Life and Its House
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
PROVING
Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.
Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.
Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.
Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,
glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.
Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.
Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.
Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.
Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,
glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.
Reminder
MEMORIES
one by one I arrange them
on my shelves
sharp and brilliant
like glass
light-catchers
dust-holders
vain and useless
poignant and repetitive
giving in at last to new ones
_______________________
how my collection grows
conjured real
by tricks of incantations
become semi-precious
like stones
held by a spreading shimmer
till they dull and blend
by loss by years
each indiscernible from the other
one by one I arrange them
on my shelves
sharp and brilliant
like glass
light-catchers
dust-holders
vain and useless
poignant and repetitive
giving in at last to new ones
_______________________
how my collection grows
conjured real
by tricks of incantations
become semi-precious
like stones
held by a spreading shimmer
till they dull and blend
by loss by years
each indiscernible from the other
Writing From Memory
Quietly reading here from a just-opened book
After The Reader in the Forest (1918) by Robert Henri
I want to write to you about the history
of an hour just lived.
I have come to this tree
which is very tall, and very old,
and seems to welcome me.
There are many such trees
that seem to be just as knowing
of my presence, and I am writing
from memories that seem to change as
day changes its light through the leaves.
I think I have become lost, but that
is only another small detail
to mention—if I am found,
and you are not even the
one I want to find me.
There was something
about something
that I wanted to say,
but the tree is humming
as I lean against it and
the shadows rustle
ever-so-softly.
I never knew
there were
so many
shades
of green.
I know this is
only a small grove
pretending to be a forest,
but that comforts
my little while of hiding.
City sounds still try to
invade the silence—the sky
is vanishing through the leaves.
The hour I mentioned has not really
been lived, just these mood-wanderings, this
room of leafy green curtains that keep changing
their light—moment by moment through the hours.
__________________
BAD MEMORIES
Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.
And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,
a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments
until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….
After The Reader in the Forest (1918) by Robert Henri
I want to write to you about the history
of an hour just lived.
I have come to this tree
which is very tall, and very old,
and seems to welcome me.
There are many such trees
that seem to be just as knowing
of my presence, and I am writing
from memories that seem to change as
day changes its light through the leaves.
I think I have become lost, but that
is only another small detail
to mention—if I am found,
and you are not even the
one I want to find me.
There was something
about something
that I wanted to say,
but the tree is humming
as I lean against it and
the shadows rustle
ever-so-softly.
I never knew
there were
so many
shades
of green.
I know this is
only a small grove
pretending to be a forest,
but that comforts
my little while of hiding.
City sounds still try to
invade the silence—the sky
is vanishing through the leaves.
The hour I mentioned has not really
been lived, just these mood-wanderings, this
room of leafy green curtains that keep changing
their light—moment by moment through the hours.
__________________
BAD MEMORIES
Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.
And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,
a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments
until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….
Hours Made of Time
MUSICS OVER TIME
still play
and the air holds them
and carries them in its currents,
blending them with echoes
and dark planes of silences—
magnifying
all the
distortions
and restorings
that come again into memories
that feel the recognition—
time-saved,
and interchanged,
musics and the voices
with all the cursings and cryings
and even the brooding thoughts
that join the vast releasings
that are borne into each other
that change the air
that we breathe
and the trees that filter and absorb.
_________________
SPACE AVAILABLE
After Thursday by John Moore
What is so empty as
a day
after the day that is spent?
An empty room implies as much.
Old light gone.
New light slanting in.
The view is the same—the chairs
askew—vague emptiness
that waits for the new occupant.
The high windows keep the view
to themselves—the city—huge
outside the bird-height windows.
Thursday—another day between
two others—few clues—except for
the well-kept memories of the walls.
still play
and the air holds them
and carries them in its currents,
blending them with echoes
and dark planes of silences—
magnifying
all the
distortions
and restorings
that come again into memories
that feel the recognition—
time-saved,
and interchanged,
musics and the voices
with all the cursings and cryings
and even the brooding thoughts
that join the vast releasings
that are borne into each other
that change the air
that we breathe
and the trees that filter and absorb.
_________________
SPACE AVAILABLE
After Thursday by John Moore
What is so empty as
a day
after the day that is spent?
An empty room implies as much.
Old light gone.
New light slanting in.
The view is the same—the chairs
askew—vague emptiness
that waits for the new occupant.
The high windows keep the view
to themselves—the city—huge
outside the bird-height windows.
Thursday—another day between
two others—few clues—except for
the well-kept memories of the walls.
__________________
THE FAR END OF TIME
Here in this haunted time and
place a woman whispering by
a woman made of memories
your name on her cold lips
following the shadow of
your life, a woman made
of shadow out of the far
end of time, she whispers
and you answer, she turns
and looks back—you grieve
for her—floating in scarves of
gray and you wish she would stay.
