Pilgrim

Arrival

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THOSE GRAY MIRAGES

I take the loud map of time and follow it—the flat land-
scapes—the edge of direction—the vertigo of distance.

My old eye clears the way and removes all obstacles. I
thrill to the path of birds, those silences that were song.

I wade through the dreams that assail the dark intervals
between sleeps—every mountain has another side and
every sea its crossable depth. I enter forest after forest

with familiar longing—whoever else is there has not
found me. I am invisible, though I have seen my own
image in reality after reality—that clouded mirror.

I fetch far into the realms of distance, those gray mirages
that tremble and hold and wrap around me when I arrive.

I am the pilgrim, and the anchored one. I diverge. I go
and stay with the same intention.

 Neither Here Nor There
 

MIND TRAVEL

We’ve come to love the travel of the mind
where we can marvel and blithely wind

through purple hills that stretch as far
as they really are

and not ever go near them;
actually we fear them—

how one could get lost in such empty reaches.
And I prefer beaches

where the shore continues as far as light can shine—
clear into that flat and seamless time

when the long day’s sun goes down—
then mosey back to some nearby, noisy town

for seafood where candle-glow windows face the sea.
I’d gaze at you—you’d gaze at me—

make ready, then, for some music and dancing—
even some romancing.

But, I’d rather just stay put and dream about all this.
So, goodnight, my old dear.  Sweet dreams.  Kiss Kiss.

 Inexplicable

AND SHOULD YOU MEND

Love, you have come to me on failing wing.
How can I warn you of the peril found
where you must learn a bitter song and bring
your final hungers to a barren ground?
Had you come yesterday I was not sealed
against your need. That was a younger time.
Stay if you will, knowing my meager yield,
or contemplate another sky to climb.
I cannot promise love—this winter tree
is all but leafless, though my arms are deep
and waiting curvatures—shelters of me
to break the winds of winter that I keep.
There rest your throbbing self and should you mend
then spring will have a meaning to defend.

 More to Come

THE KNOLL

Our voices dwindle—time runs down       
—night soothes around us, a light rain      
misting the grass.                                      
We do not mind this, or complain,             
for something holds us : we exist,                 
with but a twist                                              
of minds and hearts : we bond as one,       
and loath to leave, we stay.                        
What is begun                                             
must guard the magic of this day               
—this little knoll—our talking done—      
under the soft rain, where we lie                  
with outstretched arms, feeling the sky.  

From Whose Distance
 

FOR THE CUP THROWER

I am glad to have your book
with the spilled coffee on it.
I know how it feels
to throw a cup against the wall.
All the precious paper in the world
cannot stay such anger.
What a furious design you have made—
all that splatter—all the poems
have become suddenly holy.


(first pub. in Epos, 1975)

_____________________

OLD HABITS

We are so difficult today,
caught up in more domestic fray  
than we can handle, though we love.
Dare we leave, or dare we stay—
old battles lost, old battles won—
their truce—their same old killing done
with not much more we’re guilty of?

 Passive

WANING

A helicopter overhead.  Blue evening at
the window. TV
off.

Books in hand, they separate toward
their silence:
he to couch, and she to bed.

The orange sun has fallen
from the day, making one statement more
for them to speak:

They glance and say: Oh yes, they love
the view . . .  Oh yes, it is so beautiful . . .
It is enough . . .

The twilight trees become old silhouettes,
like they are.  The helicopter
flaps and drones—as if to stay.

They frown and glance
away from that annoyance and finish their
errand of goodnight—that separation.

_____________________

WHEN YOU LEAVE

Take all the comfort—
all the vague insistences
for love with its slow failure.

Shadows :
where,
and nowhere.

Old words
of finding.
Useless now.

Where you go is forever.
Stay there. Take your heart
and your broken truth—

your anger as weapon. 
It is
useless.

The year is only
the numbers and their arrangement.
It is always there.

Maybe it is winter, the coldest symbol.
But how am I to know.
All time blends into now—

and now is where everything
begins and ends:  Every tale of woe,
and every bliss.

They are all in the book of experience
that you keep reading
as though it makes sense.


(first pub. in Ophidian, 2011)
 
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HEALING TIME
—Joyce Odam

You are vague . . . extend this thought :
memory releases you . . . I let you go.
Stop your trembling—as if caught
on some confusion.  It’s not
too late to stay if you must.  Healing is slow.

___________________

Healing is slow, says Joyce Odam; our thanks to her for today’s poetic insights about our Seed of the Week: Nesting. “And Should You Mend” is a Shakespearean sonnet; “Old Habits” follows the pattern of “Repose” by James Reeves, with a pattern of a single 4-foot stanza, rhymed as: a, a, b, a, c, c, b.

I would add that burdens are heavy, and that is our new Seed of the Week: Burdens. 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

 Burdens are heavy, and healing is slow…
—Anonymous Photo of Notre Dame Cathedral Fire

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.