There’s a Crack in the World
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
PROPHETIC DREAMING
every night the horse gallops through the frantic
dream through the white trees in the moonlight
carrying the frightened princess away from
the danger—everywhere now . . .
the horse
never catches
its flowing mane in
the rustling branches,
or loses its footing in
the agitated roots or in
the loosening stones of
the wakening woods
that have only one
way through . . .
do not worry—this is a story I made up to scare you :
the princess is the dreamer—the horse is the memory
the princess will lose when the dream is over . . . .
every night the horse gallops through the frantic
dream through the white trees in the moonlight
carrying the frightened princess away from
the danger—everywhere now . . .
the horse
never catches
its flowing mane in
the rustling branches,
or loses its footing in
the agitated roots or in
the loosening stones of
the wakening woods
that have only one
way through . . .
do not worry—this is a story I made up to scare you :
the princess is the dreamer—the horse is the memory
the princess will lose when the dream is over . . . .
Tangle of Branches
RENDITIONS
Assignment: the poem, “Novella”, by Adrienne Rich
In the first alcove sits the resignating shadow of a mourner,
contemplating grief, rosary hands moving in mumbled prayer.
A gray bird sings outside a window with a human voice, but in
a foreign tongue, then stretches out its wings and flies away.
A woman stops at a shop window to admire her reflection.
She considers buying the red dress on the slender mannequin.
An ill child dreams of her future : she is a circus performer on
a wild white horse galloping round and around a burning ring.
In the first alcove, the figure rises and becomes visible, going
through a red velvet curtain into room after room after room.
The horse stumbles. The quick child does a beautiful somersault
off and onto its back again as the horse regains its footing.
The woman crosses the street in the rain, contemplating
regret and weariness. She clutches a package under her arm.
The gray bird knows its reflection is false; knows there is
no sky there; knows the ill child will ask it to sing again.
(prev. pub. in Mud Creek, 1990 and Tiger’s Eye, 2006)
__________________
THE LANDSCAPE OF THE NIGHT ROOM
After Leonara Carrington, Self-Portrait (II)
À L’Auberge du Cheval d’Aube, c. 1938
The room has blocked me in. The curtains
are a white frill draped at a dark window—
night crowding in. I press myself against
the shadows and become the wall.
Dreams amuse me. I am wearing my
riding costume to ride the white horse
of night, though it is rocking on its
wooden rails and stays aloof from me.
I let myself go wild—wait for the
mother-beast to give me her instructions.
She appears and prowls the expanding room
then hunches back and sniffs at the air
to warn me. Every night is like this.
I stiffen on the ruffled chair and brace
for transformation—dare not look at myself,
though there is no mirror here. The horse
is a wall-shadow now and the mother-beast
is gone. My crib stands empty on the
other side of the room. The dream chair
holds me in its satin arms. The window
floats off into a dreamy distance of its own.
Assignment: the poem, “Novella”, by Adrienne Rich
In the first alcove sits the resignating shadow of a mourner,
contemplating grief, rosary hands moving in mumbled prayer.
A gray bird sings outside a window with a human voice, but in
a foreign tongue, then stretches out its wings and flies away.
A woman stops at a shop window to admire her reflection.
She considers buying the red dress on the slender mannequin.
An ill child dreams of her future : she is a circus performer on
a wild white horse galloping round and around a burning ring.
In the first alcove, the figure rises and becomes visible, going
through a red velvet curtain into room after room after room.
The horse stumbles. The quick child does a beautiful somersault
off and onto its back again as the horse regains its footing.
The woman crosses the street in the rain, contemplating
regret and weariness. She clutches a package under her arm.
The gray bird knows its reflection is false; knows there is
no sky there; knows the ill child will ask it to sing again.
(prev. pub. in Mud Creek, 1990 and Tiger’s Eye, 2006)
__________________
THE LANDSCAPE OF THE NIGHT ROOM
After Leonara Carrington, Self-Portrait (II)
À L’Auberge du Cheval d’Aube, c. 1938
The room has blocked me in. The curtains
are a white frill draped at a dark window—
night crowding in. I press myself against
the shadows and become the wall.
Dreams amuse me. I am wearing my
riding costume to ride the white horse
of night, though it is rocking on its
wooden rails and stays aloof from me.
I let myself go wild—wait for the
mother-beast to give me her instructions.
She appears and prowls the expanding room
then hunches back and sniffs at the air
to warn me. Every night is like this.
I stiffen on the ruffled chair and brace
for transformation—dare not look at myself,
though there is no mirror here. The horse
is a wall-shadow now and the mother-beast
is gone. My crib stands empty on the
other side of the room. The dream chair
holds me in its satin arms. The window
floats off into a dreamy distance of its own.
