The Mischief-Maker
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE ENTERTAINMENT
We are sent to kill each other but we fall in love.
Whatever is wrong between us is confessed and
forgiven, though we have nothing to confess;
though there is nothing to be forgiven.
I leave a trail for you to follow. It is an
ambush. You dare not trust me. I dare not warn
you. Nothing is changed between us. We are old-
fashioned, used to our old methods which others
love about us. We are always “The Entertainment”.
Tonight we are summoned again for our sadness.
Busted
INFLUENCE
The children of the blind woman must run blind-
folded through the house. The children of the blind
woman must never pray to light. The children of
the blind woman must touch at Braille with covered
fingers. The children of the blind woman can only
see at night.
The children of the deaf woman must speak only in
a whisper. The children of the deaf woman must
wipe their mouth with tears. The children of the deaf
woman must not let music near them. The children
of the deaf woman must wear cotton in their ears.
The children of the mute woman must be eloquent
as silence. The children of the mute woman must
never use their voice. The children of the mute woman
must pantomime to please her. The children of the
mute woman must wear language on their face.
But the children of the woman who is mad and arm-
less must ever fear the lashing of her tongue, and the
children of the woman who is sane and perfect will
know who they can never quite become.
The children of the blind woman must run blind-
folded through the house. The children of the blind
woman must never pray to light. The children of
the blind woman must touch at Braille with covered
fingers. The children of the blind woman can only
see at night.
The children of the deaf woman must speak only in
a whisper. The children of the deaf woman must
wipe their mouth with tears. The children of the deaf
woman must not let music near them. The children
of the deaf woman must wear cotton in their ears.
The children of the mute woman must be eloquent
as silence. The children of the mute woman must
never use their voice. The children of the mute woman
must pantomime to please her. The children of the
mute woman must wear language on their face.
But the children of the woman who is mad and arm-
less must ever fear the lashing of her tongue, and the
children of the woman who is sane and perfect will
know who they can never quite become.
She Did It !! No, SHE Did It !!
THE UNCOMELY CHILD
After A Little Girl, 1920,
a painting by Chaim Soutine
Oh, you who are yet a child,
Oh, you who are yet a child,
though dated by an old dead
calendar, your future cruelty
already forming on your face,
your hands
clenched together as if to trap
clenched together as if to trap
yourself
somewhere out of reach, your
somewhere out of reach, your
eyes are the eyes of the oldest
anger. The shadows
behind you press forward in a
behind you press forward in a
churn of discontent. The hour
is sickly green, it darkens
down and wears the light out
and grows too
heavy for you, for now you
heavy for you, for now you
are grimly obedient, letting
some brief eternity name you
important. But Soutine has
found you out…
he makes the paint thicker,
he makes the paint thicker,
denser, you are stuck there
forever, your face in a pout,
your orange dress wrinkled
and soiled and your
hair a mess—your angry
hair a mess—your angry
mouth looks like it was just
washed out with soap—what
ever did you say to make
everyone so mad?
____________________
THE MUD CHILDREN
After 1996 Datebook: A Collection of Images
—Photographs by Anne Geddes
The mud children hide inside the mud, close their
mouths and eyes, breathe without suffocation,
lean into each other, hands on each other’s
shoulders, heads touching, to please the camera.
They enter the posed sleep of waiting and must not
waken until it rains. They are dates on a calendar,
filling their page, matched to opposite columns
of July, numbered 14 through 20. Three of them
are missing, escaped, or lost, or refusing to play.
The four who remain must stay at the age they
are, will never count themselves older. The pages
are stuck together now, coated with mud. Perhaps
a flood of emotion stops here. Perhaps a storm
came through the pages and sealed them shut—
No rain yet, only the swollen year, the mud-stuck
children still waiting for the rain to release them.
____________________
THE MUD CHILDREN
After 1996 Datebook: A Collection of Images
—Photographs by Anne Geddes
The mud children hide inside the mud, close their
mouths and eyes, breathe without suffocation,
lean into each other, hands on each other’s
shoulders, heads touching, to please the camera.
They enter the posed sleep of waiting and must not
waken until it rains. They are dates on a calendar,
filling their page, matched to opposite columns
of July, numbered 14 through 20. Three of them
are missing, escaped, or lost, or refusing to play.
The four who remain must stay at the age they
are, will never count themselves older. The pages
are stuck together now, coated with mud. Perhaps
a flood of emotion stops here. Perhaps a storm
came through the pages and sealed them shut—
No rain yet, only the swollen year, the mud-stuck
children still waiting for the rain to release them.
I Did Not !!!
NOT TO HOLD
From what
do you run,
swift-silver boy,
elusive as sunbeams
on the floor.
We put our hands
right through you!
You are made of
light and air
and nothing more.
You laugh to see us
hold you in our minds
and you
materialize for one
bewildered question,
then your answer
scatters sun-dust
through the door.
Mommy... !!!
PRETENDINGS
the children float away
from the grasp of their mothers
they are
pretending
bluebirds fly beside them
singing blue lullabies
the mothers reach dreamlike arms
toward the children
the children find a circle
and slip through
the mothers’ blue and hollow
voices float after them
__________________
now the world
Ice Splitting, Lake Baikal, Siberia
is split
it is tearing in half at the long seam of the ocean
and beneath the waterfall of the mountain.
I hear it crack in the silence of
inattention.
something like a soft cry
or a low
moan
somewhere between
hell and heaven
a width children could
still jump across
I see the shadow
widening
and how deep
it goes
deeper by the years
and decades
sunsets echo it—
strange clue—
formations cross the sky
sky song asking why
Teddy's Sorry
NIGHT THOUGHTS
He throws his net out
over the cluttered air of night.
His body strains forward;
he gleams in the moonlight.
He catches dreams and worries,
he catches terrors and dyings.
His back is turned to us.
He does not know we are watching.
He does not know we fill his skies
so his net will never be empty.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NOVELLA
—Joyce Odam
We who are made of twilight
taste and go
beyond the seasons
to the tide of fame and reasons
____________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s poetry and photos as she explores the concept of “Little Monsters”, our latest Seed of the Week. Our new Seed of the Week is Lunacy. 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.
For subtler meanings of “lunacy”, see www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lunacy/.
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo
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