The Space Between
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
DANCERS ON A SMALL DANCE FLOOR
Rhythming-off to be a dancer, she rises from her
chair, holding the tips of some man's fingers that
have gestured 'will you dance', and the music
separates to let her through, and she fits onto the
crowded floor, and the lights and liquor make an
intimate harmony to move within . . . .
Even strangers can love a song together—not
knowing each other's face or name—just a body
and feet that move the same—that find a place in
the writhing people to writhe within—and it
doesn't matter—it's only a spinning floor to be
caught upon, and the music is loud till it ends in
the dancers' last touch of hands—then back—like
a finished love, to the tiny table . . . .
Rhythming-off to be a dancer, she rises from her
chair, holding the tips of some man's fingers that
have gestured 'will you dance', and the music
separates to let her through, and she fits onto the
crowded floor, and the lights and liquor make an
intimate harmony to move within . . . .
Even strangers can love a song together—not
knowing each other's face or name—just a body
and feet that move the same—that find a place in
the writhing people to writhe within—and it
doesn't matter—it's only a spinning floor to be
caught upon, and the music is loud till it ends in
the dancers' last touch of hands—then back—like
a finished love, to the tiny table . . . .
Mystery Unfolds Itself
ELEVATIONS
The way nothing really fits solid against anything
else—there is a space between—a possibility of
change, of letting go, or letting be—the lake
against the sky, the ground beneath the feet, the
canvas from the painted scene, the way we
levitate from thought to thought—the way
the world is separate from what is not the world—
how sleep is not the sleep—the same with words
that slip away before they’re heard.
Only the soaring bird belongs in cutting space—
in followed time—a beat away from everything
that's free or caught.
Something Like Harmony
GOLDEN SUNLIGHT ON THE STAIRS
line by line
the steps align
and the Ballerina
dances
on her
toes
and flings
her joyous arms about
and knows
and does not know
how the steps align
to keep her
in rhyme
in perfect pantomime
line by line
the steps align
and the Ballerina
dances
on her
toes
and flings
her joyous arms about
and knows
and does not know
how the steps align
to keep her
in rhyme
in perfect pantomime
What’s Moved is Light
SLOSH
Anna, you are too big for that boat. The stream is too
small. You look ridiculous, trying to be a child. You
are not a child at all. You do not even know how to
row. And the boat is not yours. You stole it from that
rope on the bank. And you think no one will see you
in the midst of all the reflective glitters of sunlight on
the shallow water. You bump both sides of the narrow
channel that tries, like you, to be something it is not.
This pitiful trickle is not a river. You are getting your
dress wet. And your shoes. And your crying won’t help.
You can’t make yourself smaller, cannot make yourself
fit the boat which is not yours, though nobody seems
to own it, rocking so quietly on the crowded water. And
who is that vague one who is in the boat with you—
persuasive—probing for secrets—taking up too much
space—pretending to row—pretending to be a child, too,
and not just your accomplice here.
__________________
RUNNING THE FAN ALL NIGHT
So it’s midnight now
a hot July night
neighborhood sounds
fading in and out the window,
the noisy fan making wobbly circles,
the two crows
hanging from it
trembling with vibration,
so much is loud in summer
the sleepless
the dead
their thoughts fusing,
so much is spilled across a sheet
of white paper : the fact of midnight—
a hot July night—neighborhood
sounds fading in and out the window.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2011)
The Fact of Midnight
SUMMER IN CRAYON SHADES OF HEAT
After “Lines and Spaces” by Cynthia Hurtubis
A vertical formation of lines in the unstable
foreground compels the curious eye—six
wet strokes of brown that hold to a slipping
border—perhaps a section of levitated fence—
or a tangible signature of storm. The mottled
sky creates an abstract face whose eyes glance
down toward a thin, dun spread of light—blotches
of muddy green complete the brief disguise.
Meltings begin—diagonal and sheer—smearing
some thought before it’s fully formed—undoing
the face—making a new confusion in the air.
And there are landscapes like this everywhere.
After “Lines and Spaces” by Cynthia Hurtubis
A vertical formation of lines in the unstable
foreground compels the curious eye—six
wet strokes of brown that hold to a slipping
border—perhaps a section of levitated fence—
or a tangible signature of storm. The mottled
sky creates an abstract face whose eyes glance
down toward a thin, dun spread of light—blotches
of muddy green complete the brief disguise.
Meltings begin—diagonal and sheer—smearing
some thought before it’s fully formed—undoing
the face—making a new confusion in the air.
And there are landscapes like this everywhere.
How The Mind Will Select, Distort, Forget
WIDOW
Memories contain us for themselves.
Life is full of ghosts.
We talk to their mirrors.
I was a mirror once :
life and its house,
its clock, its season.
I know how the mind
will select, distort,
forget.
I know how mystery unfolds itself
into different endings.
I know where I fit.
The walls of my life are hung with
faded photographs. I ask again
who they really are
They answer what I think
and change expression
as I stare at them.
Memories contain us for themselves.
Life is full of ghosts.
We talk to their mirrors.
I was a mirror once :
life and its house,
its clock, its season.
I know how the mind
will select, distort,
forget.
I know how mystery unfolds itself
into different endings.
I know where I fit.
The walls of my life are hung with
faded photographs. I ask again
who they really are
They answer what I think
and change expression
as I stare at them.
All Lies Believed
LET’S TALK ABOUT REGRET
Nothing ever fits the way it should,
not even perfection
with its hidden flaws.
All lies are believed
and all truths doubted.
Believe in this :
it is the stuff of philosophy
with its ragged pages
turned and turned by patient fingers.
What’s moved is light—
the control-factors—
the switches—the commands.
What do you believe?
Laws are built to topple.
What else is true?
How many times
have we tested
the shaky bars of our own cages.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2014)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DREAR
—Joyce Odam
Her kettle rusts and gathers dust;
its curved spout never sings;
its handle waits to fit her hand
that never lifts . . . or cares for tea . . .
but languors, pulseless, in her lap.
What has she lost: what love,
what aim…? Is it the drag of time . . .
the endless rain . . . ?
____________________
Wobbly Legs. That was our recent Seed of the Week; Joyce Odam has risen to the occasion with her poetry and photos today, and we heartily thank her for that! Our new Seed of the Week is Treasure Hunting. So what is that you’re looking for? Unlimited money? Love? Happiness? The unvarnished truth? 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
—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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
