Moonstone
—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE WAY OF STONES
This is the way all stones
are laid in a path—
recognizable
or not,
belonging
where they are—
they are not there
without some intention—
stones appear by movements
not their own, coming from
as far as earth’s revisions—
or brought by some lover
of stones, to be native anew,
to become a mystery perhaps, or
merely regional to the world’s path.
This is the way all stones
are laid in a path—
recognizable
or not,
belonging
where they are—
they are not there
without some intention—
stones appear by movements
not their own, coming from
as far as earth’s revisions—
or brought by some lover
of stones, to be native anew,
to become a mystery perhaps, or
merely regional to the world’s path.
The World's Path
STILL LIFE WITH GULL AND BOY
a gull roosts on a rock in the dim midst
of a gray rain-lake \ a small boy sits on
a vague horizon-line and dreams he is
_________floating in the sky_________
a rock-shape emerges from a second horizon
and becomes an island , a third level
creates a RiPple-pattern of continuance ,
ShimmeR afTer shimmeR elongates and diS-
torts perspective , the boy puts his hand out
and a slow-w vi-bra-tion n be-gin-n s s ,
the gull on the rock does not notice the
slight movement of its own re-flec-tion ,
a sound of gray light huMMms over the
fragile landscape > > > > > > > > >
the boy and the gull look off in the > > >
same direction and wait for the power < < <
to return from the spell of the boy’s daydream ,
the levels keep forming , the gray sound
keeps humming , the shiMmerIngs remain ,
the only move-Ment visible in this scenE
Twilight
THE AURA OF DARKNESS
"Bird in silhouette against flare of light"
—Photo by James Ballard, as seen in
"Bird in silhouette against flare of light"
—Photo by James Ballard, as seen in
Reflections on the Gift of a Watermelon Pickle
O bird, in bird outline
O bird, in bird silhouette
O bird, in stark relief—
that old thieved line
Around you, a rim of flared light
Behind you, a swirl of energy
Inside of you, the dark threat
Unreal or real, what
has decided you?
Sharp beak and quiet eye—at rest,
what has arrested you?
…against swirl of energy
…all light has suppressed in you
…self darkened to mere silhouette
A shadow-child might see you
and think you tame.
A shadow-world might free you
and release your name.
And I might rearrange the gathered
instance of you to exclaim :
…reality is not true
…imagination has its own view
…no shape of fear is darker than you
_________________
BENT WATER IN THE MOONLIGHT
It is the bent water in the moonlight that gets lost
where the dream ends. The sleeper still can choose.
The small boat rocks in the moonlight and the curve
of the river pulls. But the sleeper is comfortable here,
dreaming an old dream, safe in the sturdy little boat
in the mesmerizing center of the water.
Then the boat widens until it touches the banks,
and the dreamer steps out of it onto both shores
where two young women are walking away from him—
both are familiar, but his heart can hold only one;
they have warned him of this. Now the boat shrinks;
it can bring him back to the scale of easy dreaming
but begins to drift off and will soon be out of
reach. He is beginning to waken. He must choose.
(prev. pub. in The Gathering, Ina Coolbrith Anthology, 1999
and New River Poets Anthology, Watermarks: One, 2003)
O bird, in bird outline
O bird, in bird silhouette
O bird, in stark relief—
that old thieved line
Around you, a rim of flared light
Behind you, a swirl of energy
Inside of you, the dark threat
Unreal or real, what
has decided you?
Sharp beak and quiet eye—at rest,
what has arrested you?
…against swirl of energy
…all light has suppressed in you
…self darkened to mere silhouette
A shadow-child might see you
and think you tame.
A shadow-world might free you
and release your name.
And I might rearrange the gathered
instance of you to exclaim :
…reality is not true
…imagination has its own view
…no shape of fear is darker than you
_________________
BENT WATER IN THE MOONLIGHT
It is the bent water in the moonlight that gets lost
where the dream ends. The sleeper still can choose.
The small boat rocks in the moonlight and the curve
of the river pulls. But the sleeper is comfortable here,
dreaming an old dream, safe in the sturdy little boat
in the mesmerizing center of the water.
Then the boat widens until it touches the banks,
and the dreamer steps out of it onto both shores
where two young women are walking away from him—
both are familiar, but his heart can hold only one;
they have warned him of this. Now the boat shrinks;
it can bring him back to the scale of easy dreaming
but begins to drift off and will soon be out of
reach. He is beginning to waken. He must choose.
