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A Sky So Wide

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

REARRANGING LIGHT

She is a long way from time and home
in a summer room with breeze-lifted curtains

and lonely shadows. Bent to a task of memory,
she sorts through long-forgotten clothes—

lifting them from an old travel-trunk she
had thought would remain closed. But tonight

she wants the things of her other self.
In the shadowy light, she moves like a

dream-walker, trying on all those outgrown
years—the tiny balcony open to the night.

____________________

I FIND MY CHILD SELF

I find my child self in the same old hallway,
toys all over the carpet outside the door,

to watch for my mother to come home,
to guard the length of the waiting,

get lost in the play,
watch for her,       watch for her,

rearrange the toys,       be small and quiet,
I think I am eight years old.

 Homeless at Home

QUINTILLA FOR THE HOMESICK

Back through memories growing thin,
finding ruin—finding no kin,
no one to remember—the land
changed—strangers in the house.
Put hand to mouth to stifle what has been.

Only yearning remains the same,
wanting that place from where it came,
wanting the welcome—wanting peace—
the heart to feel its sad release.
Homesickness has no other name.

__________________

BACKWARD TO NOW

It is this narrow light
that trips us as we step
over the dark rug toward . . .

as we step over the dark rug
we realize we are emblazoned
with a soft deceptive light . . .

with a soft deceptive light we are
able to translate the—must I
say it—the dark room—?

say it!—the dark room,
forever entered for its darkness,
for its strange familiarity . . .

for its strange familiarity we enter
to be home—but we cannot stay,
for it dissolves as we move through it . . .

as we move through it, we know it is the
only way back, but there is a narrow
band of light spreading over the dark rug.

 Commiseration

THE DENIALS

So where we go is all pale again
as if the landscapes were done by
a dim artist with no love for color.

When we go to those places
our bright clothing fades and
grows softer
and we blend against the softness

            ~~~

All that was harsh of our minds
is mended and forgiven—we would
mention this
but words are forbidden.

Are we less happy now?
No. We are serene.
We love looking, though we
close our eyes to save this pleasure.

           ~~~

We will not come home, you know;
we have become the new providers
for all other distance:

We bring it our sweet nature—
our small adventures—
which we tell in the night
as dreams we pass among each other.


(first pub. in Famous Last Words, 1988)

 Slow and Lonely

DIRECTION

We would make trip after trip
in the wrong direction;
no one would be waiting;
we would not write home. 

We would make trip after trip
for somewhere else to be—never
finding.  Here we are—in a place
among places.  Where are we?

                 
From Lines Against Death (Mini-Chap)

__________________

LATE

Reams of light unfolding over the landscape—the
long way to anywhere, the time it takes to get there,

the silence in the car, the way time seems unreal when
you are obliviously lost—the billboards whizzing by—

unimportant in the dusk. Why silence now?  There is
so much to say, the way direction holds true, no matter

which way you enter it—the belief in destination—
in safe travel—in never having to stop for relief or

to refuel. The moon is a clock.  It moves across the
ever-shifting night.  It hides and reappears.  It grows

until it fills the new horizon and bursts open, spilling
its last illumination . . . oh, that can’t be real . . . this

is only a slow trip home in an old car—the way
familiar—the whole world changed—the night air

coming in the window—only a few last headlights
coming by from the other direction.


(first pub. in Curbside Review, 2003)      

 Home For Some

TIME-LAPSES

The way she was leaning against a tree, a scar of sunshine
on her mouth—you would have kissed her, but she had just
spoken a word and you had to answer. 

In the next moment she was gone, though your camera held
her. You could revise her.

And then she was standing somewhere old, one hand to her
face, a fur of winter around her neck. A man with a butter-
fly on his skin was with her, but they were looking into the
edge of their small square place, which would never allow
them anything other than suffocation.

You walked right past them, going home, in a slow, surreal-
istic manner.

And just then, she whispered what she knew, and you
answered what you believed, and that is how long it took to
change an ending.

______________________

WELCOME HOME

We are the quiet country to which you come;
we are as far as you will ever be.
Learn our terrain and seasons.
Learn our regionality.

We have landscapes made for calendars.
Cows live in pastoral harmony with
passing trains. All is scenic and
nostalgic here. There are no laws or jails.

The signs at the county line say Welcome.
But that is not entirely true…
even if you promise never to leave…
even if you say you were born here.

If you stay, you will become native to
our ways—earned by experience—learned by
history. You have already been counted into
the population figure posted at the county line.

                                             
(first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2011)

 Faith

OF YOUR LIFE :
(Reading Alain Bosquet)

a walk through the mystery that is sold here.
make it your own.

buy it now.
pay any price.
take it home with you.

it is real enough to walk at your side
        like a beautiful woman.

name it nostalgia.
it will love you.

it will slip its arm around your waist and walk
        in harmony with you.

it will not miss its show-window where
        it lived in admiration.

name it souvenir.
it will be all you have to remember.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOMESICKNESS
—Joyce Odam

the way to hold against sunshine
no matter how real the
passing of hours

old beaks pecking in the rain
not that we have ever lost the sea
we keep the hunger clean(first pub. in Contemporary Quarterly, 1980)

____________________

A big thank-you to Joyce Odam for her fine poems about Homesickness, our Seed of the Week, and her haunting skies. If you’re wondering about the Quintilla, the form is:

5 lines, 8 syllables, optional rhyme schemes
a b a b a   |  a b b a b   |  a b a a b  |  a a b b a

Our new Seed of the Week is “Ornery”. Don’t be ornery; 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.

—Medusa

 Alain Bosquet (1919-1998)

For more poems by French poet Alain Bosquet, 

go to www.poemhunter.com/alain-bosquet/.
Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.