Watching
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
SLEEPING WITH STRANGERS
on the bus . . . the long night droning by
on its wheels . . . on its sleep . . .
the passengers sagging into each other
~~~
a baby crying . . .
crying . . . crying . . . the young mother
blurting out her frustration
~~~
a man sneaks a feel on the woman
next to him who wakes . . . and does,
and does not know . . . he has touched her
~~~
across the aisle from one another an old
couple holding hands stare down the aisle
at the darkness rolling out ahead of them
on the bus . . . the long night droning by
on its wheels . . . on its sleep . . .
the passengers sagging into each other
~~~
a baby crying . . .
crying . . . crying . . . the young mother
blurting out her frustration
~~~
a man sneaks a feel on the woman
next to him who wakes . . . and does,
and does not know . . . he has touched her
~~~
across the aisle from one another an old
couple holding hands stare down the aisle
at the darkness rolling out ahead of them
Aminal
FACE FLOATING IN NIGHT AIR
When a face looks out, away from itself
through a grimy window of some traveling—
a passenger of life, the scenery blurring by,
the rhythm of the miles becoming years,
and the face remains turned away,
watching it all pass like an audience—
not remembering when it got on
or when it will get off, if this is a bus,
or even if it is a life, symbolic,
or a poem to question this,
or even if the figure is only imagined,
or a haunting history, or the play itself.
When a face looks out, away from itself
through a grimy window of some traveling—
a passenger of life, the scenery blurring by,
the rhythm of the miles becoming years,
and the face remains turned away,
watching it all pass like an audience—
not remembering when it got on
or when it will get off, if this is a bus,
or even if it is a life, symbolic,
or a poem to question this,
or even if the figure is only imagined,
or a haunting history, or the play itself.
Curbside
HOW DRUNK OF HIM
the drunk who was crossing the street
on red
did a dance to the bus
when the bus had passed
gave a finger to the bus
did a drunken maneuver
and before he got to the corner
slanted off
from between the safety lines
turned east
and was silhouetted into the sun
of 8:00 a.m. and Friday
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1-14-2014)
Remembering What Was True
IN TRANSIENCE: c.1936
The woman of sad experience is tearing up her letters.
They are turning into ashes. A matchstick hangs like a
scar from the art of her fingers. Her suitcase is open on
the bed. Her child watches.
She is dyeing her hair before the mirror. The dyed water
runs down her face when she raises her head to recog-
nize herself. She has locked the door. Now she must
answer or not answer to the knock. She must ask who
or be silent. Out in the night, the New Life risks her en-
trance, opening the way for her, lending her its staircase.
* * *
In the bus depot, she waits for the voice of the loud-
speaker. Her child is asleep on her lap. The timetable is
folded in her purse.
Now she is rising into the smoke and the smell of the
terminal, standing in line with the strangers she does not
want to sit beside. She takes the third seat on the right and
watches the others push past, bumping their suitcases and
mumbling sorry. The bus driver climbs through the door-
way and checks down the aisle of passengers. Their faces
gather momentum for their separate journeys. Their bodies
rock to a common rhythm. Her child dreams of all her pro-
mises. She leans her head against the window.
The woman of sad experience is tearing up her letters.
They are turning into ashes. A matchstick hangs like a
scar from the art of her fingers. Her suitcase is open on
the bed. Her child watches.
She is dyeing her hair before the mirror. The dyed water
runs down her face when she raises her head to recog-
nize herself. She has locked the door. Now she must
answer or not answer to the knock. She must ask who
or be silent. Out in the night, the New Life risks her en-
trance, opening the way for her, lending her its staircase.
* * *
In the bus depot, she waits for the voice of the loud-
speaker. Her child is asleep on her lap. The timetable is
folded in her purse.
Now she is rising into the smoke and the smell of the
terminal, standing in line with the strangers she does not
want to sit beside. She takes the third seat on the right and
watches the others push past, bumping their suitcases and
mumbling sorry. The bus driver climbs through the door-
way and checks down the aisle of passengers. Their faces
gather momentum for their separate journeys. Their bodies
rock to a common rhythm. Her child dreams of all her pro-
mises. She leans her head against the window.
