Almost There
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
THE TENUOUS LANDSCAPE
I come upon a Welcome sign : a single house set back
among the trees, green-lit shadow stretching to a hill-
line that curves into a cloudless sky—here and there
clumps of flowers—no sign of anyone about—although
an old dirt road goes slowly by to signify that someone
comes and goes here.
Day is captured in the lack of any sound : no bark of
dog—no song of bird—not even wind in the trees, and
yet, this Welcome sign—turned just enough to shadow
that I cannot make out its words.
And where am I, in all of this, but somewhere just as far,
somewhere just as deep, as hidden from the world as
seems this cryptic place—the white frame house sunk
deeper now into the trees, the somber shadows releasing
over the ground—and I, receding back into The Now, the
Welcome sign all but blurred—and still, no car or person—
and still, no dog or bird.
(first pub. in The Poet’s Forum, Winter 1998/1999)
_____________________
LIGHT, SLIPPING IN
Something moving at an edge,
something without a shape
or sound,
something known and unknown—
a vague insinuation—as an old song
or older memory.
You hesitate,
lest it remember you.
The moment shifts.
Light alters, thins, extends,
shape reaffirms as substance,
offers its touch.
You hesitate—
what you remember
is not love,
is more
like loss—
neither wanted.
Light finds the mirror—
enters,
turns,
and lets itself be known.
What else can you do
but welcome it.
Panoramic
Oh you who love warm,
welcome the winter back
as a time of resting
from whatever pace
you set
of heavy days—of long days—
days full of profusion . . .
now take yourself back,
to a mind-cave
think of
snow.
_____________________
SOLSTICE
It was the annual day again when Aunt Winter came
to stay for her afternoon with us, and sat like an old
gray frown—precarious and prim—on the edge of a
chair in her hat and gloves, and sipped our welcome-
tea, and asked the polite and distant questions in her
old-aunt voice, and said, “No, thank you,” to the
cookies.
We inward-smiled at her stiff, old-fashioned ways.
Quaint was the word we gave her, and never cared to
ask about the occasion of her visit—always on time
with the calendar—and why she glanced around at
all of us with such an almost-smile, and did not
remove her hat and gloves to “… stay awhile for
news…” though she stayed all afternoon.
Echoes
A WINTER REFLECTION
You enter my time and place. I receive you openly—
open all my windows to the view. I welcome you.
You bring me roses—white breath-roses
from the winter garden. They have no scent.
I look again and you are floating in my mirror,
your hands strewing petals that waft to my feet.
Yes, I still love you, I say, and your face goes sad.
My hand reaches out to you . . . and yours to mine.
I waken in the dream, and you ask what I am doing
in the mirror, and why are all those petals on the floor.
We lie down together but cannot touch. Light shimmers
between us and flows out the window into stars.
____________________
DREAM SOURCE
Haunted Hotel del Salto, Colombia
Many stairs climb this dark.
Many levels of climbing
to reach the sunken door
at the high wall with the
tanglesome ivy
and the long sheer fall.
Glinting windows
give no welcome.
This is from your dream,
the old dream where
precipitous stairs beckon,
rickety now
with a thin, deceptive rim
of light along the railing.
The dark is as dark as dark can be.
This is your now or never.
There is something familiar here—
something familiar—but without love.
Only the far-off crying—
that formless something that you
must rescue out of yourself.
Such a Moon . . .
NEGLECT
Whatever it was, it was.
No use lamenting.
It grew large with neglect,
flattened like a shadow
and bulged like a light.
It flung itself everywhere
and crashed into emptiness.
We had no use for it.
It was pathetic.
Did not fit anything.
It starved on purpose,
carried its awful eye
in its mouth
with an awful meaning.
It choked on our love,
so we quit loving.
We did not want guilt
to be a part of this.
We carried water to it
so it would drown,
but it just lay there
gasping, then swimming.
What we did not know
was what its hold on us
had become, how we
wore it like a secret
to secret meetings
where we talked about it
in secret whispers.
Always it welcomed us back
and wrapped itself around us
with shaking shoulders
for us to weep against.
_____________________
FOR MOTHER, WHO DIED IN JANUARY
This is the story of January
that holds death in its calendar
the same way it holds beginnings—
that turn of the year
when one lays down the old weights
to build forth and welcome the new energies.
Mother, you died in January,
and January, between California and Canada,
is three hours older and younger,
and when death chooses midnight,
how am I to know which of two days
to honor you? Thus, January must be faced
on its terms, cold, and deep and new.
It begins to quicken and takes itself, each day
following each day, into the rest of time.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ENTIRE
—Joyce Odam
of all
the ironies…
to be so lonesome that
even an old enemy is
welcomed
(first pub. in Poets Guild, 1995)
____________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetry and photos today, as she muses about our Seed of the Week, Unwanted Guests. Our new SOW is Music. Wind in the trees? Snoring in the bed next to you? Be creative: there’s music everywhere! 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.
For more about the haunted Hotel del Salto in San Antonio del Tequendama, Colombia, go to www.thevintagenews.com/2016/08/06/colombias-haunted-hotel-del-salto-despite-beauty-papers-reported-several-cases-suicides/.
—Medusa
Go wild—and celebrate poetry for the new year!
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