Audacious Red
—Poetry and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
ASSIGNATION
They love in the winter, when the room is warm,
when soft light holds them from the walls. They lie
entwined, the room rumpled and asleep, like them.
The radio plays absent music, a curtain flutters,
warns, they stir, open their eyes. But sleep is too
heavy and takes them back, the slow door opens,
the unlocked shadow forms over them.
They love in the winter, when the room is warm,
when soft light holds them from the walls. They lie
entwined, the room rumpled and asleep, like them.
The radio plays absent music, a curtain flutters,
warns, they stir, open their eyes. But sleep is too
heavy and takes them back, the slow door opens,
the unlocked shadow forms over them.
Torn
FIGMENT
In the room of grief there are two walls.
The third and fourth ones do not matter.
From one side comes the empty promise
—from the other the promise of the lie.
There is enough time to cry and wait
for clocks to stop and mirrors shatter—
two walls impose themselves upon the
grieving figure at the corner of the eye.
In the room of grief there are two walls.
The third and fourth ones do not matter.
From one side comes the empty promise
—from the other the promise of the lie.
There is enough time to cry and wait
for clocks to stop and mirrors shatter—
two walls impose themselves upon the
grieving figure at the corner of the eye.
WOMAN ARRANGING DAISIES
Her arranging hands catch in a held position
as some thought happens and all
the forces of the moment
fix timelessly together
in level after level
of slanting light
through the
shuttered
windows, the
room dissolving,
the vase melting into
her arm, the daisies into
the disassembling of the table,
her face into the blank stare of inattention.
Her arranging hands catch in a held position
as some thought happens and all
the forces of the moment
fix timelessly together
in level after level
of slanting light
through the
shuttered
windows, the
room dissolving,
the vase melting into
her arm, the daisies into
the disassembling of the table,
her face into the blank stare of inattention.
_____________________
STARING AT COMPOSITION WITH
BLACK LINES ON A WHITE BACKGROUND
—Painting by Mondrian (1917)
. . . Whorl of time . . .
Clock-parts . . . Circular chaos . . .
Compressed and random detail . . . Birds
in conflict with each other in crowded sky :
Or flecks of dark that come defined as doodles
on flat field of white : Or maybe only dust-swirl
under microscopic staring into floating sunlight :
Or tiny-distant-planes-in-dog-fight in some movie
war-sky of World-War-I : Or any pattern to describe
such floating, never-settling marks of dots and
lines that must mean something to the mesmerizing
eye : and how get through the openness to next
beginning through time’s death at edge of
white-space-dwindle into nothingness,
with white-space nothingness
as time’s defining line?
BLACK LINES ON A WHITE BACKGROUND
—Painting by Mondrian (1917)
. . . Whorl of time . . .
Clock-parts . . . Circular chaos . . .
Compressed and random detail . . . Birds
in conflict with each other in crowded sky :
Or flecks of dark that come defined as doodles
on flat field of white : Or maybe only dust-swirl
under microscopic staring into floating sunlight :
Or tiny-distant-planes-in-dog-fight in some movie
war-sky of World-War-I : Or any pattern to describe
such floating, never-settling marks of dots and
lines that must mean something to the mesmerizing
eye : and how get through the openness to next
beginning through time’s death at edge of
white-space-dwindle into nothingness,
with white-space nothingness
as time’s defining line?
______________________
CLUTTER OF TIME
Too late : a kitchen, abandoned to explanation,
no one here. Is today just another day or one
of your choice—
too much to do here—or to remember. Cozy
and dated. Colorless, except for ever-present
shadows, broken—turning—
footsteps are here—voices, words fading—
urgency or boredom—no one lives here—
now or ever. Sweep the floor.
What Pends
WASHING DISHES THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY
Day-dreaming
out the window,
hands deep in sudsy water,
always seemed to give
a certain
lingering sense of pleasure.
Day-dreaming
out the window,
hands deep in sudsy water,
always seemed to give
a certain
lingering sense of pleasure.
No Particular Reason
THE KITCHEN
Another fragment, the waiting from then to
now to have this memory : morning sunlight :
no pending but a hum, caught on one note : a
slow smile that lifts to mine as I remember this.
But who is there—
who is there that I can’t make out—a voice
from outside of this—an absent voice; a feeling
of love that owns this moment; a room that begins
to swirl : I am coming through a bright doorway.
My mother turns and says Good Morning, Sunshine.
Another fragment, the waiting from then to
now to have this memory : morning sunlight :
no pending but a hum, caught on one note : a
slow smile that lifts to mine as I remember this.
