The Changing Colors
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
I NAME MYSELF WINTER
I go against the world today, put all my force
against its cold, pull on the layers to protect,
name myself Winter.
I learn to watch the sky that hangs in gray
monotony and start to count the days again
to move the dreary calendar along.
I pace myself against the darkened mood that
burrows in, alter the pattern of my hours—
these short days—long nights, the shutting down.
Once more I learn the old endurances. The bitter
with the sweet, I smile, at nothing in particular,
and watch the empty trees for signs of leaf.
(prev. pub. in ONE(DOG)PRESS, 1999 and
Song of the San Joaquin, 2018)
I go against the world today, put all my force
against its cold, pull on the layers to protect,
name myself Winter.
I learn to watch the sky that hangs in gray
monotony and start to count the days again
to move the dreary calendar along.
I pace myself against the darkened mood that
burrows in, alter the pattern of my hours—
these short days—long nights, the shutting down.
Once more I learn the old endurances. The bitter
with the sweet, I smile, at nothing in particular,
and watch the empty trees for signs of leaf.
(prev. pub. in ONE(DOG)PRESS, 1999 and
Song of the San Joaquin, 2018)
To Find The Sky
THESE WINTER LINES
These winter lines full of cold fact and argument—
new words made from stone of the old words,
and still made it through another season of abject
difficulty. Transition! is what you would say to the
queries I would proffer, Only transition! and I am
one! and you another, replicas of meanings we in-
flict upon ourselves—you with your roses of twilight,
the new image, scent surrounding you, birds singing
in Time’s cold light—as if there was no before and
there is no after, and the glass walls of the years break
softly around us—and we get through them—leaving
shards and shards of each other floating in oblivion.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/20)
The Seventh Rain
THE BLACK MOOD
How were we to know that dark was so long and
so low to the ground, how it took our shadows
to itself and hid us from all sound, how far it
went to muffle what we almost said in time,
it was so simply everywhere, it caught us in
a mood—precisely right, precisely toned
with last light trembling near, so like a
last chance that we took. I do remember
fear—the way we somehow pulled our-
selves away and out, and how the dark
snapped shut and swallowed back.
MyGod! we could have disappeared . . .
—even this red sunset
flaking into blackness,
—like a disposition
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99)
_______________________
THE SPARROW TREE
I heard black sparrows sing
in the darkest night
in its black tree .
At dusk the nervous sparrows
would
fly out ,
alight ,
fly out ,
alight ,
in the
waiting branches that became
for them their place to sleep
and then the moon rose from the
darkest dark , from a spreading
cloud bank full of twittering's
or just the dark .
All night I tossed and listened to
the sparrows thrill the mystery
—that only sparrows know—
till finally , they let me sleep .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/20)
The Gray and the White
NAMING THE DARKNESS
After Stanbury Moor —Photograph by Fay Godwin,
from Remains of Elmet —Poems 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.
TRUST
Hope comes to me in the guise of a weeping maiden,
stumbling toward me, face bent into her hands,
having lost her way again.
She pretends not to see me
looking at her through my compassionate mirror,
how I guide her with my eyes : this way… this way…
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/21/20)
To Wait For You
LOVE KNOT
I sleep with a chain around my neck.
It does not break.
In the morning I run my finger and thumb
along its delicate path.
I touch its charm, A Love Knot, you told me.
I free it from the collar of my gown.
I realize how free we are from breakage
now.
Did I dream this?
I am here and you are gone . . .
To Go Away
WHITE CARNATION
You are white carnation in winter,
pure of memory.
Soft light falls upon you.
You shine in twilight,
bother no one with conspicuous colors.
You are subtle in your whiteness.
Your blossoms fit so tightly together
as if they
warrant no description.
There is only
your perfection
which has no proper language.
We come upon you
in our darkest moment
and cry whatever name is dearest to our loss.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/27/2015)
ELEGY FOR RIGHT DECISIONS
going back against the dark
passing the murdered birds and
the five mad willows
I wept as well as I could
and saw the landscape lessen
and I who looked for markings
instead of trusting to my skill
wondered why days
pull backward into night
I never meant to tell
the deep-eyed stranger what this meant
all men are guilty
pointing out a finger
as if they knew
new birds are limping through the air
near-sighted
coughing out sad !hear me!
from their height
I hug the trees for love
they’re lonely too
and tired and blemished in their life
and here’s the turn I took
I read the sign
nailed to a rotting post
someone has used it for a target
but the words don’t hurt
the arrow is without error
it says it all again—
it always knows
the only way to go
(prev. pub. in Cal. Fed. of Chaparral Poets
Anthology of Prize-Winning Poems, 1971-1977)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OLD SNAPSHOT OF GIRL POSING PRETTY
—Joyce Odam
Standing pretty against the shiny blackness of
the family car, she holds still for the focus; the
curved window of the car throws back the view.
Her anonymous features vanish under sunlight’s
glare—her hands full of flowers, her foolish hat
askew, a soft wind rumpling against her skirt.
She is caught in that captured moment eternity
loves. Time is hers—and she belongs to time.
____________________
Joyce Odam has written so effectively today on this, our Winter Solstice, about "Darkest Days", our Seed of the Week! Such days do not pass unnoticed, and poets put them down on paper.
Our new Seed of the Week reflects the change in the year: “Joy/Light/Hope”, and may your own year turn around from darkness to light. 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.
Shanti Grace has sent me information about her monthly Spiritual Poetry Meetup. She writes, “If you think readers of Medusa's Kitchen might be interested, I facilitate a monthly online Spiritual Poetry Meetup the third Saturday each month from 4-6pm Pacific Time—we read and discuss [spiritual] poems, and people attend via zoom from all over. (We don't read our original work.) Anyone is welcome to attend; they just need to RSVP so I can send them the zoom room password each month. More info and RSVP option are at www.meetup.com/Spiritual-Poetry-Meetup-International/."
__________________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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