Even As A Child
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
TEASE IN A SLEAZE
After Silent Partner
by Ray Caesar, 2009
The only adornment now
is her exaggeration—
posed like a siren,
one arm akimbo
on top of
her tiny
bureau,
painted
white,
her tiny purse,
a-dangle from
her black-gloved hand
—one hip in a sway
to convey her sexy angle
—her vanity—hers alone—
her devil-may-care look,
eyes half-closed. Only
the taunting hour knows
how slow it goes. She has
decades to go before she grows
into a seasoned Movie Queen,
Imaginary— Sinful— Evil—
with writhing tentacles beneath
her flowing gown to protect her.
Flirty Gertie is what she calls herself—
at thirteen, to the innocence of her mirror.
After Silent Partner
by Ray Caesar, 2009
The only adornment now
is her exaggeration—
posed like a siren,
one arm akimbo
on top of
her tiny
bureau,
painted
white,
her tiny purse,
a-dangle from
her black-gloved hand
—one hip in a sway
to convey her sexy angle
—her vanity—hers alone—
her devil-may-care look,
eyes half-closed. Only
the taunting hour knows
how slow it goes. She has
decades to go before she grows
into a seasoned Movie Queen,
Imaginary— Sinful— Evil—
with writhing tentacles beneath
her flowing gown to protect her.
Flirty Gertie is what she calls herself—
at thirteen, to the innocence of her mirror.
Everland
BLACK GOWN STUDY
After Homes for the Disembodied
by Mary Tuma
Black dresses
hang
in high-
fashion
mourning—
ceiling to floor—
trailing into
each other like a path
of grief
made of tear-water.
Though bodiless,
a sympathy can be felt
for them, hanging so starkly
black
and sheer
as if a message
of confession :
gowns of surrender;
gowns of release
from all their vanities
and fatal loves.
No breeze
disturbs them
in this bright gallery.
They hang as a study of
silence, wearing dust and light
like penance (though one dress turns
at this—upon its hanger—and a shudder is
felt, for what can this mean unless a way to disagree).
After Homes for the Disembodied
by Mary Tuma
Black dresses
hang
in high-
fashion
mourning—
ceiling to floor—
trailing into
each other like a path
of grief
made of tear-water.
Though bodiless,
a sympathy can be felt
for them, hanging so starkly
black
and sheer
as if a message
of confession :
gowns of surrender;
gowns of release
from all their vanities
and fatal loves.
No breeze
disturbs them
in this bright gallery.
They hang as a study of
silence, wearing dust and light
like penance (though one dress turns
at this—upon its hanger—and a shudder is
felt, for what can this mean unless a way to disagree).
Angelic
A HISTORY OF TEARS
This dimensionless depth, this brimming pond,
a fringe of light encroaching—squeezing in.
What does she look for in this black water—
her own reflection. She has become
a silhouette. Night redeems her.
She steps in. It is shallow.
She bends to splash herself,
feel the ripples begin. The water
pulls down, draws her into her reflection.
She will meet herself in the future—
this is where it begins—
this small black lake of her own weeping.
(first pub. in Poetry Now, 1998)
_____________________
THE MUSIC IN THE WATER
It is the music in the water when I look in
the moon flows through my hair
fish dart through my eyes
my hand meets my hand and the world trembles
I take the cold to my body like a dream
a star falls
I watch it float
a black leaf drifts down over my shoulder
(first pub. in Rattle, 2004)
This dimensionless depth, this brimming pond,
a fringe of light encroaching—squeezing in.
What does she look for in this black water—
her own reflection. She has become
a silhouette. Night redeems her.
She steps in. It is shallow.
She bends to splash herself,
feel the ripples begin. The water
pulls down, draws her into her reflection.
She will meet herself in the future—
this is where it begins—
this small black lake of her own weeping.
