Knower of the Dark

Counterbalance

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

DARK REVERENCE

Black fire, somewhere in the dark,
your arm around my waist, supporting me,

offering the old betrayal, the lie
that I endure, allow your presence,

leading,    guiding,    tenderly,
as a lover would—Ah, you are holy—

Knower of the dark—soothing
as I cling to you, for I am wooed—

your arm around my waist—
your head bent down

to mine, your voice consoling,
urging. The dark opens, takes me in,

your arm at my waist,
your mouth at my ear, whispering.  

 Gathered

GAMES HIDDEN IN THE GAMES
After Gentlemen of Leisure by Pattiann Rogers

After they have left, Felicia wonders
which one of the Gentlemen of Leisure
loves her truly for her coy ways—

her delicate pretensions,
how they abide by whatever game
she is playing and taking up that game;

their eyes follow her to the mirror
where she goes to preen for a moment
before turning back to them with

a little laugh before suggesting another
flirtation they can cleverly enter—using
their wits against one another like subtle

weapons, how—when tiring of it all—
she can send them off at the prompt hour
and ponder this again in her pretty mirror.

 Undertone

PERSUASION
After Sunrise Song by Carol Hoy

We are two apart. Our night is ended.
Your eyes hold sunrise like a rival.

You, who murmured love, are silent now.
You lie on the floor and brood.

I hold you down with my foot.
You make no effort against me.

I curl myself into a pose of tender resistance.
Why do you want to leave me?

You cannot fly through me. The cage
is an open window. I have hidden your wings.

How can I release you?
You die, and I watch you, hold you

with the sadness of my eyes,
waiting for your surrender.

 To Touch

MODEL IN SOFT WINDOW LIGHT

How round she is in day’s soft window light,
bending her arms above her head—her 
hands in her hair—her face a mask
of pleasure—her whole self
anointed by a tenderness
of shadow.

How round she is—her soft fat, pleasing to the
room’s dim eye—her belly—her thighs,
the width of her hips—her eyes soft,
looking toward the
daylight.

How round, how round, her round self, posing
for some camera—adoring her roundness,
the soft touch of her hair through her
hands, the curving way she sits
on the floor by the window.

How round the hour that embraces her like this,
a rounding hour that will move slowly—
slowly like a look of pleasure—
For this she wills herself
to be beautiful, never
self-conscious,
never shy.       

 Passion

POET OF ALL THE TENDER THINGS
THERE ARE TO HARM

The young lover of life
is more than I can suffer.
He is so passionate of all the loves
his heart can conjure.
Poet of all the tender things
there are to harm.
Gentle as gentleness
would have him be.

How can I tell him, Listen,
there is
the cruelty
and the losing
and the never becoming what you need to be;
there is the failure
and the hate to be a part of;
there is the settling for something less . . . !
when he looks at me with tangible love
and says, Yes, I know . . .
but not awhile yet . . . .

Oh young imbecile,
whom I love as a sort of miracle
and dare not yet believe—
write yourself that way then.
I hope life believes you     


(first pub. in Naked Review, 1970)

_____________________

WAIT WITH ME (… and we cannot…)

A donkey becomes holy in my mind.
I do not hold to one place
or one thought.
I scatter and wonder
into everything.
How will I
pray
into
my
want
and need.
I am humble.
Words tighten
and I cannot speak.
I am slow, I am sore,
I am a-flounder in my
heart and mind which
combine, and I wait… for
a forgiveness… for a sign…

 The Moments

SPLIT SECONDS

Each tender moment
     comes in vain to violence
          anointed by pain...

Each tender moment
     professes forgiveness
          and is hurt again...

Each tender moment
     wishes for another
          with soft voice and hands...

Each tender moment
     flaunts no tear or sadness—
          it understands...

Each tender moment
     knows nothing of the clock,
          that old tick-tock, tick-tock...

Each tender moment
     offers in kind sacrifice
          all it knows of love...

Each tender moment
     each tender moment
          each tender moment.
                   
______________________
                                           
Today’s LittleNip:

TO ASK ABOUT OUR LIVES
—Joyce Odam

To ask about our lives
come through the door.
Sit on the chair.
Invent a topic we can use.
Ask if we care or do not care.
We do.
Ask us about our love.
We love.
Inquire about
the worst, the best,
our hearts can bear.
Avert your tender eyes.
The way we answer
is a snare,
the snare we make and live in
year to year.

                       
(first pub. in Muse of Fire, 1997)

______________________

Today Joyce Odam is talking about our Seed of the Week: Tenderness, in many of its guises. Thank you, Joyce, for the passion of your red flower photos and for the shadows and sunshine of your poetry today! Our new Seed of the Week is Isolation. 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 upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

______________________

—Medusa

 “Poet of all the tender things…”
—Public Domain Photo

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.