—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
CONTRASTS
My house, howling.
Sunlight in loose thin patterns.
The intense stillness of the curtains.
The cat in a deep sleep.
The air closing like fur around my thick breathing.
The motion and non-motion.
A future closing upon a warning.
Or maybe just a winter.
Simple as that.
No premonition.
No mystery.
The cat curled once around herself.
My intense listening.
Time pulled in all directions.
The sunlight giving up.
The wind like a lost voice.
My house straining not to answer.
The way all things resolve to some beginning.
The way a page holds words.
The way a door seems to want to let someone in.
Someone not there.
The way I brace for welcome.
The cat gone out of herself.
Her fur bristling.
DRIVING FORCE
Scorning death, they step too carelessly
into paths of their desire—
of near and far—of stone and rut—
where flowers grow across the perils;
they step across
the deep and shiny puddles
where something lurks
and something threatens—
only here
and never there—
they take no detours.
Paths keep yearning—they have to follow.
THE FORCE OF THE CHILD’S RESISTANCE
After Portrait of a Young Woman and a Child by Emil Nolde
This child was left in the rage too long, caught in the wake
of the relinquishing mother. They almost merge, but they
are one and one. Their faces lock in the mirror. Glass
breaks between them as they pass in separation through
each other. The child is severed at the eye. A white glare
of silence fills with the force of the child’s resistance.
The mother is closing her eyes to the child. The child’s
red mouth fills with fury. Wet smears of color burn their
faces.
(prev. pub. in Rattlesnake Review, 2006)
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?
ghost of red ribbon
upon
grayish white counter
something remembered
brown stem
and
blackened leaves
last shreds
of a wilted bouquet
one tiny piece of green leaf
leaning against the stem,
a duplicating shadow
underneath
it all
since this
is an elevated angle—
I leaning over—focusing—
holding my breath—
taking this picture
GIFT
all wrapped
guessing
better than
knowing
maybe never open
let gather dust
box of wonder
maybe box
within box
within box
to something
as small as
a thimble maybe
or joke—
just the boxes
THE GHOSTS OF THIS TOWN
After Kolmanskop, Ghost Town, Namibia by Ian Plant
Never mind the ghosts
of this town. They stay
for themselves—perfec-
ting and protecting
their memories. If you had
lived here you would remem-
ber with them—but not as
endlessly. They would resent
your presence now.
Nothing impedes them—
they are many, as true
as one is one. A place
is loyal if you loved it. Here is where the
elements move freely and ruin takes its
time. We have time and guard it from
intrusion—here we have no need to haunt—
here is a blueness that we love—
shadows of light to keep us real
in the unbroken windows. True,
we are vain. We help each other
watch the years—how they
recede and stay and there is
no difference, and we never
have to leave.
The old inhabitants left us to
the loneliness that they
no longer wanted…
Go away.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
FORCE AGAINST FORCE
There is
such a
resistance—
such a
resistance
in me—
I do not know myself.
* * *
THE SHAPE OF SILENCE
The way it sits
at my edges
and haunts me
how it loves
my hollows,
fitting in and staying
* * *
THE LIGHT AS GIFT
“flowers were dressed in nothing but light.”
—Mary Oliver
It was
as if the light
gave itself away to
everything—especially the
flowers.
__________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s bouquet of photos and poems, forewarning us of Halloween and our recent Seed of the Week: Monsters. Our new Seed of the Week is Halloween. 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 plenty of others to choose from. Or, hell—make up your own! Do I have to do everything? 😈
—Medusa
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.
CONTRASTS
My house, howling.
Sunlight in loose thin patterns.
The intense stillness of the curtains.
The cat in a deep sleep.
The air closing like fur around my thick breathing.
The motion and non-motion.
A future closing upon a warning.
Or maybe just a winter.
Simple as that.
No premonition.
No mystery.
The cat curled once around herself.
My intense listening.
Time pulled in all directions.
The sunlight giving up.
The wind like a lost voice.
My house straining not to answer.
The way all things resolve to some beginning.
The way a page holds words.
The way a door seems to want to let someone in.
Someone not there.
The way I brace for welcome.
The cat gone out of herself.
Her fur bristling.
Horizontal Study
DRIVING FORCE
Scorning death, they step too carelessly
into paths of their desire—
of near and far—of stone and rut—
where flowers grow across the perils;
they step across
the deep and shiny puddles
where something lurks
and something threatens—
only here
and never there—
they take no detours.
Paths keep yearning—they have to follow.
Two Roses
THE FORCE OF THE CHILD’S RESISTANCE
After Portrait of a Young Woman and a Child by Emil Nolde
This child was left in the rage too long, caught in the wake
of the relinquishing mother. They almost merge, but they
are one and one. Their faces lock in the mirror. Glass
breaks between them as they pass in separation through
each other. The child is severed at the eye. A white glare
of silence fills with the force of the child’s resistance.
The mother is closing her eyes to the child. The child’s
red mouth fills with fury. Wet smears of color burn their
faces.
(prev. pub. in Rattlesnake Review, 2006)
Lovely in Pink
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?
Thorns
ghost of red ribbon
upon
grayish white counter
something remembered
brown stem
and
blackened leaves
last shreds
of a wilted bouquet
one tiny piece of green leaf
leaning against the stem,
a duplicating shadow
underneath
it all
since this
is an elevated angle—
I leaning over—focusing—
holding my breath—
taking this picture
Norma's Rose
GIFT
all wrapped
guessing
better than
knowing
maybe never open
let gather dust
box of wonder
maybe box
within box
within box
to something
as small as
a thimble maybe
or joke—
just the boxes
Open to Praise
THE GHOSTS OF THIS TOWN
After Kolmanskop, Ghost Town, Namibia by Ian Plant
Never mind the ghosts
of this town. They stay
for themselves—perfec-
ting and protecting
their memories. If you had
lived here you would remem-
ber with them—but not as
endlessly. They would resent
your presence now.
Nothing impedes them—
they are many, as true
as one is one. A place
is loyal if you loved it. Here is where the
elements move freely and ruin takes its
time. We have time and guard it from
intrusion—here we have no need to haunt—
here is a blueness that we love—
shadows of light to keep us real
in the unbroken windows. True,
we are vain. We help each other
watch the years—how they
recede and stay and there is
no difference, and we never
have to leave.
The old inhabitants left us to
the loneliness that they
no longer wanted…
Go away.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
FORCE AGAINST FORCE
There is
such a
resistance—
such a
resistance
in me—
I do not know myself.
* * *
THE SHAPE OF SILENCE
The way it sits
at my edges
and haunts me
how it loves
my hollows,
fitting in and staying
* * *
THE LIGHT AS GIFT
“flowers were dressed in nothing but light.”
—Mary Oliver
It was
as if the light
gave itself away to
everything—especially the
flowers.
__________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s bouquet of photos and poems, forewarning us of Halloween and our recent Seed of the Week: Monsters. Our new Seed of the Week is Halloween. 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 plenty of others to choose from. Or, hell—make up your own! Do I have to do everything? 😈
—Medusa
Celebrate poetry!
—Anonymous Photo and Cat Model
And don't forget to check out Katy Brown's new photo album
of last Thursday night's Poetry in Davis on Medusa's
Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/Medusas-KitchenRattlesnake-Press-212180022137248/.
—Anonymous Photo and Cat Model
And don't forget to check out Katy Brown's new photo album
of last Thursday night's Poetry in Davis on Medusa's
Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/Medusas-KitchenRattlesnake-Press-212180022137248/.
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.