(first pub. in Poetry Now, 1998)
_____________________
THE MUSIC IN THE WATER
It is the music in the water when I look in
the moon flows through my hair
fish dart through my eyes
my hand meets my hand and the world trembles
I take the cold to my body like a dream
a star falls
I watch it float
a black leaf drifts down over my shoulder
(first pub. in Rattle, 2004)
Singing
BLED
I float through red lines
of light—float down
through the image
of myself
in mirage of water,
oh,
sweet
falling,
the soft air
changing color.
I enter
the blackness
of some far away sound.
It holds me
like a long-sustained note.
I am the silence of its calling.
I float through red lines
of light—float down
through the image
of myself
in mirage of water,
oh,
sweet
falling,
the soft air
changing color.
I enter
the blackness
of some far away sound.
It holds me
like a long-sustained note.
I am the silence of its calling.
My Pose
THE POWER OF BLACK THOUGHT
After Approaching Thunder Storm
by Martin Johnson Heade
Across the black water, everything is still.
Black clouds have stopped their heavy movement.
A last white sail stays stranded where it is.
This is the stillness of time’s promise,
the last moment that will move
to your awareness—
what your mind creates
out of your will,
your wish
to hold this place
away from all intrusion.
This is where the night will end—
letting the last shudder of light go out.
You alone can stop this, but you are in agreement
with the dark. Such is the power of black thought.
___________________
TRIANGLES OF TIME
After The Furniture of Time
by Yves Tanguy, 1939
There was one landscape left, marked by the indescribable
leavings of a ruined world. Here and there a shadow
moved, pitiful and dead.
Winds came to moan forever their laments. Bird ghosts
hovered. Something final crumbled at the horizon.
A thin, lone creature loped away.
The sun came up and went down like lead. The world
was black and white. An old desire gave up its wanting.
Time itself gave up its counting.
Somewhere a dreamer stirred under a heavy dream and
tried to waken. In the cradle, a child was dreaming
of its birth, which had just happened.
The moon grew heavy in the sky and needed its reflection.
There was no face of water. The child had already forgotten
how to cry. The bones of music vibrated in the ruined air.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2014)
After Approaching Thunder Storm
by Martin Johnson Heade
Across the black water, everything is still.
Black clouds have stopped their heavy movement.
A last white sail stays stranded where it is.
This is the stillness of time’s promise,
the last moment that will move
to your awareness—
what your mind creates
out of your will,
your wish
to hold this place
away from all intrusion.
This is where the night will end—
letting the last shudder of light go out.
You alone can stop this, but you are in agreement
with the dark. Such is the power of black thought.
___________________
TRIANGLES OF TIME
After The Furniture of Time
by Yves Tanguy, 1939
There was one landscape left, marked by the indescribable
leavings of a ruined world. Here and there a shadow
moved, pitiful and dead.
Winds came to moan forever their laments. Bird ghosts
hovered. Something final crumbled at the horizon.
A thin, lone creature loped away.
The sun came up and went down like lead. The world
was black and white. An old desire gave up its wanting.
Time itself gave up its counting.
Somewhere a dreamer stirred under a heavy dream and
tried to waken. In the cradle, a child was dreaming
of its birth, which had just happened.
The moon grew heavy in the sky and needed its reflection.
There was no face of water. The child had already forgotten
how to cry. The bones of music vibrated in the ruined air.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2014)
Posture
SILVER MOONLIGHT
O silver moon on dark water,
you alone
make all this beautiful :
the sea
in its quiet
where you make a path
and dark churnings build
while the sky
sleeps on the horizon
and everything looks like
a black-and-white photograph
that one might send home
for the great silence
under the low sea sound
in the peculiar calm of loneliness . . .
O silver moon on dark water,
you alone
make all this beautiful :
the sea
in its quiet
where you make a path
and dark churnings build
while the sky
sleeps on the horizon
and everything looks like
a black-and-white photograph
that one might send home
for the great silence
under the low sea sound
in the peculiar calm of loneliness . . .
Giving
TITHES
She is standing in the way of dying time in her torn
dress, the light behind her darkening her face. She
will not promise what we would have her say : that
beyond her the lions in the grass are gold lions of
heaven who will let us pass to the blue hills where
we can rest.
