Dancing the Dance of Blue

 The Dark Center

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Art and Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE DAY HANGS DARK
—Joyce Odam

Touch me again with sadness.
Teach me the gray moan.
Tell me how to hold my head—just so,
before the raining window.

Remind me
of sighs and great regret,
the way light
lies along the sill before it goes,
what darkens next.

Tell me with patience what to do,
what to do…  what to do…  
because I forget.

Don’t come with black drinks for my mouth.
I have no thirst for suicide or drunkenness.
Not yet.

I want to stand in absence from myself,
creating time and
sorting out the death.

If there is news for life
tell it again this winter,
for the day
hangs dark
and rain is always wet.

 

 

 

What It Says

 

DISCONSOLATION
—Joyce Odam

…ah, here is someone to love,
someone playing a piano
out in the rain
in the way of
a wide sunbeam
claiming the music
and the one listener  . . .
       
…here is only the sad memory of
a stranger who has wandered
into this scenario,
to whom
love is not given,
only taken from the wild
reverberations of the music . . .
       
…and here is someone
looking out a window
at the piano which is ruined
by the music of the rain and the
encompassing sunbeam that takes
these pictures—these words—
and blends them into this rain-story
and makes the window glass shimmer . . .
                               
     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/14/17;
4/12/22; 1/16/24)

_______________________

DANCE OF THE BLUE ILLUSIONS
After Three Nudes, 1943, Henry Miller
—Joyce Odam

Three nudes perform
the dance of blue
in time with light and light’s pale hue,

in tone with dark
and dark’s disguise;
don’t look in their romantic eyes—

how they come close,
and then recede—
don’t look at them, or else believe

you’ll never love them—
nor they you,
three nudes who dance the dance of blue.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/18/13) 

 

 

 

 The Distance of The Moon

 

DANCERS ON A SMALL DANCE FLOOR
—Joyce Odam

Rhythming-off to be a dancer, she rises from her
chair, holding the tips of some man's fingers that
have gestured 'will you dance', and the music
separates to let her through, and she fits onto the
crowded floor, and the lights and liquor make an
intimate harmony to move within . . . .

Even strangers can love a song together—not
knowing each other's face or name—just a body
and feet that move the same—that find a place in
the writhing people to writhe within—and it doesn't
matter—it's only a spinning floor to be caught upon,
and the music is loud till it ends in the dancers' last
touch of hands—then back—like a finished love, to
the tiny table . . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/18/21) 

 

 

 

Childhood

QUONDAM
—Robin Gale Odam

I heard you whisper, “Where are you?”

I’m over there, looking like that.
I’m over there, watching us standing
here the way we used to do.

Did you remember us?
                          

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2014) 

 

 

 

The World

 

 
EFFORTS TO PLEASE
—Joyce Odam

I gave you the yellow bowl
and the yellow cup
with the red design,
but still you were unhappy . . .

I put raisins in your oatmeal
with a dash of nutmeg on the milk,
but still you would not give up
your sadness,

I sang a song and made a speech,
but you were still quarrelsome
and your eyes would not
give up my face.

And I went breaking like a dish
slipped out of
failing hands
and I went crashing to a cry,

so angry now
that both of us,
of your dark moodiness,
could die.

____________________

I DREAMED YOU WERE WEARING
MY DRESS

—Joyce Odam

I dreamed you were
pulling
my dress off
above your head.
You were
glaring at me.
I wanted you
to be
careful with the dress.
It was an old one.
Its sleeves
Were torn.
It was
faded and thin.
Almost a rag.

Why were you
wearing
my dress,
I wanted to ask.
but you were
so angry
standing
in front of me
with the dress caught
on the bind
of your shoulders.
Help me out of
this thing,
you said.
But before
I could help,
you had pulled
it off
and flung it
in a heap
between us
on the floor.

               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/5/17) 

 

 

 

Times of Time

 

THE SKIFF
—Robin Gale Odam

Between the light and the deep,
between the self and the reflection,
the skiff stays time like the placeholder—

the punctuation, the cypher, the syntax
of arrangement, the catch of the breath,
the gravity of separation.

 

 

 

 And That Was A Prayer

 

WHO IS BREAKING IN ME
—Joyce Odam

Which of my sullen selves is in danger now;
which one
will sleep while another cavorts and creates
madness?

I am the Many-One; waves of minds wash over
me, pull me
in and under, thrust me out and away.

I am Sea, and Sea-Child, with a soul of water; I

smash
myself against breaking land.

I pray myself alive. I consult dreams and dreams of
dreams. My center self is at risk. Who will believe
me?
                                                               

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/19)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RAPTURE
—Robin Gale Odam

My heart soared into the clouds—the wind
had layered them above the setting sun
and then had become motionless.
I prayed as the last day passed.
I am still here—not remembered, not taken.
The sky is clear today.
                                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/11)

____________________

Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have captured cranky/grumpy for us this week—our Seed of the Week, that is—and we thank them for today's poems and pix! Our new Seed of the Week is “Mama Doe and her two fawns stole my tomatoes”. True story: our local doe has two brightly spotted newborns, with whom she actually came up onto our deck and ate all my cherry tomatoes! (The fawns aren’t old enough to eat such things—but still, they were accomplices.) Write a few riffs on this or similar shamelessness and 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 every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

... the music of the rain ...

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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