While Outside It Rains
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
A MELANCHOLY FOR FLUTE AND RAIN
(Listening to MINDSCAPES “Rainsong”)
If I could play the flute
I would play it in the rain.
I would let the sad wet notes
carry away my nameless pain,
my rhyme of loneliness.
I would let the far soft thunder
become the slow reverberations
that it needs to resonate the same.
I’d let the lightning crack about
in vain—as blind as any unfound
darkened heart such as mine.
I’d learn at last of how such music
carries its own self away—perhaps
to you, my unknown spirit-mate,
my haunted friend,
where you are—hurting—listening,
to some carried sound,
oblivious to me, but mentioned
in this music just the same.
(Listening to MINDSCAPES “Rainsong”)
If I could play the flute
I would play it in the rain.
I would let the sad wet notes
carry away my nameless pain,
my rhyme of loneliness.
I would let the far soft thunder
become the slow reverberations
that it needs to resonate the same.
I’d let the lightning crack about
in vain—as blind as any unfound
darkened heart such as mine.
I’d learn at last of how such music
carries its own self away—perhaps
to you, my unknown spirit-mate,
my haunted friend,
where you are—hurting—listening,
to some carried sound,
oblivious to me, but mentioned
in this music just the same.
Dark Place
EXCERPT FROM THE RAIN
It was the way into darkness,
a trickery of rain, a collage of shadows;
a form, then another, merging into glass light;
a sound like a laugh; then no one there.
You left your umbrella hanging on a knob.
I dropped a quarter under a chair.
We left the others, knowing the night
would hold them a little longer,
laughing, they waved goodbye
and blurred together.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2001)
It was the way into darkness,
a trickery of rain, a collage of shadows;
a form, then another, merging into glass light;
a sound like a laugh; then no one there.
You left your umbrella hanging on a knob.
I dropped a quarter under a chair.
We left the others, knowing the night
would hold them a little longer,
laughing, they waved goodbye
and blurred together.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2001)
The Yearning
FIRST HARD RAIN
(10 lines in the style of Melville Cane's
poem, “Snow Toward Evening”)
With that rain the year revised.
The skies
poured till it seemed they would burst.
Trees felt it first.
Branches fell.
Winds from the winter were back to tell
how they would winnow through the leaves
—End summer’s drought
—Send the geese south
Winter would strip the trees.
(prev. pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2004)
_____________________
A FIELD OF FLOWERS IN THE RAIN
Lest I leaned too close to all these
dazzling flowers in a gentle rain—
I questioned what I had done to deserve
this find—to be where they were
with my random presence—a gift
of time—just a wayside—a path
—a quick detour across a wet field—
because I was in a hurry—or because
these rain-tipped flowers beckoned,
and the wet world waited . . . .
(10 lines in the style of Melville Cane's
poem, “Snow Toward Evening”)
With that rain the year revised.
The skies
poured till it seemed they would burst.
Trees felt it first.
Branches fell.
Winds from the winter were back to tell
how they would winnow through the leaves
—End summer’s drought
—Send the geese south
Winter would strip the trees.
(prev. pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2004)
_____________________
A FIELD OF FLOWERS IN THE RAIN
Lest I leaned too close to all these
dazzling flowers in a gentle rain—
I questioned what I had done to deserve
this find—to be where they were
with my random presence—a gift
of time—just a wayside—a path
—a quick detour across a wet field—
because I was in a hurry—or because
these rain-tipped flowers beckoned,
and the wet world waited . . . .
Night-Bearing Dreams
I DREAM OF RAIN
There is a glass of rain
at your elbow. I have saved it
for you. All night. Under the rain.
Holding the glass out in your name.
Now you lie under such a
great weeping your face drowns
and your eyes cannot stop.
What is the matter with you?
Now you lie quiet. You are
your own dream at last. The glass
of rain knows you will reach for it.
You are its thirst.
I lie beside you on a small, narrow bed.
We are far away from each other.