But who is there—
who is there that I can’t make out—a voice
from outside of this—an absent voice; a feeling
of love that owns this moment; a room that begins
to swirl : I am coming through a bright doorway.
My mother turns and says Good Morning, Sunshine.
Composition
GROPING THROUGH THE LIGHT
If white is sallow in the room without the sun,
how shall it defend against the dark
intuitiveness of the winter day
when light is needed—as in
the light of painting—as in
the art of living without
the sight—how trust
deception to replace the real—
the north of things that slowly test
against the lack that need fulfills,
there for reflection to find
where there is none if the room
stays dark—aborts the intention—
how can the mind endure without the light . . . ?
If white is sallow in the room without the sun,
how shall it defend against the dark
intuitiveness of the winter day
when light is needed—as in
the light of painting—as in
the art of living without
the sight—how trust
deception to replace the real—
the north of things that slowly test
against the lack that need fulfills,
there for reflection to find
where there is none if the room
stays dark—aborts the intention—
how can the mind endure without the light . . . ?
Rival
YOUR PRESENCE
You are the one in room after shining room; every-
where, objects you touch; I want you to know how
delicate the things of this place, blessed with the
dust of waiting, quiet as stones in their patience.
The hours wait for your sanction. The air turns the
colors of your movement. The way you turn to lis-
ten to the walls as a reminder of your secrets.
(prev. pub. in Lilliput, 2002)
A Conundrum
THE RUSTLE OF A THOUGHT
After The Desk, 1963 by Fairfield Porter
It takes a desk
And all its clutter
The cumulative dust
The papers scattered on the floor
The rug, the chair, the picture on the wall
The curtains holding back the world
The lamp on, night and day—
The way the room falls through the light
The way the silence pends
The very waiting that is felt—
The rustle, not of words, but thought
That mulls and will not wait until
The poet wanders in to write the poem
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ORNAMENTAL FROG
—Joyce Odam
In a small green sink-jar
filled with water and
gray river stones
I keep
an old glass frog
with one foot missing—
happy there, I think.
_____________________
If you look at the column to the right of this one, and find the photo for our Seed of the Week, you’ll see what Joyce Odam is writing about today: an old kitchen with its unique atmosphere and memories and lighting. And time! Places like that send us right back to when those memories were being made, and Joyce takes us there with her poetry and art, yes? Thank you, Joyce, for your time-travel.
Follow Sacramento Poetry Salon’s Young Laureates interview series on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SacramentoPoetrySalon/. Next interview is tonight, hosted by Sac. Poet Laureate Andru Defeye and Sac. Poetry Salon.
Our new Seed of the Week is “White Horse in Green Pastures”, inspired by the white horse poems and pix that Taylor Graham has been sending us on Fridays. Remember the old car game, to see a white horse? Or all the times you’ve heard about the white horse being the good one? Or fantasy white horses from your childhood? Then again, you could think about white horses metaphorically—ones with knights come to save you, or even unicorns. Anyway, 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
After The Desk, 1963 by Fairfield Porter
It takes a desk
And all its clutter
The cumulative dust
The papers scattered on the floor
The rug, the chair, the picture on the wall
The curtains holding back the world
The lamp on, night and day—
The way the room falls through the light
The way the silence pends
The very waiting that is felt—
The rustle, not of words, but thought
That mulls and will not wait until
The poet wanders in to write the poem
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ORNAMENTAL FROG
—Joyce Odam
In a small green sink-jar
filled with water and
gray river stones
I keep
an old glass frog
with one foot missing—
happy there, I think.
_____________________
If you look at the column to the right of this one, and find the photo for our Seed of the Week, you’ll see what Joyce Odam is writing about today: an old kitchen with its unique atmosphere and memories and lighting. And time! Places like that send us right back to when those memories were being made, and Joyce takes us there with her poetry and art, yes? Thank you, Joyce, for your time-travel.
Follow Sacramento Poetry Salon’s Young Laureates interview series on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SacramentoPoetrySalon/. Next interview is tonight, hosted by Sac. Poet Laureate Andru Defeye and Sac. Poetry Salon.
Our new Seed of the Week is “White Horse in Green Pastures”, inspired by the white horse poems and pix that Taylor Graham has been sending us on Fridays. Remember the old car game, to see a white horse? Or all the times you’ve heard about the white horse being the good one? Or fantasy white horses from your childhood? Then again, you could think about white horses metaphorically—ones with knights come to save you, or even unicorns. Anyway, 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
Composition with Black Lines on a White Background
—Painting by Piet Mondrian
—Painting by Piet Mondrian
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.
