She Listens
—Poetry and Photography by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
NAMING THE DARKNESS
After Stanbury Moor (Photograph by Fay Godwin
After Stanbury Moor (Photograph by Fay Godwin
from Remains of Elmet, Poetry by Ted Hughes)
What shall I name this darkness with its torn black sky,
its shadows that sweep the distances.
I know this night is strange but it has brought me here
to mourn, so I mourn. I fasten to the horizon
with bleak unwilling eyes—it is too far.
I am where I am, at another beginning, no strength
and no provisions. One silver path cuts through
the land, one curve of hill outlining land from sky.
A last thin rim of light hangs low enough to sharpen—
I’ll aim to that—still bright enough to beckon.
What shall I name this darkness with its torn black sky,
its shadows that sweep the distances.
I know this night is strange but it has brought me here
to mourn, so I mourn. I fasten to the horizon
with bleak unwilling eyes—it is too far.
I am where I am, at another beginning, no strength
and no provisions. One silver path cuts through
the land, one curve of hill outlining land from sky.
A last thin rim of light hangs low enough to sharpen—
I’ll aim to that—still bright enough to beckon.
The Summoning of Light
AGAINST THE NIGHT
Walking in fields through dusty evening toward the
summoning failing light, we slowly dissolve into our
shadows. The western sky is an easy sadness for our
quiet eyes.
A dream has fallen among the hollows of darkness.
The other end of things is the goal. The field’s dimin-
ishing edges press in. The house with no lights is
becoming a dark shape behind us.
Only the golden tips of weeds still celebrate their
place in things and cling to our clothing long after
we have returned to the beginning-point of our aim-
less stroll against the night.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)
__________________
SKY PUDDLE: A PERSPECTIVE
In a puddle of water—the sky—
clouds confined to this small rain lake,
the brief flight of gulls
that do not stir the surface,
that do not seem displaced or strange
though they fly upside down;
and vertigo is not the point of this—
that such a shifting vastness
can be caught—fragmentary—
and deep, if one looks down to see,
and does not break
the image with their own reflected feet.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine,
slightly revised, 1996)
The Death-Bird Sings
ASPECTS OF A DARK DIMENSION
After Tulipa, Pastel by Maria Sylvester
(Guide to the Arts, 2003)
It’s in the feature known as background,
a drooping red flower—huge crowding
leaves for the hiding—petals too heavy
for the light—the ineffectual light—
caught in a jostlement of shadows.
Urgent daubs of green and splotches
of orange overwhelm the flower—
the breezeway trembles with
confusions—the shade has lost the light.
Someone has died here.
A death-bird sings in the absence.
(Guide to the Arts, 2003)
It’s in the feature known as background,
a drooping red flower—huge crowding
leaves for the hiding—petals too heavy
for the light—the ineffectual light—
caught in a jostlement of shadows.
Urgent daubs of green and splotches
of orange overwhelm the flower—
the breezeway trembles with
confusions—the shade has lost the light.
Someone has died here.
A death-bird sings in the absence.
All The Edges
THE DARKER SELF
I am a wall with no pictures. Mirrors
enter me and weep for their lost identities.
All my edges are worn thin as water.
I slip through into depths of drowning.
I paint screams upon my silence,
utter myself from all directions.
Great rooms of complexity
surround me.
Nothing hears.
Day by day more of me disappears.
I am the cruel center of myself.
I forgive no one—
beggars come by with golden fingers
and stroke my arm.
_____________________
DARK REVERENCE
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887
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—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.
Darkly Beautiful
ENCOMPASSING
noon.
time of no shadow.
we are vertical.
reverent to the silence.
standing in the sun like scarecrows.
our black-to-the-center eyes
holding the landscape together.
at midnight
we become flesh of darkness.
holding our arms out like we do.
stars on our fingertips.
night clouds in our hair.
our eyes deep with the suns of that hour.
darkly beautiful.
