ZenSee
—Poems and ZenTangles by Joyce Odam, Sacramento
AIR SPACE
Here I live in this old ugly room, behind
this noncommittal door that locks, and
this stingy window that opens to the flat
near wall, where I look out to see the
shadows pass.
If this is metaphor, and I am room, then
let me tell you more…
I am the hallway and the stairs that I
trust myself to climb; I am the mirror
and the wall; the ceiling light and bed;
I am the sleep; I am the hour after hour,
and the rent I pay.
If you are curious, and I have need to
analyze…
Then I collect old curiosities and more;
I gather evidence of theft; the souvenirs
of crime and fear; all compromise and
promise; all surrender that gives in.
If you are horrified, or do not care…
I have no news for you. I am this cold
and ugly room; this noncommittal door
that locks, and this mean window opened
to the flat near wall where I look out and
see the shadows pass.
_______________________
THE DIMENSIONLESS SUMMER
(After "Calm Morning", 1904, Frank Weston Benson, 1862-1951)
Time is but the/stream I go a-fishing in./Robust art.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817-1852)
Shall we remember what was—or what we almost
recall, out of nostalgia,
or the old comfort of boredom.
We had no edge.
We had not lived beyond the now—
the cinema of our minds,
made of movie-lore and imagination.
We should have noticed
more detail.
Everything was smaller then.
We were never dramatic.
Everything was enough.
Even the yearning.
Practice proved nothing.
There was always enough day
to go around:
the calm horizon, the rippleless blue water
—the small, floating boats we trusted,
the yellow, gathering sky—
the easy silences that stayed unbroken all this time.
Here I live in this old ugly room, behind
this noncommittal door that locks, and
this stingy window that opens to the flat
near wall, where I look out to see the
shadows pass.
If this is metaphor, and I am room, then
let me tell you more…
I am the hallway and the stairs that I
trust myself to climb; I am the mirror
and the wall; the ceiling light and bed;
I am the sleep; I am the hour after hour,
and the rent I pay.
If you are curious, and I have need to
analyze…
Then I collect old curiosities and more;
I gather evidence of theft; the souvenirs
of crime and fear; all compromise and
promise; all surrender that gives in.
If you are horrified, or do not care…
I have no news for you. I am this cold
and ugly room; this noncommittal door
that locks, and this mean window opened
to the flat near wall where I look out and
see the shadows pass.
_______________________
THE DIMENSIONLESS SUMMER
(After "Calm Morning", 1904, Frank Weston Benson, 1862-1951)
Time is but the/stream I go a-fishing in./Robust art.
—Henry David Thoreau (1817-1852)
Shall we remember what was—or what we almost
recall, out of nostalgia,
or the old comfort of boredom.
We had no edge.
We had not lived beyond the now—
the cinema of our minds,
made of movie-lore and imagination.
We should have noticed
more detail.
Everything was smaller then.
We were never dramatic.
Everything was enough.
Even the yearning.
Practice proved nothing.
There was always enough day
to go around:
the calm horizon, the rippleless blue water
—the small, floating boats we trusted,
the yellow, gathering sky—
the easy silences that stayed unbroken all this time.
(first pub. in Ekphrasis, 2008)
Coiled Purple Stalks
FORGOTTEN SOUVENIRS
long
after,
opening the
book,
dried leaves
fell out
and broke
like old
whispers
they were
stiff and brown
she could not
remember
why she
saved them
from
what moment
of what season
next time
she vowed
instead of tears,
for instance,
or some moment
meant to keep
forever in its joy,
she’d press
snowflakes
in her winter book
and leave no trace
to haunt
(first pub. in Acorn, 1997)
Sunny Field
THIS TRAIL OF NOSTALGIA
this trail of nostalgia
going into a wood
a trail of crumbs
to follow
deepness ahead
oh, blue sorrow
I see you there
I am coming
I am hungry too
and late to everything
oh, faint remembering
be patient
do not fade
I am bringing my
weeping and my love
my tears will be left
for others
to be misunderstood . . .
