold walls of
incompletion. Something blue remakes at the beginning,
the entrance widens as a gold cock crows and one gold
sun comes up against each end
of the brimming day which merely repeats itself. Each
time, I find a new confusion to follow. The arrows shadow-
shift and shudder to instruct me
and I find myself routed back into the same old tangle
where all arrows point to this-way-and-that of time with
its dark foretellings.
Blue Thematic
THROUGH FRAGILE DISTANCE
come to me through fragile distance
do not touch the shining there
the air trembles
the light dims for your coming
the very ache of waiting
is held in my patience
do not mix the colors
as you pass among them
leave them separate
they will blend back when they will
come with silence to my silence
there is only thought-refraction here
____________________
WITH LONGING
And the heart beats with longing, even as
the blood flows. What does love know
of this—or hate—or any passion?
It is all slow completion, even as it begins.
Take fear, which is delicious—
surface and depth—like a terrible wish.
Is it death we know—
cat and toy—
the prize on the end of a question?
And the blood goes round and round
the body’s universe,
bearing the life along like a tireless swimmer.
Inarticulation
WHEN LOVE WAS AN EASY THING
TO SAY
We tried to make
love our last amen,
but we were words and words away
from the real prayer.
We were too much want
and not enough give.
We had made too many errors.
When love was an easy word to say
we said it smugly
and with a fond confusion.
It was a simple word.
It would be easy to remember.
We look for it now
in the desperate faces of each other.
Was it a foreign word?
How many syllables did it have?
Why did we break it apart
and store its letters
in forgotten hiding places?
(first pub. in Mustang Review, 1969)
Infringement
WHITE ELEPHANT
After Chinese Washing a White Elephant, c. 1800
(Chinese School, 19th Century)
Grown too large now for our care,
we struggle to retain
our scale of love
as when
it was a tiny,
new-born thing
that we
adored—a live toy—
exotic as a fable-creature,
fabulous and dear.
It loved us too, gazed at us
fondly, trusting itself to our keeping.
Now it is
house-broken, huge,
though still of delicate behavior.
Our laps
too small to hold it now,
it grows bewildered, mopes,
and leaves its sad looks
everywhere. What now, we ask
ourselves in our confusion and despair?
__________________
THE ONENESS
How much I need to know of the formidable light.
I walk into it, become part, love the oneness
of myself with all other self,
the resistant light receives me.
We leave the dark speck of my confusion
that stays behind—
yielding, resisting,
we envelop together into more light,
swallow the darkness,
become the dream of the dark speck
that even now turns to core of light
that forms, and reforms—forever in this moment.
Grown too large now for our care,
we struggle to retain
our scale of love
as when
it was a tiny,
new-born thing
that we
adored—a live toy—
exotic as a fable-creature,
fabulous and dear.
It loved us too, gazed at us
fondly, trusting itself to our keeping.
Now it is
house-broken, huge,
though still of delicate behavior.
Our laps
too small to hold it now,
it grows bewildered, mopes,
and leaves its sad looks
everywhere. What now, we ask
ourselves in our confusion and despair?
__________________
THE ONENESS
How much I need to know of the formidable light.
I walk into it, become part, love the oneness
of myself with all other self,
the resistant light receives me.
We leave the dark speck of my confusion
that stays behind—
yielding, resisting,
we envelop together into more light,
swallow the darkness,
become the dream of the dark speck
that even now turns to core of light
that forms, and reforms—forever in this moment.
The Season of Leaves
ONE OF NIGHT’S DARK STORIES
After “Recovery” by A. R. Ammons
After dark, when
street lights come on, tree shadows dance
against
walls—
become
pictographs, shadow-murals on night’s
grim buildings
whose walls
are made beautiful
by this—and sidewalks try
to hold the trees
from pulling through their circles.
_________________
YOUR DOGGIE BAG
Today I sit down to my table and eat your food,
your small portion of fish, and your hard roll,
our mixed vegetables that need salt. I remember
to say a small grace in your honor. I remember
to chew slowly—to savor. I allow time for con-
versation. A whole day has passed under your
absence, and I find myself folding a red cloth
napkin when I am through, and remembering to
say thank you for your hospitality.
The table is but a metaphor, but
the fish and the roll and the vegetables are real.
My refrigerator was an accommodation to your
leftover thrift and meagerness of appetite. I am
sorry you forgot your take-home carton. I know
how you like to portion and savor, letting the too-
expensive banquet dinner parcel-out to three
more meals.
In Praise of Confusion
ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER
He fails so fast
his life out of balance
forgetting his pattern mid-air
such a confusion upon his face
the untamed anger rising in him
in a rage of refusal.
But he is on a wire
that stretches from one thing
to another of his power
his life precarious,
his arms heavy,
his eyes like candle-flickerings.
If he falls, he falls forever
into the waiting gasp
of astonishment,
that disbelief of expectation,
the unreadiness.
Can he make it?
He takes another step and
feels the heaviness of effort,
the reluctance of trying,
the conflict of his ability,
the confusion of one foot
before the other. So simple.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RECOVERY
—A.R. Ammons (1926-2001)
All afternoon
the tree shadows, accelerating,
lengthened
till
sunset
shot them black into infinity:
next morning
darkness
returned from the other
infinity and the
shadows caught ground
and through the morning, slowing,
hardened into noon.
___________________
Fine poems and artwork by Joyce Odam this morning, and many thanks to her for starting our Tuesday off right! A. R. Ammons has been a great favorite of mine over the years. Today's LittleNip is the poem that Joyce patterned her "One of Night's Dark Stories" after, using his syllabic structure: 4, 9, 2, 1, 2, 9, 3, 2, 5, 5, 4, 7.
Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets today from 5-7pm in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy.; or you can ride down to Modesto for Queen Bean’s March Poetry Night open mic from 7-10pm (sign-ups at 6:30pm), 1126 14th St. in Modesto. And the Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems meets tonight at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.), 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info). Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
Our new Seed of the Week is “So Mad I Could…” 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
“Thither” Mural from the Temple of Longing
—Painting by Paul Klee
—Painting by Paul Klee
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.