For All Animals Extinct
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
GOALS
I have been looking for the castle.
It was on this polished landscape.
It shone on the sky for days
while I traveled toward it.
Then I came to this forest that was
deeper than it started out to be,
made of lost directions, moans,
and tangles, but I came through it.
Then this blue desert—a night-scape
upon which pale figures mingled—
real as dreams, pointing
and fluttering their cold dresses.
And now I come to the
castle landmarks, and the signs,
though I can tell by now, up close,
that they are very old.
And some have fallen
and here and there,
a weeping person passes by
in the opposite direction.
But never mind—I think I see a turret
up ahead—and a tall white wall—
and a flag of some kind,
and a gate to enter.
I have been looking for the castle.
It was on this polished landscape.
It shone on the sky for days
while I traveled toward it.
Then I came to this forest that was
deeper than it started out to be,
made of lost directions, moans,
and tangles, but I came through it.
Then this blue desert—a night-scape
upon which pale figures mingled—
real as dreams, pointing
and fluttering their cold dresses.
And now I come to the
castle landmarks, and the signs,
though I can tell by now, up close,
that they are very old.
And some have fallen
and here and there,
a weeping person passes by
in the opposite direction.
But never mind—I think I see a turret
up ahead—and a tall white wall—
and a flag of some kind,
and a gate to enter.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 2003)
For the Meek
GREEN TWILIGHT
far from my face
what am I looking through
leaves
growing out of the mirror
the window behind them
reflecting twilight
I stand so still the leaves begin
to move in the still room
for what do I yearn
my unhappy face
is caught in leafy green light
the room empty except for this
except for the leaves
________________
HOUSE LOOKING AT ITSELF
in the mirror is a door
through the door a room
on the far wall of the room
is a mirror . . .
in the mirror is a room
through the room a door
reflecting the door is
a mirror . . .
(prev. pub. in ORBIS [England], 1973)
far from my face
what am I looking through
leaves
growing out of the mirror
the window behind them
reflecting twilight
I stand so still the leaves begin
to move in the still room
for what do I yearn
my unhappy face
is caught in leafy green light
the room empty except for this
except for the leaves
________________
HOUSE LOOKING AT ITSELF
in the mirror is a door
through the door a room
on the far wall of the room
is a mirror . . .
in the mirror is a room
through the room a door
reflecting the door is
a mirror . . .
(prev. pub. in ORBIS [England], 1973)
For the Last Elephant Hiding Her Young
THE HUNT
The hunter, having followed the blood this far, becomes
lost and sits down to rest. He looks through the mountains
and the trees that all look the same now, and when he hears
a noise ahead of him, he rises silently, though the hollow
cave of his chest beats with heart.
But he has wounded and would finish the kill, and even as
he follows his determination to do this, he is momentarily
surprised to find before him—with arms reached out toward
him—his own self in surprise, and even so, he fires. And he
watches himself fall, and is proud of his skill.
For the Purple Cat
DREAM OF DESPAIR
Ah vastness of Pines… from Pablo Neruda's
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
You held me and loved me.
This I know
from my first memory of you
though you looked away,
and looked away,
at something of your wanting,
I never woke from my sleeping
for this dream was perfect
and I did not want to leave it.
You are holding me still—
looking away from my quietude
into your restlessness,
though I am what you are looking for.
I am your dream.
Why did you dream me?
Ah vastness of Pines… from Pablo Neruda's
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
You held me and loved me.
This I know
from my first memory of you
though you looked away,
and looked away,
at something of your wanting,
I never woke from my sleeping
for this dream was perfect
and I did not want to leave it.
You are holding me still—
looking away from my quietude
into your restlessness,
though I am what you are looking for.
I am your dream.
Why did you dream me?
For Childhood Dragons
SILHOUETTE CHILD AT WINDOW
OF DARK ROOM
What holds her there,
looking out at the night
with such patience and calm?
It is her dream :
the white trees in the moonlight,
the white bench for the ghosts
who watch her as she watches them.
It is the white outline
of the small dog asleep at her feet;
it is her white shoes and socks
that make an iridescence in the room,
her arms folded against interruption.
A patch of snow falls from
the branch of the smallest tree.
A white bird startles
and sends forth
a song of sadness and warning.
She listens without surprise—
what she has been waiting for.
Now she can let herself waken
and nothing will have harmed her,
not even her imagination.
