All of Me
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
ANT
To pity something so small
and get away with it,
watch daylight form at the window,
wear sound, like glass, around you,
that breakable.
Nothing is as easy as love,
or as harmful. Everything
is risk, with or without rules.
Go for the tremble,
like tree-shadow on a wall at night.
Night comes early.
When it does, call it winter.
Save your sympathy
for something worthy.
Even the ant in its tiny struggle.
Lost is lost
for which there is no direction.
Then you’ll know why a map
is useful. Even life as it unfolds,
crease after crease
from so much folding.
Consult the stars.
They too have a reason for being.
Even the darkness mourns,
then surrenders.
Uphill is the only way to go
that is worth the effort.
After words upon words
upon words.
see how small the page is?
To pity something so small
and get away with it,
watch daylight form at the window,
wear sound, like glass, around you,
that breakable.
Nothing is as easy as love,
or as harmful. Everything
is risk, with or without rules.
Go for the tremble,
like tree-shadow on a wall at night.
Night comes early.
When it does, call it winter.
Save your sympathy
for something worthy.
Even the ant in its tiny struggle.
Lost is lost
for which there is no direction.
Then you’ll know why a map
is useful. Even life as it unfolds,
crease after crease
from so much folding.
Consult the stars.
They too have a reason for being.
Even the darkness mourns,
then surrenders.
Uphill is the only way to go
that is worth the effort.
After words upon words
upon words.
see how small the page is?
At the Hour
SCENE FROM ONE OF THE YEARS
In this recall, I am drifting through a year of some-
body’s black and white garden. The land stretches
out from a white two-story house. Clouds hang in
soft clumps against a bright gray sky that is held
in the distant slowness of my eyes. If there are
others in the world, I am removed from them
by this sparse mood of junctured time though
something holds the camera, my serious face
is caught in an expression that I cannot read.
I have just returned from walking through
fields where I went to see the cows—of
which I was afraid and I remember the
cows—how they would turn—each
one to look at me—I was small—
smaller than my fears—which
were many and someone has
abandoned me to my life
with only this remnant
to find and hold me
here, waiting for
myself to come
out of myself
but I never do.
_____________________
THE SILENT GARDEN
I seek the comfort of the flowers where
the garden is the darkest and the glare
of sunlight has not yet become aware.
It does not reach beyond the dappled wall
where songbirds used to sing and so enthrall
—as though you ever needed song at all.
Your flowers are allowed to flaunt themselves,
and scent the air, but birds must hush themselves.
But here is where I go, to listen still—
to where the meadowlark would trill and trill
—and memory of this can thrill and thrill.
Your deafness will not let itself allow
the echoed singing that remembers how
it filled your happy heart that hates it now.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)
In this recall, I am drifting through a year of some-
body’s black and white garden. The land stretches
out from a white two-story house. Clouds hang in
soft clumps against a bright gray sky that is held
in the distant slowness of my eyes. If there are
others in the world, I am removed from them
by this sparse mood of junctured time though
something holds the camera, my serious face
is caught in an expression that I cannot read.
I have just returned from walking through
fields where I went to see the cows—of
which I was afraid and I remember the
cows—how they would turn—each
one to look at me—I was small—
smaller than my fears—which
were many and someone has
abandoned me to my life
with only this remnant
to find and hold me
here, waiting for
myself to come
out of myself
but I never do.
_____________________
THE SILENT GARDEN
I seek the comfort of the flowers where
the garden is the darkest and the glare
of sunlight has not yet become aware.
It does not reach beyond the dappled wall
where songbirds used to sing and so enthrall
—as though you ever needed song at all.
Your flowers are allowed to flaunt themselves,
and scent the air, but birds must hush themselves.
But here is where I go, to listen still—
to where the meadowlark would trill and trill
—and memory of this can thrill and thrill.
Your deafness will not let itself allow
the echoed singing that remembers how
it filled your happy heart that hates it now.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)
Murmurings
IN A JAPANESE GARDEN
I would like to be
alone with my thoughts—
let them find me—
while I stare at a stone
or a leaf
and feel the path wander
away from my feet
feel the sky
the sun
the air
feel space
disappear
feel no other
near . . .
as I enter
the mind of the mind of the mind.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)
Myth
THE BLUE GARDEN
Woman with Peacocks by Louis John Rhead (1857-1926)
(from L’Estampe Moderne, 1897-99)
She strolls the garden
with its ever-winding path
two peacocks strolling alongside
through the blue shade
and the small blue trees—no one
watching though she wears
a rose in her hair
and a long red gown—her mind
on her thoughts
the peacocks endear themselves
leisurely beside her
she murmurs lovingly to them
and they seem to be listening—
a small stirring
of something
following noiselessly behind them.
___________________
IN THE PURPLE GARDEN
are shadows to be known
far in the corner-edge
where the sun sets first
enclosing all
that lingers
out of some dare
or curiosity—
out of some line
of an unfinished poem,
reluctant to continue,
or out of the shadow
that hushes with the flowers—
what sort of garden holds
such mystery
from innocent intruders,
only there to steal—
or only mean to steal
a single flower out of so many . . . ?
