Prisoners

 

The Necklace

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

YOU BRING IT HOME IN YOUR HANDS

There is an hour
known as love.

It flutters about in the heart
like a little lost bird.

You bring it home in your hands
and you buy it a cage.

You buy it seed
and a cuttlebone.

You give it a mirror
and a little swing.

And you hover
around it

and coax it to sing.
And you listen awhile,

and for a sweet while
love is not your prisoner.

                                               
(prev. pub. in Oregonian Verse, 2/7/71
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/11)

 

 

 

The Weight of Shadow

 

DARK REVERENCE
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887

black fire, somewhere in the dark, your
arm around my waist, supporting me,

offering the old betrayal, the lie
that I endure, allow your presence,

leading,    guiding,    tenderly,
as a lover would—ah, you are Holy,

knower of the dark, soothing
as I cling to you—I am wooed,

your arm around my waist,
your head bent down to mine,

your voice consoling—urging.
the dark opens, takes me in,

your arm at my waist,
your mouth at my ear, whispering.

____________________

ONE OF NIGHT’S STORIES

In a narrative sense, I call to you from a great
distance. You turn but my call does not reach.
It is an old year. The street is empty and you
are at one end of it about to turn a corner. I
know I will lose you there. You stop and look
in a window. I hurry toward you but gain no
distance. I am growing smaller rather than
larger as I approach you.

Something in the window holds your attention.
You stand very still and I notice something diff-
erent about you. You have forgotten something
I told you to remember. I can see it on your
face, for I am on the other side of the streaming
glass now, looking out at you. You are curious,
then afraid.

I can see you have decided to end this part of
the story. You move very slowly and deliber-
ately away from the window. You turn the
corner. I am the one who must now explain
everything to the featureless one who is slumped
against the outside of the glass which has been
shuddering for so long without the confusion of
shadow—the illusion of rain.

 

 

 

At The Window

 

A POEM ABOUT RESCUE
After Juana by Thomas Coffee-Shul

Black heart-shaped leaves. Her black skirt. An ornate black chair. A pale scarf wrapped around her black hair and covering her shoulders and arms. Her hands prim and tight in her lap. Her knees pressed tightly together. Her bare feet locked in one square of gray tile that
stretches like a diminishing field and leads to the gray wall with the narrow door. One leaf from the potted plant keeps stretching toward her, insinuating love—love, she tries not to hear. What would she do with love now? The black arms of the chair clench even tighter around her. She stares outward, locked in the black chair, the endless gray tiles, the impetuous black leaf, all preventing her escape.

 

 

 

Bearer

 

PRAYER RITUAL

The kneeling bronze woman leans her forehead
against the chest of the wingéd Cat Goddess,
kneeling in passionate submission
reaching into her own heart
with her dark intensity
to wait for the pulse
of the holy heartbeat
to let her own heart
match the rhythm—
though the Cat Goddess
stares beyond the woman
to decide if the prayer is worthy.
There is no permission nor relief
for the praying woman who knows
her power, who is made humble for this.
She is never refused, is always obedient to
the ancient superstition, which takes as long
as it takes for her conscience to be reclaimed.

____________________

PAINTING THE TOWN RED
After Fates #2 by Elizabeth Torak

They laugh and say they are The Fates
and ask you to sit with them as they
shift their chairs around the tiny table.

They want you to buy them a drink and
dance with them when the music begins.
They want to know if you find them

attractive and have mortal sympathies.
They get rowdy and tell you lies  
then watch your eyes to see if you

believe them.  If you do, they smother
you with truths and look at each other
secretly.  They know what they know.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/12/07)

 

 

 

 Asleep

 

PALE DANCERS IN PURPLE DARK

Oh yes, my weary dancers, the
spotlight prisons you upon the stage
and you are locked in light.

Though you perform with all your might
and leap as far as you can
the spotlight widens to hold you in.

Oh syncopated dancers, you amuse your
unseen audience that never will applaud
though you can feel its smile across the dark.

You do dance well, and you respect your art.
But now you know the light you wanted
will not let you go.

Your shadows dance with you upon the floor.
But they distort
and mock your dance.

And they can leave
the circle of the light.  And they
can merge with what you cannot see.

But they are dancers too
and will not break
the frail connections to your feet.

                                                     
(prev. pub. in Literary Humanist, 1975
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/19/16)   

 

 

 

From Dream to Sleep

 

  

PERSPECTIVE
After Three Men Walking, 1948 by Giacometti

Walking out from the center of the mirror, I face
three directions and am at once at the mercy of
three compulsions, thus am I split into the three

measurements of existence: I am past, present,
and future, but, still, I am of the mirror—that
mothering eye that will not diminish or release,

but only gives me a glimpse of illusion—that
bordering reach—that drift off the fathomless
edge around me. If only I can pull away at the

exact moment, I will escape the unguarded blink
that must occur. Even now, I can feel my three
selves slip the magnetic hold of my own fear

and reluctance—that pull at the weakening
center—if only I am that brave—if only I can
break my own trance, and that of the mirror . . .

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Tiger's Eye, Fall/Winter 2001)

_____________________

PALE WOMEN DANCING

Who do they think they are, these wraiths,
dancing among the faded laves falling around
them, playing at being beautiful, closing their
eyes, feeling the closeness of each other, the
day as frail as this imagined hour. You think
you see them. One of them sways toward
you, the others toward your mirror and its
dimension, and you are dancing among them,
as old as they are young and they do not touch
you, though their gowns brush your gown as
you weave together, with only the faded leaves
falling in this dancing.

 

 

 

Following the Water

 

SINNER

What is this lost prayer that keeps floating around
in my mind that I cannot say or hear—I am the
wicked one with an empty heart and ear.

I am the one who will never be forgiven.
I am the crime of necessary guilt that
someone gives me for truth.

I am the one
who must suffer
for myself.

I am the punished one,
I am the crime of childhood.
I am the betrayer of love. I am the accused.

I am the one who will never climb
into truth—truth is not there—truth is
where someone waits with rigid accusation,

I am in an ever-shrinking room.
I am in a broken chair,
which is my life.   

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

pale nude in sepia
—Joyce Odam

sketch only—woman unfinished—caught in moment of pure beauty—untouched by any artist—before now one arm raised—as if face not yet filled in—a perfect torso—outline—from the other sketches on the page shapes and forms—filled in—somewhat defined—another nude perhaps . . .  of love . . .  after love . . .

______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her musings and her intriguing photos today on our Seed of the Week: “Prisoner/s”. Joyce frequently turns to paintings for inspiration—Ekphrastic, that is.  Notice also how the image of chairs weaves through her poems today—makes them menacing, keeping their subjects prisoner.

Joyce’s Brevities: Mini-Mag of Minimalist Poems has released another issue full of short poems by poets near and far. Write to Editor Joyce Odam and Co-Editor Robin Gale Odam for a copy (single or subscription, $1.58) at 2432 48th Av., Sacramento, CA 95822-3809. And send submissions to that address, too! (No email mss.)

We’re continuing to talk, write and celebrate poetry during April, our National Poetry Month, and our new Seed of the Week is “Lost For Words”. 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. And see our Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Tonight (Tues., 4/19), 6:30pm: Cal. State University, Sacramento celebrates its annual Festival of the Arts by presenting Ana Castillo reading from her poetry collection, My Book of the Dead. Free; CSUS Redwood Room, 6000 J St., Sacramento, CA. Info: www.facebook.com/groups/2290130152/?multi_permalinks=10165931683910153&notif_id=1649806646943400&notif_t=group_activity&ref=notif/.

________________________

—Medusa

 

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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