—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE GHOST ON THE USED-UP ROAD
Hello, the voice says, coming from
the shape of the ghost on the road
made of moonlight and footsteps.
Hello, I answer, and the form that
I sense is beside me says,
Can you love such a stranger?
And I say, Yes I think so,
And the voice says, I am old
you know, only twenty or so
and I have lived a long time before now.
And I smile, Yes, I know, It’s the same with me—
only older and younger. Ghost sighs. And I weep.
And thus we comfort each other.
Hello, the voice says, coming from
the shape of the ghost on the road
made of moonlight and footsteps.
Hello, I answer, and the form that
I sense is beside me says,
Can you love such a stranger?
And I say, Yes I think so,
And the voice says, I am old
you know, only twenty or so
and I have lived a long time before now.
And I smile, Yes, I know, It’s the same with me—
only older and younger. Ghost sighs. And I weep.
And thus we comfort each other.
Hoax
ROADWAYS
roads that wind, roads that narrow, roads
that are made where wilderness resists,
roads through mountains
and roads along the coasts of seas,
roads through abandoned places
where they end
and begin again—
criss-cross in cities,
growing dormant in small towns
overgrown with old tree shadows—
roads beckon and detour,
somewhere— anywhere—
expand the space between, the world
will shrink,
the roads will widen
into restless discovery—end up here
roads that wind, roads that narrow, roads
that are made where wilderness resists,
roads through mountains
and roads along the coasts of seas,
roads through abandoned places
where they end
and begin again—
criss-cross in cities,
growing dormant in small towns
overgrown with old tree shadows—
roads beckon and detour,
somewhere— anywhere—
expand the space between, the world
will shrink,
the roads will widen
into restless discovery—end up here
Bitter Moon
CROSSING THE LIGHT
Pure lines of blue moon shadows
on the road—crossing the light—
the dark.
Trees
imaging horizontal,
stillness moving in optical illusion.
Nothing unsettling :
this is road, mysterious;
here is silence made of beautiful light.
Dark remembers this—
is fortunate for timelessness
caught by moon-shadow on the road.
Pure lines of blue moon shadows
on the road—crossing the light—
the dark.
Trees
imaging horizontal,
stillness moving in optical illusion.
Nothing unsettling :
this is road, mysterious;
here is silence made of beautiful light.
Dark remembers this—
is fortunate for timelessness
caught by moon-shadow on the road.
Windshield
BLUE MOAN
After Tomas Transtrőmer
It was a long row across the river, night and
its death—death and its seam. Morning was
a thin stream of light—though it was night.
Confusion always interrupts at this point—
a wide field of memory in its own beginning,
always backward—a trickle of sound—
I confess my dark wonder—long sigh
of surrender—voice familiar and loving—
urging me to never believe what is not true.
I long back to you, though you are never
there—just another flaw to overcome—
another foggy day—gray straining into blue.
____________________
LANDSCAPES LIKE THIS
The trees stand burning from the center
with a molten glow,
we arrive, time-frozen,
from roads that dwindle here.
The legend is that one has to approach
from myth or superstition—
everything is circular—even
the familiar singing of the fire-birds
that exist here.
We are not to enter, though enticement
is everywhere—the soft wavering—
the clouds that emulate—
as if to argue this, two white trees
stand at the entrance,
stripped of their leaves,
they are the sacrifice—
untouched by any knowing—
that must remain a question.
After Tomas Transtrőmer
It was a long row across the river, night and
its death—death and its seam. Morning was
a thin stream of light—though it was night.
Confusion always interrupts at this point—
a wide field of memory in its own beginning,
always backward—a trickle of sound—
I confess my dark wonder—long sigh
of surrender—voice familiar and loving—
urging me to never believe what is not true.
I long back to you, though you are never
there—just another flaw to overcome—
another foggy day—gray straining into blue.
____________________
LANDSCAPES LIKE THIS
The trees stand burning from the center
with a molten glow,
we arrive, time-frozen,
from roads that dwindle here.
The legend is that one has to approach
from myth or superstition—
everything is circular—even
the familiar singing of the fire-birds
that exist here.
We are not to enter, though enticement
is everywhere—the soft wavering—
the clouds that emulate—
as if to argue this, two white trees
stand at the entrance,
stripped of their leaves,
they are the sacrifice—
untouched by any knowing—
that must remain a question.
Undoing
THE FADING
After Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise, 1874
—Painting by Camille Pissaro (1830-1903)
This is the hour when everything recedes, the woman
walking into dense, unmoving trees—the path dissolv-
ing into easy twilight, the blue horse turning into mist.
