—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento
DOOR ANGEL
Bless this door through which no one comes
and goes. It is a frozen door, braced shut,
made useless by a useless lock, and a frame
that settles. The whole house ignores it:
once closed, it stays closed; once opened,
it stays open. Some things are much too
difficult to deal with— the way the wind
tends to blow it open if I don’t keep
something heavy for it to weight against—
the way I can’t depend on it alone. It’s never
worked right for long—a mystery doors keep
to themselves. Some doors are not meant
to be used as doors, but only as emergency
exits—or fears with bars—thus do I offer
this Door-angel to assuage our difference.
________________________
THE JEALOUS ANGELS AND
THE POEM
The angels quarreled all night
over the girl
of the blank white paper
who was so eloquent
though blind
who could never be born
into tragedy…
They wanted her
for themselves…
they had lovely mirrors to share
they wanted to hear her story,
but she was the poem
only they could have written,
and it was not allowed.
(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 1996)
________________________
THE ANGEL OF LIGHT
The angel of light came down the stairs
to my mother who was ill, and a child.
This is her memory:
The angel shimmered for a long, bright
moment, then wavered down
and disappeared—
just before touch—just before sleep
drifted in and took my mother under
a slow and loving deepness.
If the angel went with her—she can’t
remember—dreams are a part of reality
—illusion is more than it seems—
and my mother’s fever-angel returns
from time to time, to my memory.
________________________
THE ANGEL THAT WILL TAKE HER
For my mother: “I’ll just let the angels take me…”
Each morning the angel wakes her
with its supporting arm and guides her
through her day’s small chores
though she is not aware of the presence
of the assisting angel—ready
to lend her its very own wings
at the moment she needs them.
Obedient to the rising, she goes,
dream-like, through the rituals she
measures by as she strengthens and
leans into the heart of the angel
which even now is moving inside her.
Bless this door through which no one comes
and goes. It is a frozen door, braced shut,
made useless by a useless lock, and a frame
that settles. The whole house ignores it:
once closed, it stays closed; once opened,
it stays open. Some things are much too
difficult to deal with— the way the wind
tends to blow it open if I don’t keep
something heavy for it to weight against—
the way I can’t depend on it alone. It’s never
worked right for long—a mystery doors keep
to themselves. Some doors are not meant
to be used as doors, but only as emergency
exits—or fears with bars—thus do I offer
this Door-angel to assuage our difference.
________________________
THE JEALOUS ANGELS AND
THE POEM
The angels quarreled all night
over the girl
of the blank white paper
who was so eloquent
though blind
who could never be born
into tragedy…
They wanted her
for themselves…
they had lovely mirrors to share
they wanted to hear her story,
but she was the poem
only they could have written,
and it was not allowed.
(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 1996)
________________________
THE ANGEL OF LIGHT
The angel of light came down the stairs
to my mother who was ill, and a child.
This is her memory:
The angel shimmered for a long, bright
moment, then wavered down
and disappeared—
just before touch—just before sleep
drifted in and took my mother under
a slow and loving deepness.
If the angel went with her—she can’t
remember—dreams are a part of reality
—illusion is more than it seems—
and my mother’s fever-angel returns
from time to time, to my memory.
________________________
THE ANGEL THAT WILL TAKE HER
For my mother: “I’ll just let the angels take me…”
Each morning the angel wakes her
with its supporting arm and guides her
through her day’s small chores
though she is not aware of the presence
of the assisting angel—ready
to lend her its very own wings
at the moment she needs them.
Obedient to the rising, she goes,
dream-like, through the rituals she
measures by as she strengthens and
leans into the heart of the angel
which even now is moving inside her.
THE DARK ANGELS
the dark angels
lured away my love
who walked like a sorrower
without wings
who walked away from me
toward an icy weather
who took
no precious things
to remember
or cry over
later
when it was time
to cry or remember
it
was I
who picked up
the yards and yards
of useless cloth
wing-patterned
made of veils
that were left
after
on diminishing
trails
______________________
THE DREADFUL ANGELS
OF REMORSE
Their flowing selves ascend and pray,
watching for pity and for love.
They huddle close enough to
speak, although each head
is turned away
from
us…
they
let their hands
point outward with such
calm, a golden lucence covers
them, till they become the lucence
too, and all our fear of them is gone.
______________________
THE ANGEL OF COMMON DESPAIR
Oh,
Angel—
pensive as stone—
shadowless
against a muted wall,
the winter light surrounding you,
your massive wings at rest—
how lost you seem—how without power
to persuade or frighten
—just another figure caught
in some
indecisive moment.
How pale you are
against the cathedral dark—
ghost in tragic stance,
one foot upon the stair as if to enter
—saddened there
as though some love has befallen you.
_____________________
SIX ANGELS
Ascending ceiling-ward
toward the opening to the sky,
each one staring and comparing,
each to each in unison,
each one daring first reunion—
sister angels—each alike unto the other,
long wings trailing,
full moon waning from the
churning motion of the clouds.
What are they praying,
what are they saying
to each other and themselves;
why is their ascent so slow—
so heavy—so prayer laden;
why are they straining from the effort?
There they go—forever striving—
endlessly arriving
with messages too hard to carry.
_____________________
THE ANGEL OF COMMON DESPAIR
Oh,
Angel—
pensive as stone—
shadowless
against a muted wall,
the winter light surrounding you,
your massive wings at rest—
how lost you seem—how without power
to persuade or frighten
—just another figure caught
in some
indecisive moment.
How pale you are
against the cathedral dark—
ghost in tragic stance,
one foot upon the stair as if to enter
—saddened there
as though some love has befallen you.
_____________________
SIX ANGELS
Ascending ceiling-ward
toward the opening to the sky,
each one staring and comparing,
each to each in unison,
each one daring first reunion—
sister angels—each alike unto the other,
long wings trailing,
full moon waning from the
churning motion of the clouds.
What are they praying,
what are they saying
to each other and themselves;
why is their ascent so slow—
so heavy—so prayer laden;
why are they straining from the effort?
There they go—forever striving—
endlessly arriving
with messages too hard to carry.
_____________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and photos. Be sure to keep Joyce in your thoughts this Thursday, when she will undergo hip surgery.
Joyce's poems today are angelic. And they're also about angels, our past Seed of the Week. Our new SOW comes from a poem by Cynthia Linville that we posted yesterday, about "How We Met". How DID you meet—your partner, or your best friend, or other chance meetings that wind up being hugely important in your life? Then again, some meetings are not so chance, like our parents, or babies being born...or are they?... Anyway, send poems or photos or other artwork about "How We Met" to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
THE ANGEL OF LOST LOVE
—Joyce Odam
Love is not held
safe in wings—no matter how free they seem;
they will half-
fold around, pulsate, then close
and you will feel
warm and loved—then they’ll
let go—and you will fall,
though you did not know you had been ascending.
(first pub. in Hidden Oak, 2004)
____________________
—Medusa