* * *
No goldfish or canary shall miss their presence. The cat
down the hall will resume its superior identity, licking its
paws in the sunshine. No clues will be left to the landlady
with her yellow broom and keys.
Lives are lived and let go of. They are tragic entertainment
for the performers. They are comedies to be enjoyed. They
are ill-performed love stories.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1-14-2014)
AGAINST THE UNFAMILIAR
After Sculpture by Flavio Zarck
The wings are too heavy now, the body
too weak, the bent pose not surrendering.
Time has lapsed, ruin has taken over,
the mind is in a trance.
A wall of light expands, the bent figure
leans—leans—against the unfamiliar.
The wings shred further—
scarred and broken, in pain of motion,
still attached
to the tensioned shoulder.
The figure is unaware of wings now.
The heaviness is heavier.
What is troubling the mind—the lack of
remembering, the question diminishing;
what is here to love, or feel defeat for,
what happened—what happened?
The light failed—no trail of glory,
the metallic wings still flapping.
Omen
LISTENING TO CHOPIN ON A GREY DAY
I play Chopin—over and over—
all morning, and into the afternoon,
and fall into some old time that was his,
and feel how sad such distances become,
to still connect, and to have made the
reach. I wonder about him—handsome,
so young, tubercular—a genius
on his way to early death—that stealer.
I feel the day as tenacious as that—
this day-long fog that sifts into mind and
mood, and sorts out the music of my bones.
I am in love with music that can use such gray
to enhance the misery of winter. He must
have felt the same cold about his shoulders,
in his composing hands, and thus created
what I listen to today, hour after hour,
how I defeated, for awhile, the Sacramento
Tule fog that stays and stays and stays.
I play Chopin—over and over—
all morning, and into the afternoon,
and fall into some old time that was his,
and feel how sad such distances become,
to still connect, and to have made the
reach. I wonder about him—handsome,
so young, tubercular—a genius
on his way to early death—that stealer.
I feel the day as tenacious as that—
this day-long fog that sifts into mind and
mood, and sorts out the music of my bones.
I am in love with music that can use such gray
to enhance the misery of winter. He must
have felt the same cold about his shoulders,
in his composing hands, and thus created
what I listen to today, hour after hour,
how I defeated, for awhile, the Sacramento
Tule fog that stays and stays and stays.
WINTER AFTER WINTER
After “Wild Swans”
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
It was not swans, but the dark birds of
misery that went over, over the wild sky,
claiming themselves lost.
What could we do
but listen
till they faded.
___
Such were the storms of winter,
arriving and arriving
till we were wildly crying—
through them
and beyond them,
winter after winter.
___
Thus love was broken, at the heart—
at the heart and mind,
and all the habits of forgiving.
Such
was
the error.
___
Dearest—not a fault—but a failure.
This day is but another, and another,
sad reminder—
the way we are long parted.
Death and living.
Memory and forgetting.
And, oh, these birds of sorrow
bearing everything through
the terrible skies, finding their way.
Arriving
AS IF I AM THE IMAGE OF REGRET
the rush of wings
through a fast mirror made of air;
as if I am the waiting glass
for the escape of something wounded—
a word of long ago,
finding me here for its use and I am blessed
as if I am the certainty of wisdom . . .
to let it all remain,
even as I hold my breath
through the forgetfulness of others.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
JUST NOW I RECOGNIZE GRIEF
—Joyce Odam
as tangible—a brooding figure
settled down beside me
on a cold bench in winter
waiting for a bus or time to
pass while figures haunt by
with their own sorrows—we
are but shapes of sorrow and the
one at my side wants me to listen
while it spiels and spiels and spiels.
___________________
Mama-Joyce (Joyce Odam) is in the Kitchen today, cooking up further glories with her pen—okay, computer—okay, mixed metaphors—and whatever-she-uses device that takes pictures, and we are thankful for all! Our Seed of the Week has been “Always Chasing Buses”, and Joyce (and the rest of us) knows a lot about that. Always chasing something, anyway…
Our new Seed of the Week is “Our 114-Year-Old House”. This is a nod to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for last Thursday’s post, in which there was a typo—his 114-year-old house shrank to the age of 14. Grab hold of this challenge and 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.
For “Wild Swans” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, see www.owleyes.org/text/wild-swans/.
___________________
—Medusa
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.
