Orchards of the Mind

 

The Old Voices

—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE BAKERY AT NIGHT

Hungry, we smelled the bread. The breeze
opened up. We followed, tried to find the source,
no bakery anywhere, only the open windows of air.

We followed the sensuality of yeast,
the air took on a tawny color. Our eyes became
as dark as poppy seeds. We tried to hurry.

After a long time we came to an empty plate
left on an old tablecloth covered with ants
and fallen leaves. The scent was here.

We heard voices off in a small distance,
and laughter, followed the sound and came
upon ourselves in an intimate embrace,

savoring a perfect moment
before we had to go back to some forgotten
hunger—some unresolved beginning.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2015)

 

 

 

Ants and Fallen Leaves

 

THE HUNGER

We are half-hungry
all the time,
not for the food, but for
the unknown taste.

The peach is in
the orchard of the mind.
We cannot find that
dark, unreachable tree;
but if we could,

the fruit
that gathered ripeness
for our taste
would never
taste the way
we thought it should.

                    
(prev. pub. in The Third Leaf Has Fallen
Mini Chapbook, 1968, by Joyce Odam)

 

 

 

Glass of Wine

 

HUNGRY

Taste.
This is sweet—
this is sour.

One is fine grape—
one is mysterious lemon.
Both are true to the mouth
which responds with different pleasure
which gets hungry so often
which needs…which needs.

Do not starve the mouth.
It has no kiss to protect it.
Do not starve the mouth.

                        
(prev. pub. in Celebration, 1987)

___________________

MOUSETRAP

one mouse away from civilization
the party laughs

wine
drops from glasses into thoughts

outside the house the haunted dog
holds his new note

the pantry holds its darkness
like a death

the mousetrap waits
bait hides the hungry snap

 

 

 

 

Something About the Day

 

ON SURRENDER
After Toyen (Marie Cerminova)’s
At the Chateau Lacoste, 1946

The beast of sorrow is hungry.
It has always starved.

It has always been held captive by need.
It has become a mural.

It cannot escape the wall though it weeps
and the prey comes up to it in pity.

Though it snarls,
it cannot feed.

Though the prey
has pity, it cannot be sacrifice.

Something always stays between.
What is lost is what we love.

 

 

 

Sip of Nectar

 

THE ROSE-EATERS

tonight
we will tear a rose
and devour it
for we are hungry
for certain tastes
and urgencies

we have been
away so long
from
sweet tongues
of the flowers

our lips
will be
pink with flavor
as we smile
through the half-darkness
at each other


(prev. pub. in ARX, l969) and
The Rose Eaters Mini-Chap
by Joyce Odam, 1972)

__________________

THE VISITANTS

What are drawn to our sills
are unbearable birds
who eat our bread,
are error of leaves
gone astray in flight,
are disattached shadows
of all that passes.

What if they cut the window
with their diamond eyes,
the wine-hungry birds,
the poisonous leaves,
the thirsting forms
that reach for
our newly poured glasses.

 

 

 

Color of Sound

 

THE UNIMAGINED ANIMALS        

in the city
the animals finally came

with their glinting eyes
and their quiet walking

with their adaptable hands
and their appetites

great furry shapes
and curdling cries

passing among the people
like pets

pretending
no death

going everywhere on
flimsy leashes and chains

looking in windows
and disappearing

coming out
on the other side of buildings

they even knew how to obey                 
the traffic signals

no one was ready
for their danger

no one was wary
except the

one imaginary child
in the motionless swing

who was raising a whistle
to his lips and smiling


(prev. pub. in Sou’Wester, 1970)

 

 

 

Past the Hour

 

 

 

THE MUTATING SELF
After Victor Brauner’s Transmutation Onirique

And now you stare out of yourself—thought after
thought. surrendered and evolved to this. Shadow
after shadow lags behind—solidified into stone—

unchiseled by evolution—now you have eyes
for everywhere your thought decides—you are
unwavering with resolve, with new direction.

Further and further
you evolve until you are reminiscent
of stone—of shadow—of flesh—of mind.

Somehow, you are still child, strange and un-
reachable, endless of being, full of
sensation and desire, hungry for your life—

still, you advance into the levels of light
and light’s structure, the pinprick center of all
there is, and still you advance into your full being.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

INTIMATION
—Joyce Odam

Maybe it was the smell of the bread
that drew me; it wafted all over the
neighborhood—and I searched—
and followed, but never could find
The Bakery.

___________________

Thank you, Joyce Odam, for today’s riffs on our Seed of the Week, Appetites! I, too, have searched and searched—but never found—The Bakery.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Lonesome”. A lot of people are lonesome this time of year—maybe not you, but surely you’ve been to Lonely-town and can write about it. 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, hoping you’re not lonely these days ~

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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