The Lost Umbrella
—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
RAIN STORY
It was only a glimpse, a high window,
a low light on
and her shadow passing back and forth.
.
It was only a passer-by
hunching in the rain without a destination,
slowing.
.
It was only a hallway outside a room
in which the occupant was never known
by any but the one with the key.
.
The shadow of the woman
stopped her pacing
and looked out at the rain.
.
Cars drove back and forth
catching the rain in their headlights
and splashing it with their wheels.
.
The hallway had no drama to reveal.
Shadows played on the carpet from
the window light at the edge of the hall.
.
Under the hallway doors lights were on or off.
Same thing with the transoms. Nothing much
going on around there, only dreaming and tall tales.
_________________
THE SOFT RAIN
the soft rain
the pulling clock
darkness surrounding
the sleepless window
of the house which
shines for itself
under a patient streetlight
oh, night…
oh, rain…
such perfect companions
and those who are awake
get the first experience
the soft rain
patters and streams
through a low tone of wind
near and far away
one or the other
the clock turns its radio on
and breaks in
with music…
with time…
with its reality…
altering everything
pulling everything away
(first pub. in Chrysanthemum Magazine, 2000)
The Rain in Spain
THE WET BIRDS IN THE RAIN
the wet birds in the rain
along the dripping fences
on limbs of saturated trees
on signposts and on wires
and some in flight
sporadic
swift
from there
to there
with purpose
brief
as any sudden change of mind
the day is dark with them
black bodied silhouettes
that make
a mark upon the slate of time
their spark
in-held
on winter’s list
an eye of dry
upon them in this rain
(first pub. in Poetry Now, 1999)
________________
FULL MOON IN POND THROUGH TREES
WHEN IT BEGINS TO RAIN
Two drops of rain make use of stillness
to explain how things can change—
be taken from themselves :
the way the water holds
the rippled light—the drowning trees
the quiet pond becomes—
an agitation where the startled moon
must watch its roundness quiver—
lose the vanity of its perfection.
(first pub. in Ekphrasis, 2004)
Umbrella Dance
MAN OUT FOR A WALK IN THE RAIN
FAILS TO REMEMBER HIS WAY HOME
In a halo of rain
the man under his umbrella
trusts his umbrella to save him
from the drowning he is beginning to feel.
____________________
THE LONELY RAIN
What a lonely rain. What a strange night for a lonely rain
to fall. What a sad shame that the lonely night has to end
under such a lonely rain.
What a cold sight to see two leaning people under a strug-
gling umbrella—leaning into and away from the cold sad
rain—pressing hurriedly together as they cross the rain-
dimensioned street and disappear into a flattened doorway
where the white moon casts an image that reflects and then
shreds back against the night.
What a slow-moving night: the rainy window, the cold
room, the remnants of beauty still on their faces as they lie
together—almost in love—listening to the rain.
Walking in the Rain
EXCERPT FROM THE RAIN
It was the way into darkness,
a trickery of rain, a collage of shadows;
a form, then another, merging into glass light;
a sound like a laugh; then no one there.
You left your umbrella hanging on a knob.
I dropped a quarter under a chair.
We left the others, knowing the night
would hold them a little longer,
laughing, they waved goodbye
and blurred together.
(first pub. in Poetry Now, 2001)
There Are Blues in the Rain
THE DAY AFTER RAIN
This is not the hour of pretense.
This is the day after rain.
This is the hour of old light.
Old notions blunder forth
and cause old pain.
Nothing will suffice.
This is the day after rain.
An old man sobs and
an old woman stares into life
with a stony face . . .
she peels a potato
and another one . . .
looks through window glass
with her stony look
and pours water in a pan.
This is the day after rain.
In different light,
through thinning days,
to one side of each other,
they go through life
as if they were together.
But they are not.
They drift away
upon the
far beginnings of their own,
as different
as once they were the same.
This is not the hour of pretense.
This is the day after rain.
This is the hour of old light.
Old notions blunder forth
and cause old pain.
Nothing will suffice.
This is the day after rain.
An old man sobs and
an old woman stares into life
with a stony face . . .
she peels a potato
and another one . . .
looks through window glass
with her stony look
and pours water in a pan.
This is the day after rain.
In different light,
through thinning days,
to one side of each other,
they go through life
as if they were together.
But they are not.
They drift away
upon the
far beginnings of their own,
as different
as once they were the same.
(first pub. in Mockingbird, 1996)
Rain as Promise
WHERE I WOULD BE
After “The Message of the Rain” by Norman H. Russell
Anywhere there is rain after a dry day of long
hot hours with the slow clock turning on its
upside-down numerals, as if time made
no sense at all and has forgotten
how to read or hold onto its
private reasons for
winding around
like that.
I would like to fill the town with rain, for I
like that sound, and the wetness, and the
coolness, and how it suits my thought
of it in summer, which has grown
long and tiresome, and I feel
heavy as a stone at the edge
of watering, and all the
trees are dusty and
whispering
for rain.
(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RAIN TERCET
—Joyce Odam
Tears on many faces,
some aglow in window lights—
tears made of rain.
___________________
Joyce Odam brings us rain today (our Seed of the Week: First Rain) in her poems and her charming sketches, and we thank her for that—we’re ready for rain! To read “The Message of the Rain” by Norman H. Russell, go to www.beingsilentlydrawn.com/2014/09/the-message-of-rain.html/. For more about Russell, see poetredshuttleworth.blogspot.com/2011/10/norman-h-russell.html/.
Our new Seed of the Week is Favorite Teachers. 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.
The Autumn issue of Canary: A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis is now available at canarylitmag.org/.
—Medusa, celebrating the poetry brought by the rain
—Anonymous
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.