As if in different times. I sleep.
You lie awake. I dream of rain.
There is a glass of rain
at your elbow. I have saved it
for you. All night. Under the rain.
Holding the glass out in your name.
Now you lie under such a
great weeping your face drowns
and your eyes cannot stop.
What is the matter with you?
Now you lie quiet. You are
your own dream at last. The glass
of rain knows you will reach for it.
You are its thirst.
I lie beside you on a small, narrow bed.
We are far away from each other.
As if in different times. I sleep.
You lie awake. I dream of rain.
Nightbird Says Goodnight
THE DAY AFTER RAIN
This is not the hour of pretense.
This is the day after rain.
This is the hour of old light.
Old notions blunder forth
and cause old pain.
Nothing will suffice.
This is the day after rain.
An old man sobs and
an old woman stares into life
with a stony face . . .
she peels a potato
and another one . . .
looks through window glass
with her stony look
and pours water in a pan.
This is the day after rain.
In different light,
through thinning days,
to one side of each other,
they go through life
as if they were together.
But they are not.
They drift away
upon the
far beginnings of their own,
as different
as once they were the same.
(prev. pub. in: Mockingbird, 1996;
Red Cedar Review (of Colorado), 1993; and
Vietnamese Amateur Poetry Society, 2000)
This is not the hour of pretense.
This is the day after rain.
This is the hour of old light.
Old notions blunder forth
and cause old pain.
Nothing will suffice.
This is the day after rain.
An old man sobs and
an old woman stares into life
with a stony face . . .
she peels a potato
and another one . . .
looks through window glass
with her stony look
and pours water in a pan.
This is the day after rain.
In different light,
through thinning days,
to one side of each other,
they go through life
as if they were together.
But they are not.
They drift away
upon the
far beginnings of their own,
as different
as once they were the same.
(prev. pub. in: Mockingbird, 1996;
Red Cedar Review (of Colorado), 1993; and
Vietnamese Amateur Poetry Society, 2000)
Morning Returns
RETURNING TO SPEAK AS RAIN
Your words splat at the window—like rain
that stops at glass; and even so, some words
get through—not quite intact—blurrings of
message, or complaint—your last mouthings
that fall, as futile as ever, telling where you
have been, and what you no longer need or
love; words without context now, fragments,
half-words, that still argue the old points—
your old reasonings—returning to speak
as rain, torn by wind and distance—too far
to imagine now—even though your words
blur in, and run down the glass, like weeping.
What Now, Rain
PAGES FULL OF RAIN
And now we get into lines
that stagger away
and down
the page
of your thought
that builds and carries
and we get to your
breaking parts—those
caesuras of your heart and
the abstract hesitations
of your eyes—and the way
you whisper to yourself,
and we get to the reason
you allow yourself to follow
what you do not know,
and I love
the way the rain
leads the way with this.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RAIN MOODS :
when a bleak rain falls
and there is no winter for it
only a pending season of refusal
*
Who owns the rain,
that night-time blemish on dry sleep?
What sends the rain down?
*
The wet cars shine; they are
quivering, bright with cleanliness
under the faceting street-lights.
(prev. pub. in COTYLEDON -9 , 1998)
______________________
Rain is on everyone’s minds these days, and our Seed of the Week was “Last Night, the Rain…” Joyce has flooded us with wonderful rain poems, and we say many thanks for those and for the showers of photos to go with them! For Melvin Cane's poem, "Snow Toward Evening", go to poetryfilesls.weebly.com/uploads/1/4/1/6/14161835/snow_toward_evening.pdf/.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Endings”. 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.
•••Tonight (Tues.,11/9), 7-8pm: The Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center (MoSt) presents Cristina Sandoval and Manny Moreno plus open mic on Google Meet at meet.google.com/ksd-qtqc-jsh?hs=122&authuser=0/. Sign up for Open Mic at forms.gle/v8J9cK9RXn4YDwwc9/. Host: Stella Beratlis.
______________________
—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.
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