How often have you imagined this?
THE FAR END OF TIME
Here in this haunted time and
place a woman whispering by
a woman made of memories
your name on her cold lips
following the shadow of
your life, a woman made
of shadow out of the far
end of time, she whispers
and you answer, she turns
and looks back—you grieve
for her—floating in scarves of
gray and you wish she would stay.
How often have you imagined this?
The Drift of Memory
FADING MEMORIES
that drift of memory
catching on snags of thought
dissolving in
thought’s intensity
no longer what it was
no longer true
something to lose
the way it loses you
that drift of memory
catching on snags of thought
dissolving in
thought’s intensity
no longer what it was
no longer true
something to lose
the way it loses you
Nothing But What We Are
ISLANDS
the dark history of islands
the sea slipping between us
and the winds interrupting
our presence here . . .
and we are nothing
but what we are
part and separate
loved and forgotten
wanted and let go . . .
what continent will
make us its own
what century
will look back
to our beginning . . .
our story is slow
and full of separate detail
how you went one way
I another
how even our memories withdrew
at last
from those widening distances
between us
how we grew separate climates
and conditions
and never touched again
the dark history of islands
the sea slipping between us
and the winds interrupting
our presence here . . .
and we are nothing
but what we are
part and separate
loved and forgotten
wanted and let go . . .
what continent will
make us its own
what century
will look back
to our beginning . . .
our story is slow
and full of separate detail
how you went one way
I another
how even our memories withdrew
at last
from those widening distances
between us
how we grew separate climates
and conditions
and never touched again
Old Perfections
when winds of time converge,
and time is spent in some old saw of nothing new,
only the peeve of shadow-memories that collect
in negative confusion, contrary to desire—how
else seek explanation for so many sadnesses—
sink back into memory and lose yourself again,
no need to return—it’s all still there :
the old perfections, dimly memorized—
waste nothing this time, unraveling as slow
as you want, to why and when it changed—
no matter how you pulled the strings
or see it all in retrospect, clear of eye and mind,
and let this not be postscript to your sad reality.
and time is spent in some old saw of nothing new,
only the peeve of shadow-memories that collect
in negative confusion, contrary to desire—how
else seek explanation for so many sadnesses—
sink back into memory and lose yourself again,
no need to return—it’s all still there :
the old perfections, dimly memorized—
waste nothing this time, unraveling as slow
as you want, to why and when it changed—
no matter how you pulled the strings
or see it all in retrospect, clear of eye and mind,
and let this not be postscript to your sad reality.
To a Mentor
TO A MENTOR
I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,
and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—
thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :
poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind
with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back
—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RAIN LULLABY
—Joyce Odam
Now that it has begun raining
this first day of March
of this continuing year
I will turn off the light,
put down my book
and listen to
the sound the rain makes,
willing the house to be silent
so I can listen myself to sleep.
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, 2011)
__________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her wonderful memory poems (our Seed of the Week) today, including ethereal photos. Some kudos to Joyce appeared on Facebook this week from Evan Myquest and others; Evan has been collecting her chapbooks. Type his name into Facebook and try to find the post for May 25—some very nice things were said about Joyce’s poetry. By the way, I’m sure Joyce must have copies of her past publications. Write to her and ask at joyceofwords@protonmail.com/.
Our new Seed of the Week is stolen from one of Carl Schwartz’s poems yesterday: “a cat was standing…” 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.
To see The Reader in the Forest by Robert Henri, go to artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-reader-in-the-forest/dQGVj0sXuF2_2Q/.
To see Thursday by John Moore, go to www.pinterest.com/pin/56928382774359402/.
__________________
—Medusa
I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,
and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—
thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :
poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind
with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back
—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RAIN LULLABY
—Joyce Odam
Now that it has begun raining
this first day of March
of this continuing year
I will turn off the light,
put down my book
and listen to
the sound the rain makes,
willing the house to be silent
so I can listen myself to sleep.
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, 2011)
__________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her wonderful memory poems (our Seed of the Week) today, including ethereal photos. Some kudos to Joyce appeared on Facebook this week from Evan Myquest and others; Evan has been collecting her chapbooks. Type his name into Facebook and try to find the post for May 25—some very nice things were said about Joyce’s poetry. By the way, I’m sure Joyce must have copies of her past publications. Write to her and ask at joyceofwords@protonmail.com/.
Our new Seed of the Week is stolen from one of Carl Schwartz’s poems yesterday: “a cat was standing…” 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.
To see The Reader in the Forest by Robert Henri, go to artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-reader-in-the-forest/dQGVj0sXuF2_2Q/.
To see Thursday by John Moore, go to www.pinterest.com/pin/56928382774359402/.
__________________
—Medusa
A charming photo of Joyce by the sea
that I snatched off of her Facebook page.
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.