(prev. pub. in The Gathering, Ina Coolbrith Anthology, 1999
and New River Poets Anthology, Watermarks: One, 2003)
Maze Thirty-Seven
OUR LACK OF WEEPING
this craggy waterfall struggling down
the jutted rocks—the land broken—
the one tree barely alive
and the tufts of straggle-grass—
the flat white sky—
and the clumsy way we stumble
over this terrain
as we go
from one word to another
and your eyes are hot,
and mine are cold,
and we have left the even ground
for this—
this terrible moor,
something to get across—
admire even—for its significance,
this trickle of chance
for anything to survive until the rain.
this craggy waterfall struggling down
the jutted rocks—the land broken—
the one tree barely alive
and the tufts of straggle-grass—
the flat white sky—
and the clumsy way we stumble
over this terrain
as we go
from one word to another
and your eyes are hot,
and mine are cold,
and we have left the even ground
for this—
this terrible moor,
something to get across—
admire even—for its significance,
this trickle of chance
for anything to survive until the rain.
Landscape of the Mind
WAKING TO YOU
Yes, it is for you I dream and waken—
the dream scattered into fragment parts,
half remembered—the dark water of it,
the slippery rocks we struggle on,
the horse in danger;
what does the horse mean :
the eerie terrain of night,
the panic, the strangeness—the mental wall
of those whose mercy we beseech
who struggle near us in their own displacement;
and the edge that is always at the leaning,
the unsafe balance, the night caught
in the complicated landscape of the mind
relinquished to sleep—
the awful things that happen to it.
I awaken just in time again,
refusing to go back
to have to finish the danger—
knowing
it is all locked in place :
you still there—
waiting for my reentering,
the night-water sloshing against
the wet rocks—the horse
still dissolving into our inability to rescue it.
Crowding Through the Opening
WATERCOLOR :
DREAMER TRYING TO WAKEN
A pale wash of sky. A gray house floating above a thick
pool of sleep. Sharp green wind in the leaves. Crows and
mockingbirds—song scattered over the morning.
Vibrations in the air. Sirens making jagged lines,
distance bringing them nearer, then fading-them by
in streaks of red. A smear of dog bark.
Agitation of flowers : white, and white, and white blur.
A blue confusion of shadow. A receding figure that goes
textureless in a slow distortion of dark movement.
Something inside the sleep that refuses to awake, seeking
return to the dream—someone out of range of reality—
someone caught in two dimensions.
Something wrong here : a lake of admiration—
a woman watching her shuddering reflection—
a man coming up behind her, carrying a child.
A child-sized boat that rocks on the groping water,
a glitter of goldfish flashing underneath. The child
holds out its hands. Laughs. The reflection reaches up.
An interruption of crow cries. A drowned doll on a pillow,
covered with tears. A red rose drooping in a waterless vase
in the room’s deep, protective shadow.
A hum of gray balances the sky. Stillness settles in, be-
comes permanent. With a brush-stroke of brown, the gray
house attaches to the land. The artist signs his name.
(prev. pub. in Tiger’s Eye, 2003)
___________________
IN THE PAVILION
I am in the pavilion, selling tickets.
The tour-boat is filling up behind me,
the expectant faces all turned in my
direction, but my back is turned to
them. Husbands come up and want to
marry me. I am sixteen. I am in the
summer, but it is cold. Something is
wrong with the weather. People are
shivering on the boat on the restless
motion of the water. The docks are
struggling. Soon the captain will ring
his bell and the boat will chug out into
the chilly bay. The faces will all be
turned toward the sea. I will become
a receding time-figure to them; so will
they to me. The day empties. The year
slips away. I am standing in the empty
pavilion, a roll of red tickets in my hand.
The dock rocks and creaks. I wait all my
life, but they do not return.
The Day Empties
SLIPPAGE
There will be no coming back
from this,
no turning-around place
in the breakage of our lives.
This is a road on a dangerous mountain,
steep and narrow,
rocks slipping off the cliff edge
and rain pouring down.
(prev. pub. in Atom Mind, 1997)
There will be no coming back
from this,
no turning-around place
in the breakage of our lives.
This is a road on a dangerous mountain,
steep and narrow,
rocks slipping off the cliff edge
and rain pouring down.
(prev. pub. in Atom Mind, 1997)
Where the World Ends
ENDINGS
1.
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”
2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.
3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.
4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MY ROCK COLLECTION
—Joyce Odam
He brings me rocks now.
“They are so heavy,” I say.
“But they are beautiful,”
he answers.
(prev. pub. in Red Bluff Daily News)
_____________________
Tuesday the 15th it is, waistline of June 2021, and we send hearty thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems today, celebrating the mighty stonework of the world! Rock-solid—that’s what her poems are. Rock on, Joycey!
We’re on the cusp of summer, and our new Seed of the Week is “Taking the Plunge”. Is this about getting married? Taking a big chance? Or just jumping into the old swimming hole? 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.
Reflections on the Gift of a Watermelon Pickle…and other modern verse… is a poetry anthology that is available on Amazon.
And on this day 25 years ago, songstress Ella Fitzgerald passed away. Rest in peace, sweet songbird!
_______________________
—Medusa
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.