For the Bird on Its Migrations
ELEVATIONS
The way nothing really fits solid against anything
else—there is a space between—a possibility of
change, of letting go, or letting be—the lake
against the sky, the ground beneath the feet, the
canvas from the painted scene, the way we
levitate from thought to thought—the way
the world is separate from what is not the world—
how sleep is not the sleep—the same with words
they slip away before they’re heard.
Only the soaring bird belongs in cutting space—
in followed time—a beat away from everything
that's free or caught.
__________________
LOOKING FOR TOMORROW
Oh, it is all lost now. We put it among the late news and
the only question. Its little song is silent. Its little intoxi-
cation is sleeping beside the swizzle sticks with names
of hotels on them, and a silver-handled letter opener
with nothing to do.
Oh, it is all gone—all gone forever, whatever it was we
knew. It was so happy that we loved it. I wonder what
we did with it. Did we leave it on a table; did we give it
to a child; is it crying in some wastebasket, or weeping
goodbye from the journey of some old garbage truck.
Oh, and does it matter? We are so careless and so full of
chocolate sympathy, bought for fifty cents and only
weighing three ounces. And all of our rolled-up money
waits with a little green hunger for another party.
The way nothing really fits solid against anything
else—there is a space between—a possibility of
change, of letting go, or letting be—the lake
against the sky, the ground beneath the feet, the
canvas from the painted scene, the way we
levitate from thought to thought—the way
the world is separate from what is not the world—
how sleep is not the sleep—the same with words
they slip away before they’re heard.
Only the soaring bird belongs in cutting space—
in followed time—a beat away from everything
that's free or caught.
__________________
LOOKING FOR TOMORROW
Oh, it is all lost now. We put it among the late news and
the only question. Its little song is silent. Its little intoxi-
cation is sleeping beside the swizzle sticks with names
of hotels on them, and a silver-handled letter opener
with nothing to do.
Oh, it is all gone—all gone forever, whatever it was we
knew. It was so happy that we loved it. I wonder what
we did with it. Did we leave it on a table; did we give it
to a child; is it crying in some wastebasket, or weeping
goodbye from the journey of some old garbage truck.
Oh, and does it matter? We are so careless and so full of
chocolate sympathy, bought for fifty cents and only
weighing three ounces. And all of our rolled-up money
waits with a little green hunger for another party.
For Wise Owls and Butterflies
A ONCE-TOLD LAND
We are all lost together
on this land.
We came to hunt wild berries
and wilder flowers.
But we found nothing for
our hands to gather.
Now we have come too far.
And though we can hear
an evening train caress the distance,
we cannot find its long black tracks,
as though some wilderness
would not accept that scar.
But the sunset
is a thing of glory,
uninterrupted as we had imagined,
continuing like a Scheherezade-story,
larger than Cinerama . . .
and we confess that we are
terribly sorry we did not think
to bring a camera.
We are getting frightened and cold,
colder than all the splendor
and the hunger; and we put
our arms about each other
and recall the warning
of another story teller
who cautioned
that this was a once-told land
without a morning.
We are all lost together
on this land.
We came to hunt wild berries
and wilder flowers.
But we found nothing for
our hands to gather.
Now we have come too far.
And though we can hear
an evening train caress the distance,
we cannot find its long black tracks,
as though some wilderness
would not accept that scar.
But the sunset
is a thing of glory,
uninterrupted as we had imagined,
continuing like a Scheherezade-story,
larger than Cinerama . . .
and we confess that we are
terribly sorry we did not think
to bring a camera.
We are getting frightened and cold,
colder than all the splendor
and the hunger; and we put
our arms about each other
and recall the warning
of another story teller
who cautioned
that this was a once-told land
without a morning.
For the Horse So Beautiful
LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW
Thank you, weatherman,
for the rain,
dark bird shadows hunched
on swaying wire,
the wind—
new green leafage
welcomed by the tree,
squirrels scampering
through the branches—
the wind takes the
blossoms for the wind,
the pavement glistens—
bright new weeds, emergent.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE EYES OF THE ANIMALS
—Joyce Odam
deep pool eyes of
eloquent expression
the eyes stay level
holding us accountable
innocent as the purity in the eyes
of babes or the honesty of mirrors
__________________
Last week’s Seed of the Week was “Hunting Treasure”, and Joyce has written to us about such explorations, saying her poems are about “the treasures of things speaking for themselves”. As for her pictures, she thought of “the treasure of animals and how they can be taken from us . . .” Thank you, Joyce, for reminding us of the value of things we already have.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Memories That Sting”. 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.
___________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
