—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
To where it all begins,
at some edge
of some dreamed sea—
some cove of blue that draws me there
to sit enclosed, to hide in the blue shadow
of the blue air and listen to the white cries of
gulls—watch the patient crawling of the waves
—the solitude of loneliness one learns to love…
or was it real—
only some composite of time spent
beyond the measured memory that thrills and fails.
I’m here—I’m there—walking toward this moment,
—who I am—under the wide imperfect sky that
fills with its vast moodiness, moving so darkly,
laying swift blue shadow everywhere—and
the white gulls that sound so anguished,
though beautiful and low—and I keep
them with me to become at least their
curiosity—never having left—no
matter how many cities later...
I knew this place
—as well as my life—its long
unreachable distance—this shore beside this sea.
THE MECHANICS OF TIME
Cartier Mother of Pearl Clock. 1925
To open the puzzle clock that does not open,
to understand the mechanics of time
that has its own dimension . . .
A harp plays of its own accord in
a shuttered room; a soprano sings,
surrounded by the stopped time
of a white metronome.
To open such a clock is to impose your
curiosity upon the moving gears and the
arrowed hands that turn in tireless turning . . .
A violin cries to another violin
in the white room of troubled music;
softly, they out-cry each other.
To open the clock is to allow yourself an
unearned answer; the face of the clock
will haunt your questions . . .
The sunlight in the room shines across
the carpet to the white piano where
taut hands lift from the final note
and lay them quietly down again.
TOWARD
Up against the mountain
where the climb is high,
I hear the old sweet cry
of the crying bird.
It knows
how I aspire
and why.
It flies aloft
even as I
climb
below.
It’s not
the wings
I need,
I am
too slow.
It’s not
for reach.
The climb is all I know.
____________________
THE TURN
After“Turn in the Road” by Charles Burchfield, 1917
THE TURN
After“Turn in the Road” by Charles Burchfield, 1917
Green trees,
a woods,
a gnarled tree
holding up
a lowering piece of sky
above a darkened building—
staring at the turn—the only direction
from the imposing distance,
two white clouds (or headlights)
that grow larger and nearer,
but through the trees—
an unnerving sound in the breaking silence,
almost a weeping (for the loneliness)
almost a cry (save me)
or something darker (find me)
from somewhere beyond the turn
that keeps turning.
THE PIECES
: comes to her arms,
comes with his heart all weeping
having broken himself upon his life
and lost the pieces,
how he cries to her,
telling his long and pain-filled story
giving it sharp and deadly
edges,
making it deep, carving it in,
how can she listen?
___________________
THE WHITE PALLOR OF THE SKY
What of the white pallor of the sky
this day—this day without mercy, this
dimensionless day, this white-fog morning.
I test the skies with my gray look. How thin.
They could not hold me. I shall not fly
nor lift a dreary wing in agitation.
I may just sift against this day until I fit—
somewhere near or far—it does not matter.
I am in a drift.
Some wet bird lets a cry cut through.
I feel it reach
and offer back my silence.
Nowhere does sensation end; I am
all of it, the pale gray light, monotonous,
the few shapes wavering through.
The same bird calls. I open myself.
I let it through.
THE WHITE PALLOR OF THE SKY
What of the white pallor of the sky
this day—this day without mercy, this
dimensionless day, this white-fog morning.
I test the skies with my gray look. How thin.
They could not hold me. I shall not fly
nor lift a dreary wing in agitation.
I may just sift against this day until I fit—
somewhere near or far—it does not matter.
I am in a drift.
Some wet bird lets a cry cut through.
I feel it reach
and offer back my silence.
Nowhere does sensation end; I am
all of it, the pale gray light, monotonous,
the few shapes wavering through.
The same bird calls. I open myself.
I let it through.
SIMPLE THINGS
Fragmentary. This old light out of older light. Repeti-
tions. Believe in it. Let it lead you into its farther self.
You can go as deep as you dare. Its name is night. It
has many stars. Count them. Take forever. A child sits
watching you, blowing soap bubbles into planets.
Wings without angels fly everywhere. Oh, this is such
a night. Go with joy, that old foe of sorrow. Tell the
child not to cry. The child does not listen. The child
rubs an old tear into its eye, watching you for pity.
You are both lost and at home in this night-city which
has opened up its wing for you. Do not try to under-
stand this—you are not here. The child has dreamed
you. Hold the child until you die.
__________________
THE POWER OF HEAVEN
This is the power
of heaven :
No prayer can fill it.
No death can bring it down.
It is God’s mind, unentered,
mystery of
light and dark,
continuance and
oblivion.
Stars make it far.
But far is
where we are from it.
Paths of sunlight
seem to reach;
the intangibles are what
we seek.
Oh, cry then,
into the claiming air
for whatever is there.
BREATH OF TIME
The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine
and the sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells
from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar
through all my dreams—
all explained. My body is light
and my mind
has never been so deep.
Love shines from within me
and touches everyone.
It is brief but good.
I feel a swarm of color
and am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.
I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AN OLD NIGHT-CRY
—Joyce Odam
An old night-cry—sounding thin, sounding far.
I've been that far, that old—
reached—with nothing there tohold.
But why this night . . .? Why this bold . . .?
_________________
—Medusa, with thanks to and thanksgiving for Joyce Odam and today’s fine poems and photos!
An old night-cry—sounding thin, sounding far.
I've been that far, that old—
reached—with nothing there tohold.
But why this night . . .? Why this bold . . .?
_________________
—Medusa, with thanks to and thanksgiving for Joyce Odam and today’s fine poems and photos!
Forever Blowing Bubbles...
(Anonymous Photo)
Our new Seed of the Week is Bubbles.
For Saturday Night Live’s take on
Bubbles, go to
but there are lots
of meanings to the word, “bubble”.
Go deep, go wide, and send your
poems, photos
and 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 more SOWs than you can shake your bubble wands at.
(Did you
notice the bubbles in one of Joyce’s poems?)
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
