Cobwebs of Time

In the Cue of Time

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

AS IF ALL TIME

somewhere
my death sits waiting
with gifts of apples
in his lap
smiling into the direction
from which i will come
and practicing
the word he will say

it is a brimming afternoon
everything lazy and green
and young
and he has eloquent eyes
for me to enter
when i see him waiting there
as if all time
were his to have
beneath that tree


(first pub. in Sou’wester, 1971)

 This Dark Horse

ANOTHER TIME

I found this place, then left this place,
to better remember it.

I let myself get lost so I could learn
to trust myself.

This place is where I ‘be’ sometimes,
remembering it again.

It changes every time,
from one memory to another.

It, itself, is without description—that
would destroy my love for it.

Each time must be new for it to be mine,
and no one else’s—though I am not selfish.

Sometimes I see you there again
in each other’s moment—

or timelessness—such a rare word,
time.

 Almost a Butterfly

THE BLUE CROW IN TIME’S DISRUPTIVE MOMENT

As the swift day moves, Blue Crow shines in the half-light
of dusk, forgetting what it knows. Its gold eye burns in the
slanted, lowering light. It seems fastened, timeless, painted
there in captive colors, absolved of all instinct—

but the image does not hold, Blue Crow flies off in abrupt,
erratic flight, leaving an after-image of itself. Or did it mere-
ly lift and return in a shift of illusion—something to wonder
about in this deceptive light.

___________________

EYE
After Blind Time I, 1973 by Robert Morris

Iris—opening to a shatter of light
through a tangle of eyelashes
and disbelief—blinking to be sure

this is what it sees—
this pattern upon whiteness.
Where has everything gone;

what power of anesthesia is it
struggling through—or is it only
something caught in the eye:

cobweb of time,
failure to translate,
distortion of normalcy—

what flares
for a reeling moment—
how real is this?

 The Cutting Moon

TIME AS DISTANCE

On such nights she appears in
her long gray dress and hat, a
weighted purse dangling from
her bent arm that balances the
book she reads. The white fence
follows the known route, lit by
the dim light of the street lamp.
The gate remains closed. The
church spire in the background
hovers above the small church
slowly vanishing into the gray
shadows. The book has reached
the center point. She does not
lift her eyes nor break her step.
She reaches the corner where
she always turns—back to the
house she remembers—the face
still in the window—her own.
For centuries thus has it been.
She worries how she can ever
reach the end of the book with
its message or information she
must memorize before the first
ray of sun strikes the horizon.

 Semihemidemiquaver (Sixty-fourth Note)
 

Musics over time

still play
and the air holds them
and carries them in its currents,

blending them with echoes
and dark planes of silences—
magnifying

all the
distortions
and restorings

that come again into memories
that feel the recognition—
time-saved,

and interchanged,
musics and the voices
with all the cursings and cryings

and even the brooding thoughts
that join the vast releasings
that are borne into each other

that change the air
that we breathe
and the trees that filter and absorb.

____________________

In the certain vanity of oblique time,
 
sent forth to claim you from your
errant mind on its false journeys—
back and forth from real

to conjured acts of your reality—
how do you count the fraying hours
that are night—

or wasted ones
of days that pull you forward
into repetitious, common grays?

Monotonies. Oh, you are right
to not stay in the pull of moments
that persuade you deeper into

their design—which is to take you
deeper into that abyss
of disappearance.

Picture them as servants of despair
whose only work is that
of guiding you

into the dreaded emptiness you know
is there. They were as you:
timeless, ageless,

immortal to the core.
Now look at them—transparent
and bereaved—with but one mission more.

 Times Blue

A TIME AND PLACE
                       
for purple candles
and for music
for some lazy time of

day-dreaming
for light that falls in a
certain way

where you like to look
there light the candles
play the music

let your thoughts be tranquil
close away
whatever needs closing

in a place of private storage
under purple tassels
and embossed shadow

leave open what you love
life is yours
give it your happiness

___________________

Today’s Middle-sized Nip:
 
TIME SPIN
—Joyce Odam

        Unfold your own myth.
                          —Rumi


This is a day for veils,
one for the dance,
and one for the refusal.

The room is empty
but for the dancer.
There is no music.

The veils impede.
The shyness will not relent.
The dancer must learn the dance.

Time is useless. It drags and flattens.
The room spins and the dancer
falls to the floor.

Someone
applauds.
A discordant music begins.

__________________

Our gratitude to Joyce Odam for her muse’s musings today about time and its many dimensions (“It drags and flattens”) as we move through this spare time (also our Seed of the Week) that has been handed to us by the coronavirus. Our new Seed of the Week is "Essentials". 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.

Tomorrow is April 1—not only April Fool’s Day—  🤪    —but also the first day of National Poetry Month, sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. While you wait for it, here’s a site to look at to get you into the spirit: poets.org/national-poetry-month/.

—Medusa

 —Public Domain Photo
“Life is yours… give it your happiness…”

—Joyce Odam

 

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.