In Some Dream Together

The Clown
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

FROM THE CARNIVAL OF DAYS
AND NIGHTS

The clown arrives with his black mask
and signature; he will amuse
with his pointed humor,
wait for the laughter—
who knows him?
who asked him here?
the audience
propped in chairs—
his puppets—
he dances,
he juggles,
he rolls on the floor
to make the spotlight follow him,
he offers the flourish of his autograph
to the first one who finds him funny.
The audience cannot laugh or applaud.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/10)

_____________________

THE OUTDOOR CAFÉ, LATE SUMMER, 1914
After Soir Bleu—1914 by Edward Hopper

Clown sits in nonchalant solitude at the outdoor café in
late summer with lanterns overhead and a sulky woman
approaching. Perhaps they know each other.

Clown has an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He stares at
a bottle and a glass. His hands are folded. Perhaps he is
late for a performance and is loath to go.

Perhaps the others have not noticed him as the woman
has. Her eyes are dark and haughty. She pulls her
shoulders back.

Clown still has not seen her. He seems morose. His
makeup is still fresh, his white costume shrill against
the blue distance behind him.

Suddenly all the tables seem to lift in a mottling of blue
light. The lanterns shift and the woman hesitates behind
his chair.

Clown does not turn around but continues to frown down
at the table—a nearby woman turns to speak to her com-
panion who stares beyond her to the sultry

woman and the clown who seems absolutely removed
from everyone and everything—though everything is
brimming softly around him.

 The Edge

HIS COUNTENANCE

I saw him first on a street of masks.
His eyes were the tortured eyes
of the self-gone mad.
His was the face
of a worshipper
of sad,
and sad beyond sad.
I loved him
at once.
His flesh was stone and his eyes
were dead. I took him home and
put him to bed by the window light
that shone and shone upon
his countenance.
I could not stand his beauty then.
My love for him was not
my own,
nor his.
I should have left
this love
alone.
I should return to where
I let some fatal yearn
play hard with me, for now I own
his misery whose name was love.

__________________

TURNS OF FATE

And we were young and bent on suicide, but friends
dissuaded us—took our hands and ran us along the
beaches—all summer, teasing the waves and watching
the white gulls come down among us—as if they were
tame. But these are lies, of course. I need your attention.
I need you to hold me from what might have been true
if I had known you. Is that why we had no faces—only
those white masks—stark and featureless so no one
would know us, though we cried to be known; is that
how we became anonymous? Where were you then—
my imaginary one—were you on your way to important
appointments—famous and aloof—could I have
touched you?

 The Mirror

THE WALL MURAL

Muraled here for contemplation—or discovery,
whichever is moot—aside from the paleness,
rendered theatrical and sad—with curling

white ribbons—floating—catching on snags
and corners—the faux surface peeling through
the under-painting (the past?) a staircase

and a fence and one high window showing
through. Alongside the largest tear, a clown
and maiden who seem to have gotten free of

the curling picture, standing awed and tentative,
still in costume, not knowing what to make of
change and loss and stunned by circumstance :

How long has it been? Where are they? And
who? And how do they just step from there
into real existence with the night door closing,

its familiar shadow easing over them once again. 

 The Soloist

TRAGEDY AND TRAGEDY, FADING-OUT
After Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau

Where are we now but in some dream
together, emerging a dark woods—

two mimes in white costumes,
wandering through a night-sketch—

late of a country carnival
(how long ago)?

displaced by time, perhaps,
the winter-stricken trees already lonely

for our presence
as we slowly diminish—

two cloud-wisps emulating us—the cold
and following white moon about to weep.

 The Understudy

SACRIFICE

If ever we are sent to guard the stark
un-calibrated dark
let’s use a blindfold to enhance the task—
a simple penance mask—

that none may view our features with concern
and we, thus masked, in turn,
may never look to pity for disguise,
but tantalize our eyes

to beauty that was coveted and lost,
and love’s sad cost,
and only trust the darkness that can hide
all anguishes inside.

 The Ventriloquist

Today’s LittleNip:

THE OLD VENTRILOQUIST
—Joyce Odam

Handsome for a moment, doubled in the mirror
behind him, still in his straight-man costume,

he stares away from himself. His famous profile
shines in the light from a stage, which is empty.

Two puppets rehearse the pathos of their lines.
They don’t want to lose him.

__________________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for clowning around with us today, as we continue to try to brighten up the world by talking about the vivid colors and goodwill of the clown, our recent Seed of the Week.

Our new Seed of the Week is Pockets. 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 upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________________

—Medusa

 —Public Domain Illustration

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.