Hope for a Happy Ending

A Memory

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE OLD DRUNK LOVERS WALK TO THE STORE

Each day the old drunk lovers walk to the little store,
crossing the dry field together, stopping and talking,
facing each other while they speak. (Such quarrelsome
words.) They stop and speak, then walk a little ways,
then stop and speak, each day, about this hour. They
hold hands for balance, then push each other away.
They stop by the parking-log to talk awhile and by the
corner of the fence and talk awhile. It takes so long for
them to cross the field. It takes all summer.

                                                                    
(first pub. in Pearl, 1997)

____________________

THE DREAMING GIRL
After Sasho’s Journey, 1990 by Wonsook Kim Linton

Where does the brown bear lead? They are
in a cave. The walls of the cave are missing.

Night is showing through
with its sky and hidden moon—

its green rain and the lost distance.
She carries a handful of red flowers . . .

                         ~

They are on an ice floe in a desert night.
The land is shrinking around them.

The bear is pulling her through the melting.
The ice is the color of sand.

The sea is a deepening mirror.
A white bird rides on her shoulder . . .

                         ~

They are in a crude tapestry. Part of it
is missing. The ravels slowly work

around them—mending the fraying world.
Still, they seem resolute

in their calmness—the bear and the girl
going somewhere dreamily together . . .

 Display

THE TOILETTE

what is precious here in this tray
of things :
her rings,
the tray itself,
the old array of bracelets and pins . . .
her face in the mirror,
imprinted by
the same old memory of herself,
the way it appears
and disappears,
like a glance,
the crumpled tissue for daubing
at makeup and tears
as if they burned— 
how scented here :
the spilled powder
her favorite colognes—
the thick waft of hairspray
aimed at her hair,
and floating down like virga,
as she leaves the room
to itself in pampered waiting
for when next she enters for repair

 Detail

GETTING THE POINT

I think one had to be there. The joke was private, the refer-
ence obscure; it didn’t quite come off—as gossip, or as
anecdote of relevance to gain a chuckle at—no—one really
had to be there in the original experience. The story had a
lag to it, required an explanation, or revision to accommodate
its newer audience. It might as well have been Greek—or
dialect, with foreign terms interspersed throughout. The in-
nuendo didn’t work.

Well, we laughed anyway because the others did. And others
seemed to get the point, though we did not; and who wants
to look foolish in sophisticated gatherings of charming talk-
swap that one is not quite up on. The joke? It doesn’t bear
retelling—and anyway, you get the point, don’t you?

________________

THE PATIO TREE

The
small
patient tree
grows
up
through
the narrow openness
of the lattice work
wending its way
up
and
through—
its
trunk
growing
sturdy—
its leaves
taking in the light and
fluttering in old happiness. 

 About Blue

THE LOST MOTHER,

found by the lost child who forever
needs love, craved by the mind.

Love fails, even though loved, but
needs separation—how lives are spent,

directed by circumstance, the answer
questioned, insufficient to the loss.

Maps drown where you travel—
drown and are unreadable.

So you stay where you are,
become regional.

The lost mother is still lost
in her childless life.

but something reaches between
like a howl in wind

through
corners of an empty house.

 Levels

WARM FOR YOU

I return to bed
steal your warmth
it is my warmth now

you fold out of bed
shine in the dark like a cold candle
all night you walk down the hall

I watch you
and wait for you to come back
I will keep your place


(first pub. in Galley Sail Review, 1988)

 Something Remembered
 

SANGUINITY

Let’s hope for a happy ending
this time,
that long list of wanting,
things to work out,
come true,
all wishes
that are good wishes—healings.

Let us no longer lose what we need,
no matter how expensive
or out of stock,
when all we need
are things
that feed, clothe, and shelter—
enough not too much—even love.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOORAY FOR EVERYTHING
—Joyce Odam

The water in the toilet is barely blue.
The light bulb in the bedroom burns out
and we’ve only had it twenty years.
The paper did not come.
No mail today either.
Yes, it’s Sunday
and the silence is too long.
Soon it will all be true,
everything that was sworn to and denied.
Hangovers do not cure drunkenness.
Why did you not hold me this morning?
We share our house with the spiders.

____________________

A big thank-you to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poetry and pix, to Katy Brown for the photo of trees below, and hooray for everything!

In honor of the City of Trees art showing and reception at Sac. Poetry Center this weekend, our new Seed of the Week will be City of Trees. Poems don’t need to be about Sacramento—Paris qualifies, for example, as well as many other towns and cities I can think of. 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.

Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around will meet in El Dorado Hills tonight, 5-7pm, at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa
 

Treetops 

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
Celebrate the trees—and the poetry they bring us!

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.