Tuesday, October 01, 2019

Teach Me, Winds ~

Philosophic Musing
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA



SHALE DREAM
  
… a wide rock road becoming narrow
shale, slipping away under my footsteps,
falling into canyons—at first I was driv-
ing a car on

a rocky path, now the car is parked like a
toy in its misdirection, a slow rumble of
thunder hanging like dread, I balance on
sharp, slick

peaks in a wet gray wind—cold darkness
coming on—someone calling out instruc-
tions—holding out a hand—the glass I hold

impedes my rescue—finally I realize that
if I put the glass down with one hand I can
reach out with the other, but when I put the

glass down it falls with a magnified clatter,
and I am still precarious, but now I can al-
most reach the fingers …



 Part of Memory



DRAWING HER PRETTY LEGS

I must draw this horse as I drew my mother once,
out of reality into love—as I saw her—
through a second-story window,
only her upper torso visible, so I drew her
on the outside of the house—her reality—her
pretty legs. The teacher corrected my perspective.

                                ~~~

The horse is so patient for me—standing in a field of
burnt shadows, half hidden in tall red grass—
as if afire in that dark light.
I draw it on a platform,
beginning a slow and musical circle; I hug
its neck—my mother, from her blurry circle, watching.


(first pub. in Nanny Fanny, 2002)   



Compass
 


DISTANCE SONG

Teach me your song,
winds that have known the farthest seas,
teach me your song.
Out of the east you bring along
a nightingale’s tune that distance frees,
leaving me stirred and on my knees.
Teach me your song.

                                          
(first pub. in Hartford Times, 1961)

________________

DICTION
After Young Woman with a Parrot, 1866
by Édouard Manet,


What would she teach the parrot to say?
Her hand forms a word
to emphasize the sound from her mouth.

The mute parrot listens, cocking
an ear and turning a comprehensive eye
to the sound it would emulate.

                                       
(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2003)

_________________

PATENT LEATHER

I remember the shoes with the taps on them, given to me
by a teacher who didn’t like my shoes with holes, who didn’t
appreciate my ingenuity of cardboard soles, who hoped my
mother wouldn’t mind, but that’s what the charity closet was
for—and she handed me the just-like-new pair of shiny, black-
patent-leather shoes that tapped so loud when I walked back
and forth to school—shoes that I felt I didn’t deserve because
I couldn’t even dance.



 Curve



THE HUMILITY OF THE CLIMB

Loving the mountains we climb—
ever with difficulty and patience,
knowing that when we reach the
peak we will look around and
marvel at our dedication and
accomplishment and if we
survive we will climb
back down and tell
of our suffering
and joy and re-
serve the
praise of envy that we feel.
Why is this so important to us?



 Precision



OH BRITTLE WORLD,

I knew you first as whole,
before earthquakes and floods
and damaging thoughts.

I loved your stars and animals,
the helpless and serene, the
teachers and lovers who shone in my life.

Oh, brittle world, we were holy.
I loved my life—and yours.
The old gods rested in our absence.

The black sky
shimmered its endless stars
like burning messages

I saw and believed in light.
I held as long as I could
the truths from the questions…

Now I pray through my bones
for the healing I crave. I waver.
I stand firm.  I bless my effort.

I trace my life with a broken finger
across the ragged map of existence,
oh, brittle world.



 Autumn Abstract



THIS HOUR, FULL OF OLD TWILIGHT

Mark you, my love, this hour—dwindling
and slow—full of old twilight,
heavy with summer.

How certain we’ve been of everything we know
which is only what we sieve
out of pour and clog,

how we waste what we want
out of squander. Note how easily
we’ve become our own shadows, lacking detail

and substance, assuming the thoughts
of darkness, how silence expands and surrounds
where we are to each other.

How easily we say what is true
and untrue, though we mean them differently.
We are through with our sadness.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ALAS AND ALACK,

two words
that wallow up and instruct me.

Am I dense? Am I slow?
do I know and not know?

The place of language
is critical to the ear.

Strange is strange if it is not
familiar.

It is alas and alack when the despair
that wallows up is linked with long ago.

—Joyce Odam

___________________

Here we are on the first day of October, with another installment of fine poems and seasonal photos by Joyce Odam—and our thanks for that! Our new Seed of the Week is “Insolence I Have Known”. 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.

Tonight (Tues. 10/1) from 5-7pm, Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around takes place in El Dorado Hills at the library, 7455 Silva Valley Pkwy. Suggested topic for October is "scarecrow," but other subjects also welcome. 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, celebrating the insolence of poets ~



 —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.