Rumor
THE HORSE IN THE FIELD
the polka dot horse in the field
the black and white
only polka dot horse in the world
(at least in this field)
his name is not known to me
so I call him Horse
and say to him
Horse, you are so beautiful
and he does not lift his head from the ground
for he is
shy
and he does not know me
(prev. pub. in Sunrust, 1989)
the polka dot horse in the field
the black and white
only polka dot horse in the world
(at least in this field)
his name is not known to me
so I call him Horse
and say to him
Horse, you are so beautiful
and he does not lift his head from the ground
for he is
shy
and he does not know me
(prev. pub. in Sunrust, 1989)
One More Breath
FANTASY OF RISK,
lest it be a statue, where we saw a black horse
stretched to whole length on reared legs in a
droll woods—a tiny girl in a child’s saddle
posing for dangerous-effect—waiting for
the camera click—the child poised and
unafraid—the day, a cold one—white
sky background—no one around to
thrill, or wonder : whose horse ?
whose child ? what reason ?—
the power, and the patience
to conquer levitation of
the mutual mind : the
watcher and the one
who proves, through
disbelief, what art
can do with art—
model—trust of
child and horse
that belongs
to her since
birth of
both—
they swore.
___________________
AFTER CHAGALL
(The Cattle Dealer by Marc Chagall)
Perhaps the cow in the cart is tired and the woman just
wants to walk. The man looks back and makes his whip
do a bright dance in the air. The white horse plods along
with her foal riding upside down inside of her. The cart
jolts over the bumps and lulls the cow to sleep. A roadside
couple quarrel to the night. The night is as blue as a dream.
The walking woman carries a goat, or a heavy child, or a
sack of anger. The man with the whip kicks the horse in
the rump. Home! he cries; Home! And the small hills roll
themselves forward.
(prev. pub. in Ekphrasis, 2007)
lest it be a statue, where we saw a black horse
stretched to whole length on reared legs in a
droll woods—a tiny girl in a child’s saddle
posing for dangerous-effect—waiting for
the camera click—the child poised and
unafraid—the day, a cold one—white
sky background—no one around to
thrill, or wonder : whose horse ?
whose child ? what reason ?—
the power, and the patience
to conquer levitation of
the mutual mind : the
watcher and the one
who proves, through
disbelief, what art
can do with art—
model—trust of
child and horse
that belongs
to her since
birth of
both—
they swore.
___________________
AFTER CHAGALL
(The Cattle Dealer by Marc Chagall)
Perhaps the cow in the cart is tired and the woman just
wants to walk. The man looks back and makes his whip
do a bright dance in the air. The white horse plods along
with her foal riding upside down inside of her. The cart
jolts over the bumps and lulls the cow to sleep. A roadside
couple quarrel to the night. The night is as blue as a dream.
The walking woman carries a goat, or a heavy child, or a
sack of anger. The man with the whip kicks the horse in
the rump. Home! he cries; Home! And the small hills roll
themselves forward.
(prev. pub. in Ekphrasis, 2007)
Of Mind
THE CONNECTION
After Cover Image: Pegasus by Dick Schmidt,
photographed on Kauai after Hurricane Iniki, 1992
The horse races along with a white bird
as companion.
They follow the urge of the free spirit
that flows between them.
The green trees
blur past.
The brown horse stretches out his lean length
into the rhythm.
They are in a race for existence,
they do not care who wins.
The free spirit urges them on—
the trees blur—and the horse reaches—
and the white bird is wing-close—
they share the same distance.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2019)
Else
THE HORSE SHOW WINNER
The horse jumps the red gate poles
with ease, and being proud,
holds himself there
while the cameras take his picture;
and the rider, high and weightless
in the stirrups,
feels the held moment
and balances with the horse;
and the white flag holds its flutter
in the breeze, and the halted shadow
on the ground waits to reconnect
when the hooves come down.
___________________
THE NEVER-ENDING CONVERSATION
After Never-Ending Conversation (Claudia Bernardi)
and Broken Death (Carlos Cartegena)
I Ghostly . . .
They speak in voices audible only to each other.
A glow of flame fills the distance, a glow of blue
falls upon them from the day in its ending.
They are a mixture of pigment and clay,
a red sun rises through the dark—or is it the moon?
It is the moon.
White scars of old wounds show through the liquid bodies.
They speak without animation.
They are trimmed down to shadow.
Their voices are hollow.
They love each other, still, and in spite of.
All difference is gone.
All sameness remains the same.
They speak of this together. They do not touch each other.
II One frees the other now . . .
And in the otherness, a black horse is without its rider.
It is tethered to the red moonlight
and frightened by the flow of gold light it stomps upon.
____________________
It is a chasm of decision the rider cannot make.
He has fallen into one dimension from another.
He is separate from everything known.
His confusion is an anger—what can he do
but yell and raise his weapon.
