Winter Doodles
—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
PROVING
Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.
Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.
Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.
Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,
glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.
Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.
Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.
Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.
Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,
glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.
Winter Woods
IF THIS TWILIGHT
Where does it go, the old prayer, the old
“for the sake of mercy”
where does it go?
The words are spread over the mind
like falling like fainted gulls made of
slow, indelible ecstasy.
If this twilight takes them
under its broad wing under its darkness
may they be simplified
into landscapes and drawings.
(first pub. in Yes, A Magazine of Poetry, 1974)
Scrapbook
PROCRASTINATION
After “Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer”
by Jane Kenyon (from Otherwise)
It was simply this—as simple as
simple is—as slow and careful
as procrastination—almost
deliberate, the way we
drifted away from tedium
and went out into the
cool sad dusk to let our shadows
touch the shadows there.
It was something we would
remember and care about—
our little deviation from duty . . .
from clock . . . from need to do . . .
we took a walk—
it was as simple and easy as that,
not caring what piled up
behind us, or out-waited our return.
Winter Tree
TWILIGHT MOOD
(An Octo)
Wandering through the mauve garden,
bending like old trees toward night,
leaning our shadows together.
Is it sadness that we feel—or
something unknown that we deplore.
Leaning our shadows together,
bending like old trees toward night,
we wander through the mauve garden.
___________________
TWILIGHT’S CURTAIN
I fake no grief, nor listen for its doom;
I watch the way the late light fills the room
and listen to the noisy shadows loom
removed awhile from time and timeless space
I watch the way the mirror tears my face
with light and shadow as if it were lace.
Accumulations
THINKING OF THE SEA
After Thoughts of the Sea, 1919 by William Cahill
Thinking of the sea,
how it seems to follow you
as if it needs your return;
this morning’s wet blue air
brings back the sound and scent
of long-ago summers.
The harrowing cries of gulls
fill your open window,
the sea so close now
it could be right outside—
you could step out the door
and walk out to its edge.
The power is yours, this memory.
You open your door
to the sea—
gone quiet now that you have returned.
This calmness
is what you have waited for—
the three levels:
earth, sea, and sky
all perfectly fastened to each other.
Coloring Book
GLOAMING
Fading twilight pulls toward the hills
which turn to lavender in softened light—
that interval of time just as the winter sun
goes down and shadow cancels out the light.
____________________
WHERE TWILIGHT ENDS
This is where the gold metallic water
and the swans drift out in elegant relief,
where the buildings illustrate themselves
with their reflections along the banks,
and where the dark descending light
drowns in the gold metallic water.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RED DUSK
—Joyce Odam
. . . it was the burnished way
light shook itself from trees
and spilled into the red air,
closing down the day . . .
____________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for painting visions of our past Seed of the Week, Twilight, with her poetry and original artwork. Our new Seed of the Week is Marooned. Has your boat sunk? Are you stuck on a deserted island? Or are you marooned in some other place, some other way, some state of mind, maybe? 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.
—Medusa
—Anonymous
To see how to live on a deserted island, go to
To see how to live on a deserted island, go to
www.wikihow.com/Live-on-a-Deserted-Island/.
(And celebrate poetry while you're there!)
(And celebrate poetry while you're there!)
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