Beautiful Pansy
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE SUMMER JUST BEFORE
(Quatern)
In Balboa, nineteen forty one,
beside an endless summer sea,
the days were made for summer fun;
the nights were made for mystery.
We played in restless harmony
in Balboa, nineteen forty one—
at seventeen, the place to be,
with time we never could outrun.
Elsewhere a world war had begun.
Our lives were still illusory
in Balboa, nineteen forty one;
there was no fatal destiny.
Our lives were wild, and fun, and free
before the world became undone—
a far-off unreality—
in Balboa, nineteen forty one.
_________________
SUN-RUST
It is an old summer; let us play
while the air is golden and time is long
and lissome as a serpent
gathering the swift ground as it slips between
the heartbeats of the hour.
Let us pretend that is all there is
for us to know. Never mind
the ending. It is as slow as we make it.
Come, my shadow; it is a bright,
bewildered morning—let us follow
the sun-rust over the day. The sunlight
is bright as love upon us. Feel how it trembles.
Never mind the warning. The weatherman
is wrong. There is nothing coming.
Ready for Closeup
LINES FOR AN OLD MEMORY
(Kraeft Sonnet)
All these lines—the sea too far away—
and still I write of summers that were mine
and watch for seagulls’ silver-textured climb
and on my face, still feel the ocean spray.
I used to hate that chill of winter gray
that wrapped itself around my restless years,
the ones I filled with childish tantrum tears,
the ones I feel still burn my face today.
I wanted summer back with summer’s play.
I still can feel the sharp, salt-heavy air
while walking to the far end of the pier.
Winter was a tedious delay.
For all those times I walked along its shore,
I want the sea to love me as before.
__________________
COLOR COLLAGE
Now we enter the pink maze. It is summer. Colors
intensify, blur together. We are part of the blue
madness that dominates, confuses. Yellow has no
power here; one end is the same as the other. The
center is nowhere except whichever part of the map
we are on. Shall we panic? Not yet. All is beautiful
here. Kaleidoscopic. We are caught in each fixed
position of the turning.
Ground Cover
UNDER THE LIGHT
THE DARKNESS MOVES
out in the air
no windows hang
only the squares and
circles and wavery
imperfections
of sight
movements make
vague reflections
and the eyes
assess
these images
under the light
the darkness moves
and a bird trapped there
is pecking at
the shell of flight
one moves through
all this
like mortality that knows
its deadly way
through glass
enters
and enters endlessly
slipping between the rain
and altering
the changeless pattern
of the wind
only the flesh
reveals the wear
the eyes don’t care
they are sent
to buy the death
somewhere
no windows end
and the glass
begins
(first pub. in The Cape Rock, 1971)
Fascination
THE GRAVITY OF SUMMER
Slow words for the long days, the heavy hours of summer,
the lethargy of love, the continuum of rumor, the humid
silence, the weight of what to do; slow words for the least
reply. Do not repeat the answer. Look away. Frown and
sigh. It is an endless grainy sky that presses over, presses,
presses, presses over, under, under, all that pressure, all that
gravity of summer.
_____________________
PICKING UP AFTER SILENCE
it was then that we
grew long and terrible arms
for the tight holding
the long let-go
now we know we were wrong
we couldn’t be endless lovers
when you smiled that way
I knew you would look out the window
for a word I would remember
it was then that we
went on little picnics of lies
to fill up the summer
lying under the
trees after sandwiches and beer
reciting ourselves to each other
it was then it was then
that you disassembled under the light
going in all those directions
with a golden scream
I waited till all was silent again
then gathered up all the maps and arrows
and walked over all those endings . . .
little sounds of sunlight
drifting all around me . . .
Yellow as Yellow
SUMMER GOODBYE
(Kaleveda)
Jasmine scent upon the evening.
Something pulling at the hour.
Sad old moonlight growing sadder.
In your kiss, the salt of weeping.
Arms that loosen from their holding.
Promises that have no meaning.
Lies are all you have together.
Never mind… You’ll love forever…
___________________
THE SAD END OF SUMMER
The sad end of summer looms
while we learn early breezes
from open windows.
A few hot days and we anticipate
long nights with no relief—
yet dread the winter.
Can-Can Yellow
BETWEEN
Tag-end of summer, with its wilt and drag.
Then rain. Soft. Brief. With its relief to see
the sky fill with clouds, a few inland gulls—
sense the renewal of energy—sweet.
Then back to summer, with its wilt and drag.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HAPPY END OF SUMMER
, which just began, it seems ,
but since I have decided that
“the moment”
is the only time there is, I think
I’ll just go along with
that little trick of wisdom
—Joyce Odam
____________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetic thoughts about the end of summer, celebrating our Seed of the Week: After Labor Day. About the Kaleveda, which originated in Finland, Joyce says: "The beauty of this form is in its perfect balance. Trochaic tetrameter of the eight unrhymed lines results in feminine word endings. Source: Pathways for the Poet, Ed. by Viola Jacobson Berg."
For more about the Quatern, see www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quatern.html/.
Our new Seed of the Week is Apples. Fall fruits? Apple pie? The apple of your eye… Or are we thinking of Eve? Send your poems, photos and 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.
—Medusa
Celebrate poetry!
(Anonymous Photo)
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