____________________
The black horse whinnies. One frees the other now—
half in gold fire / red fire,
they struggle to live the only way they can :
apart : horseless rider—riderless horse.
III They appear as art . . .
In the third finality, which is finished, they appear
as art : pigments on paper, fragment and whole,
still-lives caught in mid-motion, still connected
to the other, effort and failure, effort and gain,
nothing is lost of them—again and again—
visual and audible, without emotion.
The horse jumps the red gate poles
with ease, and being proud,
holds himself there
while the cameras take his picture;
and the rider, high and weightless
in the stirrups,
feels the held moment
and balances with the horse;
and the white flag holds its flutter
in the breeze, and the halted shadow
on the ground waits to reconnect
when the hooves come down.
___________________
THE NEVER-ENDING CONVERSATION
After Never-Ending Conversation (Claudia Bernardi)
and Broken Death (Carlos Cartegena)
I Ghostly . . .
They speak in voices audible only to each other.
A glow of flame fills the distance, a glow of blue
falls upon them from the day in its ending.
They are a mixture of pigment and clay,
a red sun rises through the dark—or is it the moon?
It is the moon.
White scars of old wounds show through the liquid bodies.
They speak without animation.
They are trimmed down to shadow.
Their voices are hollow.
They love each other, still, and in spite of.
All difference is gone.
All sameness remains the same.
They speak of this together. They do not touch each other.
II One frees the other now . . .
And in the otherness, a black horse is without its rider.
It is tethered to the red moonlight
and frightened by the flow of gold light it stomps upon.
____________________
It is a chasm of decision the rider cannot make.
He has fallen into one dimension from another.
He is separate from everything known.
His confusion is an anger—what can he do
but yell and raise his weapon.
____________________
The black horse whinnies. One frees the other now—
half in gold fire / red fire,
they struggle to live the only way they can :
apart : horseless rider—riderless horse.
III They appear as art . . .
In the third finality, which is finished, they appear
as art : pigments on paper, fragment and whole,
still-lives caught in mid-motion, still connected
to the other, effort and failure, effort and gain,
nothing is lost of them—again and again—
visual and audible, without emotion.
Centered
THE ICE LAKE
In dreaming state you cross the veins of
light and ice, of deep blue sub-levels,
mirrored. Of sun-light, naught is visible;
the light comes from the mind, the open-
ing eyes, the first realizing of where you
are : on a simple white horse that bears
you forth across the seemingly endless
plane that has no borders. Only the dream
holds this together, only the passage in
the dream of this reality in which you
find yourself. The cold expanse of blue
distance competes with time in the eval-
uation : the cracks and expanses criss-
cross, cover, and hide the connections of
fragility. Risk is everywhere. The white
horse shows no panic. You must trust the
horse, the blue ice, the sharp, white ice-
light that marks the points of difference.
You must solve the immense, haphazard
lines of all directions—the vast wave of
tidal white that seems to loom—then stay—
as though waiting for you to cross the
dream the white horse takes you through,
from which you won’t remember waking.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
—William Shakespeare, Henry V
______________________
Joyce Odam has sent us some wild horses of poetry today for our Seed of the Week: “White Horse in Green Pastures”, and we thank her for that! Our new Seed of the Week is “The Death of Spring”. 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.
In dreaming state you cross the veins of
light and ice, of deep blue sub-levels,
mirrored. Of sun-light, naught is visible;
the light comes from the mind, the open-
ing eyes, the first realizing of where you
are : on a simple white horse that bears
you forth across the seemingly endless
plane that has no borders. Only the dream
holds this together, only the passage in
the dream of this reality in which you
find yourself. The cold expanse of blue
distance competes with time in the eval-
uation : the cracks and expanses criss-
cross, cover, and hide the connections of
fragility. Risk is everywhere. The white
horse shows no panic. You must trust the
horse, the blue ice, the sharp, white ice-
light that marks the points of difference.
You must solve the immense, haphazard
lines of all directions—the vast wave of
tidal white that seems to loom—then stay—
as though waiting for you to cross the
dream the white horse takes you through,
from which you won’t remember waking.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
—William Shakespeare, Henry V
______________________
Joyce Odam has sent us some wild horses of poetry today for our Seed of the Week: “White Horse in Green Pastures”, and we thank her for that! Our new Seed of the Week is “The Death of Spring”. 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.
The 200th issue of Joyce's Brevities: A Mini-Mag of Minimalist Poems, done with Co-Editor Robin Gale Odam, is available as a single or a subscription, $1.55 each. Email her at joyceofwords@gmail.com for this journal of short poems by poets far and wide. (200 issues! Wow!)
For “Novella” by Adrienne Rich, go to a.kwikweb.co.za/admincollege/photos/Poem%207%20Eng%20FAL%20Gr%2012%20Novella.pdf/.
______________________
—Medusa
Leonara Carrington Self-Portrait
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.
