The Unknowable
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
WHERE LIFE GETS STUCK
Small Town, Small Town Blues,
the only juke box in town, its only song—
no matter how many slots of selection.
I sing it to
my self-hugging dance :
circle circle circle to the tune.
At night the same
old crying winds
return—howl through my dreams—
sound like a train I wish I were on—
as long as my nowhere to go—
as long as that.
I feel like a bend in time.
Mornings I feel the wide cold distance
hollow back with the echoes I know are gone.
Small Town, Small Town Blues,
the only juke box in town, its only song—
no matter how many slots of selection.
I sing it to
my self-hugging dance :
circle circle circle to the tune.
At night the same
old crying winds
return—howl through my dreams—
sound like a train I wish I were on—
as long as my nowhere to go—
as long as that.
I feel like a bend in time.
Mornings I feel the wide cold distance
hollow back with the echoes I know are gone.
The Sense of Time
THE STIMULUS OF THE DAY
Did he not walk with utter nonchalance in
the misty rain, not hastening a moment for
his saunter through the green light, his white
hair lifting slightly at his step, one hand in
pocket, his face lifted into the late afternoon,
which was slow—slow enough for us to watch
him pass before the stopped car—with his
singular gait—his long gray raincoat tied at
the waist—his steps at rhythm with the length
of the light that changed and broke the spell
of our watching.
(prev. pub. on Medusa's Kitchen, 2008)
Did he not walk with utter nonchalance in
the misty rain, not hastening a moment for
his saunter through the green light, his white
hair lifting slightly at his step, one hand in
pocket, his face lifted into the late afternoon,
which was slow—slow enough for us to watch
him pass before the stopped car—with his
singular gait—his long gray raincoat tied at
the waist—his steps at rhythm with the length
of the light that changed and broke the spell
of our watching.
(prev. pub. on Medusa's Kitchen, 2008)
The Texture of Shadows
IN PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
like the perfections in small crevices
which light discovers
and in the dark mirrors
of caught shadow
echoes and shades
flickers of thought
a voice
familiar or lost
all in somebody else
in somewhere else
remember it,
oh try
like the perfections in small crevices
which light discovers
and in the dark mirrors
of caught shadow
echoes and shades
flickers of thought
a voice
familiar or lost
all in somebody else
in somewhere else
remember it,
oh try
Because She’s Glass
FROM MORNING’S OLD LIGHT
The Old World—some poet said to me
in a book I was reading one sleepless
morning . . . and I wondered, how old,
and what about mine—my sense of
time—my own history in fragment
recollection? And I felt the age of it,
and compared it with my own, how
everything stretched away from me,
and I was a center—a center to all
direction, and I felt complete, and
held by something in me as yet
untouched, and unknowable.
The Old World—some poet said to me
in a book I was reading one sleepless
morning . . . and I wondered, how old,
and what about mine—my sense of
time—my own history in fragment
recollection? And I felt the age of it,
and compared it with my own, how
everything stretched away from me,
and I was a center—a center to all
direction, and I felt complete, and
held by something in me as yet
untouched, and unknowable.
Incidental Shadows
YOUR LOVE / ALL YOUR PROMISES
Sacrificial lover, now,
I take all your promises,
brilliantly
meant and spoken :
the moodiness of rain,
all that was once believed,
and fail you—
your love
between us like a lie.
I will release you.
You are mine to do with—
kill
if memory permits—or simply
sigh and let you weep.
The Edge of Memory
MISTLETOE TREES *
Every day, through the streets of our City of Trees,
I see the oppression of mistletoe bulging, suffocating
tree branches and wonder at the purpose of such a
malignant weed—why does it even exist—what
breed of growth to incite so much concern, and
what does it have to do with worth, what lesson
realized, what humbleness be learned against
the anxiety of worriment for the tree, except
that * the berries, that are poisonous to
humans, are eaten safely by the birds . . . .
* Mistletoe:Viscum album is one of several species of this parasitic plant that grows on trees. The berries are poisonous to humans but are eaten safely by birds. The seeds—in the center of the fruit—are spread to new trees by the birds’ droppings. The mistletoe was foremost among the magical plants of Europe from prehistoric times; it has been identified as the “golden bough” mentioned in Virgil’s Aeneid.
Every day, through the streets of our City of Trees,
I see the oppression of mistletoe bulging, suffocating
tree branches and wonder at the purpose of such a
malignant weed—why does it even exist—what
breed of growth to incite so much concern, and
what does it have to do with worth, what lesson
realized, what humbleness be learned against
the anxiety of worriment for the tree, except
that * the berries, that are poisonous to
humans, are eaten safely by the birds . . . .
* Mistletoe:Viscum album is one of several species of this parasitic plant that grows on trees. The berries are poisonous to humans but are eaten safely by birds. The seeds—in the center of the fruit—are spread to new trees by the birds’ droppings. The mistletoe was foremost among the magical plants of Europe from prehistoric times; it has been identified as the “golden bough” mentioned in Virgil’s Aeneid.
Meant and Spoken
YOU AND THE POEM
It was a mistake, maybe, to use simile
instead of metaphor in order to declare—
from your diffidence, the power of exactness.
It made you less an opponent of assumption
a connoisseur of words—
that you were too slow and impatient.
No,
I think not.
There was only you
in the argument—
you and the poem,
drifting clumsily through the word—
too slow for your inspiration.
Nevertheless,
you hurry—you hurry—
take any word that comes to you
in the race between mind
and hand that will not slow down for you.
It was a mistake, maybe, to use simile
instead of metaphor in order to declare—
from your diffidence, the power of exactness.
It made you less an opponent of assumption
a connoisseur of words—
that you were too slow and impatient.
No,
I think not.
There was only you
in the argument—
you and the poem,
drifting clumsily through the word—
too slow for your inspiration.
Nevertheless,
you hurry—you hurry—
take any word that comes to you
in the race between mind
and hand that will not slow down for you.
HUSH
Now in the dream of the bed, on the raft of night, the
child remembers the slowness of the day—the quietness
of the mother, the rustlings in the other room. The bed
floats on the dark fear. The child lies beside the mother
and tries to sleep. The mother whispers to her . . .
Now in the memory of the dream, in the dream of the
raft, which tries to float out of the room and down the
stair; out of the day, which has lengthened from night;
out of the dream, which tries to release her—the chance
is exciting, but the walls impede . . .
Now in the dream of the mother which tries to release
the child from the fear—from the raft—from the rustlings
of the other room, from the whispering, comes the secret
door of instruction : Be patient. Be quiet. Be still.
Tomorrow we will leave here.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HUSH NOW
—Joyce Odam
It is only the dark.
It is only the winter.
The day will close.
You will go home to yourself,
to whatever is there. You will enter.
You will be safe, there will be no terror.
I will not lie to you—you will sleep.
You will waken again tomorrow.
______________________
We’re giving thanks this Thanksgiving week for Joyce Odam and her fine work and on-going submissions (with the help of her lovely daughter, Robin Gale Odam!). Our Seed of the Week was Misty Mornings, so frequent this time of year, and these poems and photos from Joyce really hit the spot.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Appetites”. It seems like the holiday season is all about appetites: food, presents, time off, cozies with family—and of course, more time for the old standards—sex, drugs, and rock ’n roll… 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
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.
(and skips his spelling lesson)