(prev. pub. in Poetry View, 1976 and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2016)
_____________________
FOR MY FRIEND OF THE RELUCTANCE
walk to me early in tears and stories of love
i will hold them for you
till you are no longer cold
i know how you feel, i tell you,
(and i do)
oh walk with me in the poetic rain of bad days
when love is no good
i will walk there too
our hair wet with defiance
with our not caring
how old is beauty? one of us will ask
and the other will have no answer
walk with me under the healing of the wine
i will cut the cheese and separate the crackers
i know what to do,
i know what is nourishment,
i will make you strong
after you have gone
i will lie on the floor
and cry for your sadness
or for the sadness of the wine
or the rain
or whatever it is
i think i remember
the appointment will be kept,
i tell myself,
and the room will come down and cover me
for i will be so tired after all that healing
noon.
time of no shadow.
we are vertical.
reverent to the silence.
standing in the sun like scarecrows.
our black-to-the-center eyes
holding the landscape together.
at midnight
we become flesh of darkness.
holding our arms out like we do.
stars on our fingertips.
night clouds in our hair.
our eyes deep with the suns of that hour.
darkly beautiful.
(prev. pub. in Poetry View, 1976 and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2016)
_____________________
FOR MY FRIEND OF THE RELUCTANCE
walk to me early in tears and stories of love
i will hold them for you
till you are no longer cold
i know how you feel, i tell you,
(and i do)
oh walk with me in the poetic rain of bad days
when love is no good
i will walk there too
our hair wet with defiance
with our not caring
how old is beauty? one of us will ask
and the other will have no answer
walk with me under the healing of the wine
i will cut the cheese and separate the crackers
i know what to do,
i know what is nourishment,
i will make you strong
after you have gone
i will lie on the floor
and cry for your sadness
or for the sadness of the wine
or the rain
or whatever it is
i think i remember
the appointment will be kept,
i tell myself,
and the room will come down and cover me
for i will be so tired after all that healing
(prev. pub. in Valley Light: Writers of the San Joaquin,
Poet & Printer Press, 1978)
Gathering Light For A Poem
THE BETTER PART OF LOVE
Muse with me while we gather light
for a poem, we will read it later,
tell each other what it means,
then reminisce—
compare amazements :
how much our lives are parallel—
how many years—while we
confess, or commiserate,
let down the burden of our cares,
hold each other’s dark,
find new, old-words
to fill our silences with explication—
then laugh or cry,
whichever is needed, old love,
old friend—
as close and separate as we are.
I muse these thoughts for you from this old,
well-worn, and reliable, loving heart.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
INSIDE
—Joyce Odam
It all splits into darkness; something fol-
lows the light, and the small room tightens.
It’s not like this is where you need to be—
the world outside expands—
tries to pull these walls away from you
but there is glass in the light—
wavering back—confusing you—
you know how it is with imagination.
________________________
Good morning and big thanks to Joyce Odam for writing to us about our Seed of the Week: My Friend, the Darkness. She says this SOW is “right up my alley, yes? I selected and sent with no pity for the timid…” Well, Joyce, since when did you have any pity for the timid…?
Our new Seed of the Week is “Small Mercies”. 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
Muse with me while we gather light
for a poem, we will read it later,
tell each other what it means,
then reminisce—
compare amazements :
how much our lives are parallel—
how many years—while we
confess, or commiserate,
let down the burden of our cares,
hold each other’s dark,
find new, old-words
to fill our silences with explication—
then laugh or cry,
whichever is needed, old love,
old friend—
as close and separate as we are.
I muse these thoughts for you from this old,
well-worn, and reliable, loving heart.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
INSIDE
—Joyce Odam
It all splits into darkness; something fol-
lows the light, and the small room tightens.
It’s not like this is where you need to be—
the world outside expands—
tries to pull these walls away from you
but there is glass in the light—
wavering back—confusing you—
you know how it is with imagination.
________________________
Good morning and big thanks to Joyce Odam for writing to us about our Seed of the Week: My Friend, the Darkness. She says this SOW is “right up my alley, yes? I selected and sent with no pity for the timid…” Well, Joyce, since when did you have any pity for the timid…?
Our new Seed of the Week is “Small Mercies”. 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
For more about Remains of Elmet by Ted Hughes, see
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.
