Creaky Old Homes

 

Fourteen Meanings

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

 

 

HOMELAND                   

Come to the hawk land.
Bring bones.
Wear necklaces of teeth.
Watch for the slippery shadows.

You will become as one of those
who have always lived here.
When you hear wings,
climb stones
till you reach the nest.
Climb in.
Lie on the dreams.

The children you own
will thrive here.
They will be wild and hungry.
They will choose their own names.
They will live precariously
on the cliffs of your fear.

Whoever loves you
will never undo your power.
The shadow is your love.
The nest is your land.
The hawk is your mother.

                                 
CFCP 1st Prize, Theme Poem Category:
Realms of the Supernatural
Pub. CFCP Forty-Ninth Annual Convention
Prizewinning Poems, 1988
[Calif. Federation of Chaparral Poets]

(also prev. pub. in The Bridge, 1998, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10-02-2018)

 

 

 

Fourteen Cracks

 

HOUSE OF WEB AND DUST

Cobweb Lady
lives in her large house
of web and dust.  Her windows are filmy.
Her cats groom themselves endlessly.
                . 

She sits in her gown of velvet,
reading diaries.
Everything is written there.
                .
All day she recreates memories.
All night she suffers their transformations.
She has no energy for the spiders
or their works of art.
                .
The spiders work around her,
patiently busy,
making the dark house corners elegant.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8-16-2010)

 

 

 

Fourteen Alibis

 

 

HOUSE WOMAN

House woman smiles
through her heart which is
worn on the outside of her dress.

The lines of her dark merge with
the yellow walls of her home,
all in a pleasant vertigo.

She is falling slow.  She leans
to catch her hand against the air.
Just in time.  She changes her mind

and begins to hum.
The hours glide by on a reel.
She is nowhere new.

She is just there
in the midst of her collections—
letting them be her reason to not go.
                                        

(prev. pub. in The Confluence [broadside
from One Dog Press], Autumn, 1997, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7-25-2016)

___________________

MY OLD HOUSE

Someone owns my old house. I passed it again
today. Someone tore its windows out, put a room
on its porch, sagged its fence and killed its orange
tree. Someone drove its ghosts out, which still
want to live there. Someone, and someone, and
someone, changed hands on it—each new some-
one having to leave and take their unhappiness
with them. My old house just sits on its corner and
stares. It knows when I drive by—slowly for its
sake. Its old tin garage glints and stays useful,
holding years of junk. My old house and I know
how we still love each other, how we grow old with
love. I drive by as often as I can. I look at it and say
a soft ‘Oh’, and it says ‘Oh' back. We are patient.

                                     ~

       here—not there—
              not anywhere—
                      I’m so homeless now

 

 

 

Fourteen Rumors

 

HISTORY’S OLD HOUSE

Poe’s Mother’s House, 1930   
                                                            
What next, a scene out of anywhere, but this : the
front door open upon a narrow stair next to an alcove
that looks like a tunnel. A gaping window above the
door. The whole building held by stubborn gray brick,
all wood framework rotting—all that is needed aside
from the gloomy day is an unsolved mystery—even a
murder.

It all fits : the musty smell, the webby feel wherever
you put your hand—even the shadows that go only
so far back to strike against solid black interior. Even
a small tree growing out of a pipe outside the upstairs
window, thriving there.

No one seems to have taken advantage of the vacancy :
Not For Sale, No Trespassing, or Beware. Nobody there.
No former occupant to name. This is History’s old house
that fits no page of memory. Only the tree seems to matter,
growing there, looking into the sunless window.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8-19-2014)

 

 

 

Fourteen Promises

 

 

 

HOUSE, GROWING OLD   

he knows the house
knows all its rooms and
what the creakings mean
within the walls

he has been
under the house
crawling around in
the damp earth

helping it brace itself
fixing its water pipes
and looking for
termite danger

a leak slides down
the corner of a room
from the
all night rain

now he is crawling around
in the attic
over the
wiring and insulation

calling :     house     house
are you all right,
is there anything I can
do for you

                          
(prev. pub. in The Wormwood Review, 1973;
Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll [mini-chap], 1975,
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9-16-2014)

 

 

 

Fourteen Letters

 

HOUSE LOOKING AT ITSELF

in the mirror is a door
through the door a room
on the far wall of the room
is a mirror . . .

in the mirror is a room
through the room a door
reflecting the door is
a mirror . . .


(prev. pub. in Orbis [England], 1973
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12-13-2011)

 

 

 

Fourteen Sunsets

 

HOME AS ONLY THE WISH

This house is dream—

loud with strangeness.
Its rooms shift and re-

connect in different houses.
I am outside of them.
Inside is something I terribly want

but can’t remember what it is.
My tears offend a cruel face
with a mouth that curls in silent
words. The house shifts again—

will not let me in until I
remember what it is I want.
The cruel face at a window stares
until I cringe away and ask
another set of rooms where I belong.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10-02-18)

 

 

 

Fourteen Forevers

 

NOW IN THE FUN HOUSE
(after Paul Klee’s Death and Fire)

Now in the fun-house of the dream,
white ghost
of symbolic death—
shadow-texture
of scream—
silent grasp of light,
side-show of the mind,

and at the receding edge 
of sleep—
sleep-child,
hands raised
against the looming bugaboos
which are real, which are always there,
and always will be—in the dream.

                                        
(prev. pub. in Blind Man’s Rainbow, 1997;
Narrowings [mini-chap], 2002, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 5-26-2015)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE HOUSE SQUEAKS
—Joyce Odam

The hinge on the door lets out a sound,

fear with its secret, here again,
enters and seeks you out—oh, friend—
fear with its secret, old and thin—

the hinge on the door lets out a sound.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8-16-2010)

_____________________

The first day of February brings us The Year of the Water Tiger (astrologyanswers.com/article/year-of-the-tiger), as well as Black History Month, this year themed “Black Health and Wellness” (www.history.com/topics/black-history/black-history-month#origins-of-black-history-month). It also brings us poems and photos (about our recent Seed of the Week: "My 141-Year-Old House”) from Sacramento Poet Joyce Odam, and we are grateful for her creaky old houses! Today, Joyce has made good use of Medusa's policy of accepting previously published work (feel free to make use of this policy yourself!). In fact, if you'll notice, all but one of today's poems was previously published in the Kitchen! What a joy to see part of Joyce's long history of cooking with the Gorgon! Thank you, Joyce (and helper Robin).

Our new Seed of the Week is “The World Gone Upside-Down”. 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.

This coming Thursday (2/3) at 5pm—sunset-hour—Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents Patricia Caspers and Damieka Thomas (plus open mic—4 min. or 2 items) at the Natsoulas Rooftop Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Dress warmly and please wear masks. Host: Dr. Andy Jones.

To see Paul Klee’s painting, Death and Fire, go to ideate.xsead.cmu.edu/gallery/projects/a-deeper-look-into-paul-klee-s-fire-and-death/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Kung hei fat choy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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