I must know you again,
sweet memory
nothing in life
has compared
are you there
are you true
or am I in
the land of trickery
that forever-never-world
of anywhere
but here
and any time
but now
(first pub. in Yarrow, 1991)
_________________
IN MOTHER’S COUNTRY
taking my own picture
in window-reflections
standing behind my camera
in transparent fantasy
a mockery of substance
posed
now in flowers
now in lamps
now in a turning of curious faces
I am held
in the time of this
in her country
where she has returned
and I have come
to be with her
my fame is held
in moments where I
paused for brief souvenirs of myself
marveling at my album of selves
each one with the same serious look
what do I seek
an arrangement of years
allows me
to remember each small finding:
Yes, this one . . .
this one is me . . .
another self-portrait.
(first pub. in Poets’ Guild, 1996)
ZenFloral
IN RETROSPECT
We lean into
each other’s voices.
Now we are hewn
out of shadow
and shadow’s
distortion.
Help me remember
the sensation
of this moment.
Hold me in the merging.
What is ours that we will
try not to lose?
What can we save?
Are you real?
Am I?
Are we meant to stay
in this state
of fragile adoration?
Your face is in the flowers.
Ghosts of birds
are almost singing.
What am I to do
with the lost expression
on my face?
The intensity of light
surrounds us
until it too
becomes absorbed.
Your eyes are closing.
Now we are becoming
shadow-thoughts
of each other.
Now we are released
from the shudder
of some vast window
of possessive light,
gathering back its glare,
as if we had become
imprinted
in some frozen moment
like a future souvenir.
_______________________
THE LEAVES IN JAMES WRIGHT’S BOOK
We lean into
each other’s voices.
Now we are hewn
out of shadow
and shadow’s
distortion.
Help me remember
the sensation
of this moment.
Hold me in the merging.
What is ours that we will
try not to lose?
What can we save?
Are you real?
Am I?
Are we meant to stay
in this state
of fragile adoration?
Your face is in the flowers.
Ghosts of birds
are almost singing.
What am I to do
with the lost expression
on my face?
The intensity of light
surrounds us
until it too
becomes absorbed.
Your eyes are closing.
Now we are becoming
shadow-thoughts
of each other.
Now we are released
from the shudder
of some vast window
of possessive light,
gathering back its glare,
as if we had become
imprinted
in some frozen moment
like a future souvenir.
_______________________
THE LEAVES IN JAMES WRIGHT’S BOOK
OF POETRY
I found a leaf in a book, pressed backwards,
its tiny yellow veins defined against the
soft flat green of its perfect shape. I don’t know
why that makes me sad—small keepsake, fragile
now, that I did not want to take from the page
it came to know, nor deprive the page of the leaf.
How could I dare to misarrange so much?
What did I know of such importance? Its com-
panion, the other leaf, waited to be found—
the patient one—more perfect than the first;
all its points matched, both sides of it the same,
a mirror to itself. If they came from the same tree,
they did not tell me. I only wondered briefly.
My admiration was humble.
My touch gentle. Such a strange reverence.
I found a leaf in a book, pressed backwards,
its tiny yellow veins defined against the
soft flat green of its perfect shape. I don’t know
why that makes me sad—small keepsake, fragile
now, that I did not want to take from the page
it came to know, nor deprive the page of the leaf.
How could I dare to misarrange so much?
What did I know of such importance? Its com-
panion, the other leaf, waited to be found—
the patient one—more perfect than the first;
all its points matched, both sides of it the same,
a mirror to itself. If they came from the same tree,
they did not tell me. I only wondered briefly.
My admiration was humble.
My touch gentle. Such a strange reverence.
Three Flowers
OF YOUR LIFE:
(Reading Alain Bosquet)
A walk through the mystery that is sold here,
make it your own.
Buy it now
Pay any price. Take it home with you.
It is real enough
to walk at your side like a beautiful woman.
Name it nostalgia; it will love you.
It will slip its arm around your waist
and walk in harmony with you.
It will not miss its show window where
it lived in admiration.
Name it souvenir.
It will be all you have to remember.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SOUVENIR STONES ~
Stones in a bottle
on a sunny windowsill,
stones from the river
the bottle kept filled
with tap-water so the stones
still feel the river.
(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2002)
_____________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poems and pix today! For more info about ZenTangles, see
www.zentangle.com
A note also that our Seed of the Week is a wistful one: I Remember Rain. Send poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other subject!) to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs.
—Medusa
Bricked-in Flowers