She says we have to know—have to trust—the desire
of lions—gauge their enigmatic stare at our hesita-
tion, her children playing amid them, dressed in the
same fragmented light she wears. We are here for
mercy and we bring no gifts. We have only ourselves,
weary and beyond redemption.
All we want is to reach beyond the gold lions to the
blue hills, which she says are full of blue shapes of
wolves who wait for our faith to reach them, and who
will then lay themselves at our feet like answered
prayers.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HE TAKES THE SPIDER
OUT TO THE YARD
—Joyce Odam
A huge black spider
in the bathtub—she will not
turn on the water—
but she wants a bath;
he gathers it onto
a piece of cardboard—
gentle as it takes—
and leaves the tub to her;
she pours the musk-lotion in—
turns the water on—full force,
and bends to froth it deeply
with her hand.
_____________________
Joyce Odam has risen to the task of commenting on our current Seed of the Week, an odd one: “We tried hard not to look into the black water, where there might not even be monsters…”—a reminder that it’s easy to be fooled into worrying. Joyce is a master at capturing atmosphere.
Our new Seed of the Week is The First Daffodil. 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.
Of her poems today, Joyce has sent us three ekphrastic ones; if you’d like to see the artwork that these are based on, check the following links:
For more about Homes for the Disembodied by Mary Tuma, go to marytuma.com/homes.html/.
For more about Approaching Thunder Storm by Martin Johnson Heade, see www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/11050/.
For more about The Furniture of Time by Yves Tanguy, see www.moma.org/collection/works/80625/.
Joyce also sent me a ghazal, and I have held it back to be posted this coming Friday on our Form Fiddlers’ Friday feature. Be sure to check it out!
Today at noon, the New Words Festival in England presents Rebecca Goss online. Tickets are available from Eventbrite.
_____________________
—Medusa
She is standing in the way of dying time in her torn
dress, the light behind her darkening her face. She
will not promise what we would have her say : that
beyond her the lions in the grass are gold lions of
heaven who will let us pass to the blue hills where
we can rest.
She says we have to know—have to trust—the desire
of lions—gauge their enigmatic stare at our hesita-
tion, her children playing amid them, dressed in the
same fragmented light she wears. We are here for
mercy and we bring no gifts. We have only ourselves,
weary and beyond redemption.
All we want is to reach beyond the gold lions to the
blue hills, which she says are full of blue shapes of
wolves who wait for our faith to reach them, and who
will then lay themselves at our feet like answered
prayers.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HE TAKES THE SPIDER
OUT TO THE YARD
—Joyce Odam
A huge black spider
in the bathtub—she will not
turn on the water—
but she wants a bath;
he gathers it onto
a piece of cardboard—
gentle as it takes—
and leaves the tub to her;
she pours the musk-lotion in—
turns the water on—full force,
and bends to froth it deeply
with her hand.
_____________________
Joyce Odam has risen to the task of commenting on our current Seed of the Week, an odd one: “We tried hard not to look into the black water, where there might not even be monsters…”—a reminder that it’s easy to be fooled into worrying. Joyce is a master at capturing atmosphere.
Our new Seed of the Week is The First Daffodil. 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.
Of her poems today, Joyce has sent us three ekphrastic ones; if you’d like to see the artwork that these are based on, check the following links:
For more about Homes for the Disembodied by Mary Tuma, go to marytuma.com/homes.html/.
For more about Approaching Thunder Storm by Martin Johnson Heade, see www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/11050/.
For more about The Furniture of Time by Yves Tanguy, see www.moma.org/collection/works/80625/.
Joyce also sent me a ghazal, and I have held it back to be posted this coming Friday on our Form Fiddlers’ Friday feature. Be sure to check it out!
Today at noon, the New Words Festival in England presents Rebecca Goss online. Tickets are available from Eventbrite.
_____________________
—Medusa
Silent Partner by Ray Caesar
For more about Ray Caesar, go to
arthur.io/art/ray-caesar/silent-partner?crtr=1/.
For more about Ray Caesar, go to
arthur.io/art/ray-caesar/silent-partner?crtr=1/.
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.
