Grace
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
HIGH VIEW
down by the river, below all the trees,
a little white house is leaning
and preening,
to its reflection—
an innocent
tease,
and the ripples tease back
by changing
their patterns,
and the hillsides
grow taller
each year with the trees,
and the river meanders
as ever it does
past the little white house,
and the long, long river continues
admiring its spirit-free mimicry as it goes
rip-rip-rippling through the teasing reflections
Fanciful
WHITE MOON, WHITE OWL
(a Ghazal)
In time we suffer the old consequences of desire.
All is lost among the observations of the view.
___
Alienations meet in secret under the dark window.
A white owl watches from the darkness of the dying tree.
___
The moon is careless moving through such branches.
The sky is torn as well, and is hanging in shreds.
___
Through the grieving window we watch the struggling moon.
Our breath catches in fear, in frantic sympathy.
___
We are caught in the old entanglements of our own.
The stricken moon and the owl’s white eye are one.
___
If the moon can be destroyed by our imagination,
how can we ever be safe from the dying of our love.
Lyric
METAPHORIC MOON
After Moon Sleeping by Maki Horanai
The moon is a dreaming shadow now, afloat
like a sleeping cloud, apart from itself.
It shines, or does not shine—its changes
are metaphor only to point of view.
It is generous with its innocence.
It remembers nothing.
It gives itself to whatever
will replicate its image.
The tides obey it,
keep its secret,
what we give it when
we are enchanted by such thoughts.
It is
a moon—devoid of complexity,
the tides and the moon
are one—
how dis-associate shadow from source
and not profess our wonder, deep and serious?
___________________
HIDE AND SEEK
He wanted me to find him. I found him in
gold weeds, in a field so wide it took all day.
He left no paths. He could have been anywhere,
widespread, asleep, or looking at the sky while he
waited for me. I looked till coolness came over the
searching—came low and covered the bright weeds
with soft blue shadowings, calling him, finding him,
stretched out like a cross. He wanted me to find him.
Timing
SPACE AVAILABLE
After Thursday by John Moore, 1980
What is so empty as
a day
after the day that is spent?
An empty room implies as much.
Old light gone.
New light slanting in.
The view is the same—the chairs
askew—vague emptiness
that waits for the new occupant.
The high windows keep the view
to themselves—the city—huge
outside the bird-height windows.
Thursday—another day between
two others—few clues—except for
the well-kept memories of the walls.
___________________
UNDERCURRENT
Focus, as what is missing from the view :
the blue window feigning distance
with only the sea as perspective—
except for motion, which is of the sea,
held level for a moment
where the horizon flattens out,
where faces of the missing
appear in the swarming shadows,
withholding what they know.
One figure remains at the round window
to question this, someone curious
about the levels of reality—
the way what is locked in,
and what is locked out,
are the same;
the way the horizon holds level
against the rhythmic balancing of the sea—
the same as want against need.
Soft Blur
ROOM WITHOUT A VIEW
I walk down the hotel hallway with its quiet rug
and dim light and knock on all the numbered doors
that will not answer. Peep holes follow me
and I come to the elevators that will take me up
or down. The restaurant is full of the soft clatter
of preparation. No patrons yet. Soft music
plays in and out of hearing. One does not
have to listen. Outside, the same rain falls
that fell yesterday, on time and expected.
The lobby is empty, all the soft chairs and
perfectly polished tables with their lamps
and vases of flowers taking on the soft glow
of late afternoon. One could live here cozily
except for the ghosts. One could stroll hallway
after hallway, floor after floor, if time permitted.
I slide my key into the door-slot of my room
and look out over the rooftops at all the various pipes
and vents, a stray cardboard box bumping around
in the high breezes. I check the sky, the few
tall buildings, and wish there were somewhere else
to be, though here is perfectly comfortable.
Beautiful
LIVING IN THE VALLEY
Here is the last light
saved from day—
saved past a shadow edge.
And here is the emptiness
from a space
so full it seems forever lent.
But slow is slow, and forever
meant : clarity forever,
if the day does not end.
And here is where the story
does not change :
there is a mountain that holds
everything from view,
and trees that shrink from distance
as though distance can’t be crossed.
And we live here,—
in this valley,
where the last light settles
in a little pool,
and the moon lives there,
giving us hope,
for there—
a few stars shine
as deep and brightly as they can
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SACRIFICE
—Joyce Odam
If ever we are sent to guard the stark
uncalibrated dark,
let’s use a blindfold to enhance the task—
a simple penance mask—
that none may view our features with concern
and we, thus masked, in turn
may never look to pity for disguise,
but resignate our eyes
to beauty that was coveted and lost,
and love’s sad cost,
and only trust the darkness that can hide
all anguishes inside.
____________________
Joyce sings to us today of mysteries seen and unseen, as befits our Seed of the Week: Hiding in Plain Sight. Our new Seed of the Week is Country Roads. 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.
For more about Thursday by John Moore, and to see the painting, go to www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/482632/. For more about Maki Horanai, and for more of her paintings, see www.escapeintolife.com/artist-watch/maki-horanai/.
—Medusa, celebrating mysteries, hidden and otherwise...
Moon Sleeping by Maki Horanai
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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