—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento
BURNING INCENSE FROM CHINATOWN
So I am sitting here
on this chilly Friday
burning incense from Chinatown,
trying not to turn the heater on.
It will be hot today.
But this morning
I am surviving in sweaters
and cups and cups of coffee.
A draft from the door
pulls the
gray
musk-scent away . . .
twin lines of smoke,
lifting and breaking as I watch,
twine curving patterns in the air.
The gray ash tower
(though I have not breathed upon it)
falls from its tiny coal.
Not enough to warm its own life.
(Or mine, I smile.)
____________________
BURNING POETRY AND OTHER OLD PAPERS
cleaning house
is what you call it
and you put a candle in a basin
and begin to sort through
purses
boxes
drawers
for papers to throw away
and pretty soon
you begin to feed the fire
for its sake alone
for it is so quick and final
with its consuming
and you find
you feed it faster and faster
and soon you are giving it
old letters
recipes
money
and soon the ash is lifting
in celebration
and when you house is purged
you pick up
your small suitcase
full of emptiness
and float
like paper-ash
through the wavering doorway
_____________________
GIFT
all wrapped
guessing
better than
knowing
maybe never open
let gather dust
box of wonder
maybe box
within box
within box
to something
as small as
a thimble maybe
or joke—
just the boxes
___________________
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MAD
WOMAN
The daughter of the mad woman
is an arm-wrestler.
She gives away boxes of candy
to visitors who
come to test her strength
against their own.
She wins, of course.
She is the child of brilliance
and pain,
the one who knows how to be
complicated,
the one who has inherited
all this talent from her mother.
(first pub. in Small Press News, 1988)
So I am sitting here
on this chilly Friday
burning incense from Chinatown,
trying not to turn the heater on.
It will be hot today.
But this morning
I am surviving in sweaters
and cups and cups of coffee.
A draft from the door
pulls the
gray
musk-scent away . . .
twin lines of smoke,
lifting and breaking as I watch,
twine curving patterns in the air.
The gray ash tower
(though I have not breathed upon it)
falls from its tiny coal.
Not enough to warm its own life.
(Or mine, I smile.)
____________________
BURNING POETRY AND OTHER OLD PAPERS
cleaning house
is what you call it
and you put a candle in a basin
and begin to sort through
purses
boxes
drawers
for papers to throw away
and pretty soon
you begin to feed the fire
for its sake alone
for it is so quick and final
with its consuming
and you find
you feed it faster and faster
and soon you are giving it
old letters
recipes
money
and soon the ash is lifting
in celebration
and when you house is purged
you pick up
your small suitcase
full of emptiness
and float
like paper-ash
through the wavering doorway
_____________________
GIFT
all wrapped
guessing
better than
knowing
maybe never open
let gather dust
box of wonder
maybe box
within box
within box
to something
as small as
a thimble maybe
or joke—
just the boxes
___________________
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MAD
WOMAN
The daughter of the mad woman
is an arm-wrestler.
She gives away boxes of candy
to visitors who
come to test her strength
against their own.
She wins, of course.
She is the child of brilliance
and pain,
the one who knows how to be
complicated,
the one who has inherited
all this talent from her mother.
(first pub. in Small Press News, 1988)
CIRCLE ME DEEP
arc me into long flight
indiscernible curve
arrival
no thought backwards
sigh
whisper
here
pin me into staying
I with my
butterfly shape
and moth journey
and no love for velvet
circle me deep
of one continuous spiral
I who am always falling
brace me with edges
I who collect things for boxes
and fill them with dust and
never open them
scribble me sane
I with my loud dark line
all in a tangle
blot me with slow surrealistic white
in drift of easiness
tender phasing into dream flight
fancy me the soul of a bird
no song
no care
vision me everywhere
(first pub. in Cellar Door, 1979)
____________________
OPEN MY SAD DOOR AND COME IN
I am lying here in my old dress, reading
poetry on a high bed. There are nine
pictures on the walls, all of women in
poses of supplication and joy, in moods
of reflection and serenity. I am none of
them. I am chaotic silence. Screams are
in my mind and mouth. I do not utter
them. I am surrounded by an aura of
calm simplicity. Do not change this.
Boxes of books are stored around me.
Broken mirrors are under my bed. A cat
sleeps on my knees. A teddy bear in shiny
cellophane on a dresser top is waiting to be
a gift, as we all are. It will not smother there,
not until it is loved. A teardrop mirror by
the door never sees my face; my face is
always blurring past it in the middle of nights
as my hands grope familiar darkness too dark
for mirrors.
____________________
SCORE
the way we play
against Death
with all our charms
our arms held out
for holding
how empty they become
the way life moves through us
like a harm
beginning slowly
then all those years
gaining their soft momentum
crying into mirrors
taking pieces of laughter down
time after time
like finished pictures
of precious calendars
oh, we are not to blame
life is blameless
we are all composed of error
used clay reformed
of thought and air
cold in the winter
because winter is so
synonymous with death
we know that
we fit together
in separate misery
betrayed
abandoned
unforgiving
our own error-choices
put away
in little memory boxes
our bones vibrating with effort
shall we dance
oh, what a complicated harmony
we have become
shall we dance
another music has begun
(first pub. in Coffee and Chicory, 1977)
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
SUNDAY’S MAILBOX
… only now,
when you look for the address,
i have just left.
the postman knows this.
he waits on the porch
in his long black uniform
to tell you
why i never take letters away
from boxes painted black.
my hand is afraid of
silences.
it won’t go in
where the words
are waiting to be read.
did you
really mean what you said?
SCORE
the way we play
against Death
with all our charms
our arms held out
for holding
how empty they become
the way life moves through us
like a harm
beginning slowly
then all those years
gaining their soft momentum
crying into mirrors
taking pieces of laughter down
time after time
like finished pictures
of precious calendars
oh, we are not to blame
life is blameless
we are all composed of error
used clay reformed
of thought and air
cold in the winter
because winter is so
synonymous with death
we know that
we fit together
in separate misery
betrayed
abandoned
unforgiving
our own error-choices
put away
in little memory boxes
our bones vibrating with effort
shall we dance
oh, what a complicated harmony
we have become
shall we dance
another music has begun
(first pub. in Coffee and Chicory, 1977)
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
SUNDAY’S MAILBOX
… only now,
when you look for the address,
i have just left.
the postman knows this.
he waits on the porch
in his long black uniform
to tell you
why i never take letters away
from boxes painted black.
my hand is afraid of
silences.
it won’t go in
where the words
are waiting to be read.
did you
really mean what you said?
(first pub. in Out of Sight, 1974)
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix! This week we celebrate the Autumnal Equinox (Sunday) with our Seed of the Week: Slow Dawns and Early Sunsets. Send your thoughts about same to kathykieth@hotmail.com—no deadline on SOWs, though.
