Above the Shadows
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
STARING AT SUMMER
out in the dusty day where old dog sleeps
insects die against sunlight
I lie under lethargy like a rag
the mailbox holds up a metal red flag and
inside in the hot darkness
the letter regrets itself
nothing of summer is ready for
such distortion that drone in the air
takes so long to pass makes a
long dagger of blindness of its metal wing
turns to dark speck in wavery distance
but it takes all day
(prev. pub. in Poet News, 1990)
out in the dusty day where old dog sleeps
insects die against sunlight
I lie under lethargy like a rag
the mailbox holds up a metal red flag and
inside in the hot darkness
the letter regrets itself
nothing of summer is ready for
such distortion that drone in the air
takes so long to pass makes a
long dagger of blindness of its metal wing
turns to dark speck in wavery distance
but it takes all day
(prev. pub. in Poet News, 1990)
The Mystery of Green
SUMMER MOONLIGHT
An orange moon lists in the left corner
of the sky. Off to the right an ecstatic
blue ghost is dancing to the moon.
Waves of sound become visible,
like a dark rainbow. Dreams are not
of the mind, nor yet of the soul—
the dream in-between, becoming.
The blue ghost is made of air
and light from the moon.
Such is the power of moonlight.
An orange moon lists in the left corner
of the sky. Off to the right an ecstatic
blue ghost is dancing to the moon.
Waves of sound become visible,
like a dark rainbow. Dreams are not
of the mind, nor yet of the soul—
the dream in-between, becoming.
The blue ghost is made of air
and light from the moon.
Such is the power of moonlight.
Textures
THE HEADINESS OF SUMMER FLOWERS
So many flowers do I see
that I’m afraid I trouble thee—
all whimsy and emotive guile,
to prattle on in some old style—
waxing flowery in my speech.
My woozy heart is moved to reach
an eloquence too far to know—
it’s just how longingly I’d go
back to some time beyond my birth
to find an older-fashioned worth—
so many flowers do I see—
I do believe they’ve giddied me.
___________________
FROM A LOST SUMMER DAY
I sink back into tall green grasses.
A soft breeze bends the grasses over me.
Sky-clouds form,
and reform. Voices call my name—
my name that I do not want to hear.
I will not remember my name.
I am in my dreaming.
Awake. Floating in the sea of grasses—
I, and the motioning green shadows,
borne upon the width of forever.
I will never come out.
I am green grass and green shadow.
Even the sky makes room for me—
all energy—one wide presence
without form—
everything alive in my thinking—
a child wants to be alone with child-self.
No voice. No calling.
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2011)
Last Dance of the Night
THE DISARRAY OF SUMMER
After Sleeping Peasants by Pablo Picasso and
“A Valentine for Sherwood Anderson” by Gertrude Stein
In straw light—in heavy summer—
dream-entwined—
the sleeping lovers do not notice
how the hot sky builds
with heat-lightning thunder;
how even the white shed
behind them
shimmers in the hot light
as if
to disappear;
how the surrounding tones of yellow
keep growing more yellow
in the farness and the longness of this day;
how the sated lovers
keep sleeping the heavy sleep
of love—this poem the only intrusion.
__________________
GLOBE OF SUMMER SAVED FOR WINTER
It was summer, and there was no cause
to fear the rumor of ice—that old threat—still
used by dire-predictors, weather-people,
people with charts and ways to know such things.
How could we believe such misconception;
the high sun glittered on our bright horizon
in this, our longest summer ever—but,
the ice was quick with sealing. One morning, waking,
we found that we were locked in a time-lost globe,
turned in a winter hand for a staring eye,
shaken until small flakes of white went swirling,
and we lost our connection to each other;
But we control the memory of flowers.
Six frozen birds still fly in our ice sky.
Summer Hanging On
HAND OF SORROW
In the hand of sorrow
the flower dies,
hand that has touched love’s
face and felt the tears burn,
hand that has fought
the restraint of gesture,
hand that has been ignored
in the hand of another,
hand that flutters and flails
when articulation finds no words,
hand of sorrow holding this dried-up flower,
this yellow rose.
Summer Waltz
LATE SUMMER WALTZ
This is a waltz. How faintly
the music plays for the dancers
whirling on the veranda,
how the late summer curtains
blow in and out the open windows.
How timeless the night is—
how far away the morning.
From where does the music come,
so flawless and perfectly timed.
The night has been silent too long.
Tears have been shed for the memories.
Words have failed.
What dancers are these
who seem so involved
with the intricacies of the dance,
who have no faces and do not belong here.
There is no one but us,
and even you are conjured.
(prev. pub. in Senior Magazine, 2011)
Night Out
ONE SUMMER MORE
After Plums by Charles Demuth, 1925
and the plum tree
weights its heavy branches down,
the plums too tight together,
and too high. Each year
another branch breaks
and the plums fall to the ground.
Much is remembered and expected
of the taste of plums :
one sweet bite,
before the sour taste within.
These are not plums for the finicky;
these plums are meant for jam,
or wine
and have no further use
except for the birds.
After Plums by Charles Demuth, 1925
and the plum tree
weights its heavy branches down,
the plums too tight together,
and too high. Each year
another branch breaks
and the plums fall to the ground.
Much is remembered and expected
of the taste of plums :
one sweet bite,
before the sour taste within.
These are not plums for the finicky;
these plums are meant for jam,
or wine
and have no further use
except for the birds.
Night Bird Singing to the Night
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.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SPELL-HOLDING
After “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver
Front door opened
to the last of the summer day
and on the screen
at the very top
a praying mantis
backlit by the porch light,
ever-so-delicately
breathing, swaying,
in a pose of hesitation—
as I hesitate—standing there
watching—wishing it a safe life.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2011)
________________________
Our pal Joyce Odam has thrown us right into summer today with her poems about this week’s Seed of the Week: “Summer’s Heat”. We, too, wish the praying mantis a safe life. For more about Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day”, see www.uucob.org/wp-content/uploads/2018-08-05-The-Summer-Day.pdf/. For Pablo Picasso’s Sleeping Peasants, see www.pablopicasso.org/sleeping-peasants.jsp/. For Gertrude Stein’s valentine, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55213/idem-the-same-a-valentine-to-sherwood-anderson—and hold onto your hat!
Today is the deadline for The 2021 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest, three poems about “If Life were a Game Show, What Would Poets Say?”. Send to Alan Lowe at slolowe@icloud.com/.
This is Sacratomato Week, when we in this area celebrate the mighty, juicy tomato which flourishes in our summer heat. So our new Seed of the Week is “Big red, juicy tomatoes”. 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. We shall celebrate the season of fruits and veggies!
___________________
—Medusa
—Medusa
Plums
—Charles Demuth, 1925
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