Woman with Peacocks by Louis John Rhead (1857-1926)
(from L’Estampe Moderne, 1897-99)
She strolls the garden
with its ever-winding path
two peacocks strolling alongside
through the blue shade
and the small blue trees—no one
watching though she wears
a rose in her hair
and a long red gown—her mind
on her thoughts
the peacocks endear themselves
leisurely beside her
she murmurs lovingly to them
and they seem to be listening—
a small stirring
of something
following noiselessly behind them.
___________________
IN THE PURPLE GARDEN
are shadows to be known
far in the corner-edge
where the sun sets first
enclosing all
that lingers
out of some dare
or curiosity—
out of some line
of an unfinished poem,
reluctant to continue,
or out of the shadow
that hushes with the flowers—
what sort of garden holds
such mystery
from innocent intruders,
only there to steal—
or only mean to steal
a single flower out of so many . . . ?
The Now of Never
MARBLES
he brings me marbles
from a lost garden
under the weeds
in the turned soil
marble after marble
that he brings
for my jar of water
old waiting marbles
that have lain
in the darkness
noting that children
have lost them
years ago
and now they come to eyes
for praise
for appreciation
he has carried them
in his pocket
till he has worn them clean
and then he has
given them to me
one by one
over the thrifty years
after he has turned
all the soil
under and under
finding the pretty ones
the broken ones
all those marbles
that have turned into such an
enviable collection
(prev. pub. in Negativity, 1990)
______________________
STRAW LINES
Thinking past the now of the never,
dreaming through sleep and waking
into more and more of it—
the time left—and the time used,
I will believe what I can of it—
the old mystery and the new
finding—half an answer.
I go to the great bareness
I try to fill with anything
and everything—as though I can.
I still yearn for the unfound
and the lost—none of it myth
or reality—sometimes I want
to wish everything away from me.
he brings me marbles
from a lost garden
under the weeds
in the turned soil
marble after marble
that he brings
for my jar of water
old waiting marbles
that have lain
in the darkness
noting that children
have lost them
years ago
and now they come to eyes
for praise
for appreciation
he has carried them
in his pocket
till he has worn them clean
and then he has
given them to me
one by one
over the thrifty years
after he has turned
all the soil
under and under
finding the pretty ones
the broken ones
all those marbles
that have turned into such an
enviable collection
(prev. pub. in Negativity, 1990)
______________________
STRAW LINES
Thinking past the now of the never,
dreaming through sleep and waking
into more and more of it—
the time left—and the time used,
I will believe what I can of it—
the old mystery and the new
finding—half an answer.
I go to the great bareness
I try to fill with anything
and everything—as though I can.
I still yearn for the unfound
and the lost—none of it myth
or reality—sometimes I want
to wish everything away from me.
Unresolved
THE WORLD . . . THE SUN
When the sun came out this morning it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness. The dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning, everything
that was too fragile thrived then shriveled.
Know that this light is forever. It borders the
cold world and the cold heart alike. It wobbles,
then settles into a golden ring. Bask in it . . . bask
in it . . . let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE ABSTRACT LIGHT
—Joyce Odam
Woman sitting in the garden
in stippled light,
in artist pose.
The abstract light
plays with her face,
her thoughts, her clothes.
Nothing matters but the day
that turns. The hour
slows.
The garden whispers,
spreads its shadows,
glows.
_______________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems today about what goes on in the garden—ants underground, flowers, birds, and ladies swanning about in the morning sun. And, of course, her beautiful flower photos that accompany the beautiful words and thoughts. (And ladies!)
Our new Seed of the Week is "Excuses for Not Writing". 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 more about artist Louis John Rhead, see americanart.si.edu/artist/louis-rhead-4020/. For more about L’Estampe Moderne, see www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/prints/person/42700/l-estampe-moderne/.
______________________
—Medusa
When the sun came out this morning it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness. The dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning, everything
that was too fragile thrived then shriveled.
Know that this light is forever. It borders the
cold world and the cold heart alike. It wobbles,
then settles into a golden ring. Bask in it . . . bask
in it . . . let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE ABSTRACT LIGHT
—Joyce Odam
Woman sitting in the garden
in stippled light,
in artist pose.
The abstract light
plays with her face,
her thoughts, her clothes.
Nothing matters but the day
that turns. The hour
slows.
The garden whispers,
spreads its shadows,
glows.
_______________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems today about what goes on in the garden—ants underground, flowers, birds, and ladies swanning about in the morning sun. And, of course, her beautiful flower photos that accompany the beautiful words and thoughts. (And ladies!)
Our new Seed of the Week is "Excuses for Not Writing". 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 more about artist Louis John Rhead, see americanart.si.edu/artist/louis-rhead-4020/. For more about L’Estampe Moderne, see www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/prints/person/42700/l-estampe-moderne/.
______________________
—Medusa
Woman with Peacocks
—Painting by Louis John Rhead
—Painting by Louis John Rhead
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.
