Hold the Child

Alto Sax

—Poems and Photos by Joyce ODam, Sacramento, CA

RED HAIR

Natural redheads. Natural
response. Mirrors confirm.

All eyes go toward. Admire.
Hair of fiery look.

Audacity of self-assurance.
Hair that lifts to light.

Has sheen. Pulls self and
others in same distraction.

Admiration: Hey, Red… !
Target for helpless hearts.

Advertisements
love that look. Movies, too.

Little Egyptian bottle.
Henna.

Promise to cure dullness,
ignite with sexy color.

 Augur

THE FIELD COUCH

The field couch is gone, left at the edge
of the sidewalk one furtive night a month ago,
left there to flaunt, to invite, to sag in its plaid ruin
with other rubbish piled and scattered as the tail-
lights sped away. Well, today

it’s gone. Someone took it. And we miss it now,
for the audacity of its signature, for its mystery—
our thing to talk about—our city-thing that we
deplore and can do nothing about. Or maybe

its owner just returned with a pang of conscience,
or family sentiment—as of an old sick dog that one
must face the disposition of. Or maybe someone
just needed a couch. And we didn’t hear or see
anything this time, either.

 Far and Away

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone,
but their pace is faster,
yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged.
The sand grows heavy
under your slowness.
The day will not hurry.
Your eyes are playing tricks,
scouring the distance
which wavers and changes.
There is no one—no one to follow,
only two shadows—
shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven,
living again
some long-ago betrayal,
failure of proof
the distance      ever-widening,
the following as useless as the love.

___________________

THE FRUSTRATED POET
“Shall I compare Thee”—T. Alan Broughton (p. 256, Poetry Daily): "According to early Icelandic law it was a serious offense to address a love poem to a woman, even an unmarried one.”

How will I hide this, and you not know, not fear my ardor,
(suspected or not) not know by my glance, or certain si-
lences (filled with pending). How can I not offend you
with my love poem made of guarded words, or made of
outpourings, I must speak—must overwhelm you—with
my longing. How else can I disobey the old taboos : will
love kill me? cause rumor and shame? must I write this
on silence—hoping you’ll find it and lower your eyes in
my direction and make some sign? O Lady, dare I risk
this poem for you?

__________________

FROM DIN TO QUIET MUSIC

I would be one with this loneliness
here in this center
which can go each way

here where all things coexist
the light flaring down
and the darkness filling

I want to be the light as it disperses
and be the shadow touched
by the dispersing light

I want to be the stillness
that watches this
I want to be the motion that results

Here is a sleeping bird with a silver wing
and a wing of dark. I want to fall asleep
in its eye and be where it is—

alive and alone
in this perfect center
to be no threat and have no foe

and I want to take in a long deep breath
and let out a quiet sigh, the way I do
when I turn from din to quiet music.

 Petals

IN THE GALLERY
After Marcel Duchamp:
The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even, 1915-23
(Oil on lead between glass)
 
Between glass panes, the image struggles,
torn by the light when discovered,

caught as reflection
when eyes glance past—

uneasy at what they imagine:
nothing     is nothing     there,

but nothing      stares back,
defies perception,

impressed by its own distortion—
this abject dance—this shattered resistance.

 Before Dreaming
 

TIMING

I borrow
this lip and this chair
for my speech and comfort,

for my white space of effort
which is a new page
of possibility.

I borrow this old arrow
to be my direction
and my luggage of light.

They will get me there.
All you who wait
on side roads and benches,

I will not rest till you find me,
greedy as a stare.
Oh, failing eyes,

go by me.
It’s all right.
I borrow patience for forgiveness.

 Vessel

SIMPLE THINGS

Fragmentary. This old light out of older light. Repetitions.
Believe in it. Let it lead you into its farther self. You can
go as deep as you dare. Its name is night. It has many stars.
Count them. Take forever. A child sits watching you, blow-
ing soap bubbles into planets. Wings without angels fly
everywhere. Oh, this is such a night. Go with joy, that old
foe of sorrow. Tell the child not to cry. The child does not
listen. The child rubs an old tear into its eye, watching you
for pity. You are both lost and at home in this night-city
which has opened up its wing for you. Do not try to under-
stand this—you are not here. The child has dreamed you.
Hold the child until you die.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RISKING A MORNING WALK
—Joyce Odam

Attacked
by an orange
butterfly, I waver
past—avoiding the shadow of
the crow.

~

The crow—
cawing rudely
at my intrusion on
his path—scolds me so loudly that
I duck.

~

A dog,
sharing the same
sidewalk, sniffs his way past,
taking his rights for granted—same
as me.

___________________

Many thanks to poet/photographer Joyce Odam for her always-welcome contributions today!

I wrote a poem, too:

Lookee, lookee, look at me!
Gorgon’s senile at seventy-three!

I cannot believe that I announced, yesterday, for all the world to see, that it was Columbus Day! If you find my marbles, please mail them to me in a plain, unmarked package…

Our new Seed of the Week is Black Holes. 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, marble-less but still celebrating poetry!

 Medusa

—Anonymous Photo

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.