The rider enters his silence; the woman echoes this.
What has this to do with love, there is only the slow
obliteration of detail.
The dark will claim them—the path be empty—the
trees enclose the woman—and from a distance, the
horse will neigh.
What has this to do with night, the incidental way they
crossed paths and parted in the tremulous hour when
everything recedes with nothing to say.
After Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise, 1874
—Painting by Camille Pissaro (1830-1903)
This is the hour when everything recedes, the woman
walking into dense, unmoving trees—the path dissolv-
ing into easy twilight, the blue horse turning into mist.
The rider enters his silence; the woman echoes this.
What has this to do with love, there is only the slow
obliteration of detail.
The dark will claim them—the path be empty—the
trees enclose the woman—and from a distance, the
horse will neigh.
What has this to do with night, the incidental way they
crossed paths and parted in the tremulous hour when
everything recedes with nothing to say.
Parley
THE MIRROR AFTER MIDNIGHT
It’s easy enough to send praise into an aftermath.
What we receive of light is the other side of dark.
Who shouts in the hollow becomes echo there.
Here is a word I can use, wet with meaning.
Tears are the salt of grief, joy, and humor. Hollow out
the womb for the lost child. Name it Sorrow.
We are at the service of our souls
which are at the mercy of our lives.
In the stone light
gray thought is manufactured as shadow.
Two who are unnamed
go toward love with fierce anticipation.
The hotels are empty now. They served the lonely
and the lost in their transitions.
It was the gulls, so starkly white in the gray field,
dark skies roiling inward.
Reading it all wrong, that word again, about to break,
like a face left in its mirror before it got old.
It’s easy enough to send praise into an aftermath.
What we receive of light is the other side of dark.
Who shouts in the hollow becomes echo there.
Here is a word I can use, wet with meaning.
Tears are the salt of grief, joy, and humor. Hollow out
the womb for the lost child. Name it Sorrow.
We are at the service of our souls
which are at the mercy of our lives.
In the stone light
gray thought is manufactured as shadow.
Two who are unnamed
go toward love with fierce anticipation.
The hotels are empty now. They served the lonely
and the lost in their transitions.
It was the gulls, so starkly white in the gray field,
dark skies roiling inward.
Reading it all wrong, that word again, about to break,
like a face left in its mirror before it got old.
Private Quill
WORDLESS
Nothing leads me to words
though you speak
though I listen
though I travel what you say
and arrow nowhere . . .
How can this lead the dumb
into eloquence, there is
only the long line of silence
thinning like a road
into a receding horizon . . .
How can the shining silence
reach the urgency of thought
that struggles to transcend
the locked mind that cannot form
the words that poetry demands . . .
_____________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CAR POEM
—Joyce Odam
driving in that rain
distorting darkness
all the roads
glistened with depth and danger
too late even for police cars
where we had been
was important enough to be there
we were part of the storm
our eyes assuming the tense vision
of sleepless travelers
lightning everywhere
the road grabbed into the sky
we followed
______________________________
Thank you to Joyce Odam today, for her poetry and original artwork as she weaves songs and images about our Seed of the Week, “Rainy Forest Road at Midnight”. Our new Seed of the Week is “Lonely Old Apartments”. 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.
To see Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise by Camille Pisarro, go to www.wikiart.org/en/camille-pissarro/sunlight-on-the-road-pontoise-1874/.
______________________________
—Medusa
Nothing leads me to words
though you speak
though I listen
though I travel what you say
and arrow nowhere . . .
How can this lead the dumb
into eloquence, there is
only the long line of silence
thinning like a road
into a receding horizon . . .
How can the shining silence
reach the urgency of thought
that struggles to transcend
the locked mind that cannot form
the words that poetry demands . . .
_____________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CAR POEM
—Joyce Odam
driving in that rain
distorting darkness
all the roads
glistened with depth and danger
too late even for police cars
where we had been
was important enough to be there
we were part of the storm
our eyes assuming the tense vision
of sleepless travelers
lightning everywhere
the road grabbed into the sky
we followed
______________________________
Thank you to Joyce Odam today, for her poetry and original artwork as she weaves songs and images about our Seed of the Week, “Rainy Forest Road at Midnight”. Our new Seed of the Week is “Lonely Old Apartments”. 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.
To see Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise by Camille Pisarro, go to www.wikiart.org/en/camille-pissarro/sunlight-on-the-road-pontoise-1874/.
______________________________
—Medusa
Coming Soon, to a Garden Near You!
—Public Domain 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.
