The Light You Need

 

 Sanctuary

—Poetry, Photos and Original Art 

by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

 

 

SIXTH SENSE

Something waits to be found. I feel it,
slow myself to be ready.

I sense the presence. Whatever lurks
out-waits me.

It is the edge,
and I am the center.

It intuits me—
as if I am a spiral.

How will I know if I am caught—
there is only the idea—

the sensation. It is watchful.
I am moving outward—inward.

 

 

 

Silence

 

A SOUNDLESS MOMENT

A lone black bird on a sudden quiet path—south to
north across the field outside my window as I glance
out at just this moment of this day—the field a make-
shift canvas of brimming shade in sunlight—how
sharp its flight against that shadow-wash of gold—
how quick and silent on the morning.


(prev. pub. in Manzanita Quarterly, 2001)

_________________

THE MEMORY-SCENT OF
DRIED ROSE PETALS

What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this—

expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.

Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.

Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,

trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.

 

 

 

Now The Dream

 

STAR-FALL

Come to me, Love. The room is cold.
Stars line the window ledge.
The mirror holds you
much too long—
would you go in—
enter some other world?
You say you hear a loon cry
on the lake.
There is no lake.
The wind groans through the tree
outside the window.
There is no tree.
The window glints
to the mirror.
You look at me
through the glass.
But you are staring
at yourself.
Tree branches shake.
A loon cries on the lake.
The room is cold.
You do not see how I’m not there—
afraid and lost in the room’s shivering.

__________________

SEASONAL CHANGES

At once the season changes. Every tone
of light is on another plane. The day
constricts. A shiver in the air finds bone.
        Trees shudder and release the birds
that flutter out and briefly fly away.

Then time resumes its count, shifts back in place.
Summer continues, canceling what was there :
a touch of winter in some kind of race,
        something to mock the lack of words :
which season choose, with no time to prepare?

 

 

 

 Waiting For January

 

SEEKING LIFE
After Child, o/c, Yasuo Kunihoshi, 1923

Wooden child, wooden child,
in flawed perspective—

once a doll—
now a child,

or so
it thinks—

eyes painted
sideways,

looking through the shadowed light
to find its life.

It…  It…  
figment of whimsied mind.

Forever’s darling, mouth buttoned
from cry or word—

seen,
not heard.

_________________

SELF ESTEEM
After Self Love by Winslow Homer

It’s not the curious self-deep mirror now,
or this wide field that’s yours for the scything,
it’s more the vast expression on your face,
the way you pause and seem to listen—

knee-deep in daisies—wearing the sky
like an inner movement
as you lean from your shadow—
it’s more like that : you, absorbed

in a moment of self-admiration,
proud of your thoughts, of your grasp
upon the infinite, and the power you think
you have—it‘s more like that.

 

 

 

 Feline

 

SELF HOLDING SELF

dance now
in circle of self-watching

self holding self
mirror

all that darkness measured
and made easy to lead and follow

_________________

THE SISTERHOOD

I am in a room of many women
each alone from the other
each a container of stories
each a silence worth listening to…

our dresses touch when we pass each other
in soft aversive movements
when we are waiting our turns,
when we are measuring our restlessness…

shall we escape…
shall we be here forever in our
alien kinship—who are uniquely alike—
who are divided by our difference…

                                            
(prev. pub. in Calliope, 1992-93)

__________________

SAPPHICS FOR A RANDOM THOUGHT

It’s the very randomness of some thought that
flickers like some wing that gets caught in wind-lift,
brief as thought’s own teasery, grayly touching
surfaces and depths;

it’s the strange elusiveness of the teasing—
shifting—as we reach for it—just as it fades,
that we seem oblivious to, and just miss—
mysteries like that

always leave us wondering what was really
touching, moth-like, there at the mind’s own margin,
fluttering the emptiness with its vagueness,
gathering away—

some thought, briefly important—some thought that we
almost capture—fingertipped—fleeting, just missed.
Losses like that—whisperings, side-looks, movements,
stillness’s disturbed—

hauntings—thoughts that nag at us when we lose them,
thoughts we failed to recognize; thoughts that snag on
deafness, blindness—maybe some passing poem,
honoring itself.  

_________________

SARAH AND JOHN
After The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees,
1947-1954

Who was Sarah—who was John,
that they were dedicated
in a book of poems,
the poet dead now—
missing from his life,
a mystery to solve—
and leaving us to wonder :
Who was Sarah? Who was John?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen,  4/02/2015)

 

 

 

Timekeeper

 

                      
SATURATION

How often do you need this to be true? You are such a
tragedy—sitting alone—in the rain—at the little side-
walk table since you love moody atmosphere.

You sip your drink of rainwater and ask for the bill, and
the waiter comes indifferently toward you, but you keep
receding into the old pathetic story.

You love the ancient way you feel. You love the misery
of your own eyes in the distortion of the window. Inside,
patrons are looking out at you, but they don’t hold

together any more. You have been here too long, wear-
ing yourself thin with repetition—boring everybody—
even the long-dead artist you conjure for effect.

And now we leave you there in your private reverie, the
waiter never arriving, the rain falling into your glass—
you, shining so deeply, like a wet tree.

                                                        
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 2004)

___________________

SEARCH THE WIND

Know this of me, that I will search the wind for
your last touch. I will become a scavenger of
every breeze for something of you I have
known.

Often I hear compassionate grass lean to a
sound and mourn against the soil in ravaged
listening, then sigh against my legs and tell me
you are here.
 
Our energies converge. Nothing of what we are
to one another is spent, but borne through all the
filters of awareness.

My hands enclose the living emptiness to
treasure you; the bending of my fingers makes
a sound of love upon the wind for you to hear.
My pulse works thunder.

The chasm of our distance storms with angry
love, and I can feel you miss me in the lashing
of all growing things. There is a wailing in the

air when love shreds on the pangs of loneliness.
Nothing is lost. I answer with a yielding you
will feel upon the wind’s return.

                                
(prev. pub. in Prairie Poet, 1963)

 

 

 

 Purity of Mind

 

UNTIL IN THE LENGTHENING LIGHT

You become real again,
you become wary of life,
you become dissatisfied
of hope,  
and effort
and wasted praise,
on yourself and others,
what is the use of fire on the tongue,
anger in the eye,
forgive the thought that got away
because you were too slow,
or too selfish, or
forgetful—

Everything is the lie, except truth
which is too expensive and weary
of its search—oh—all has the element
of failure after all the experience of life,
and love, and all the words you counted on
to save the soul, the life, the love, it all waits
until you release yourself into the light that has
lengthened around you, and you—you are the
light you needed to be the answer to everything
you wanted to know, to be where you are, made
of sorrow.    

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SANGUINITY
—Joyce Odam

Let’s hope for a happy ending
this time,
that long list of wanting,
things to work out,
come true,
all wishes
that are good wishes—healings.

Let us no longer lose what we need,
no matter how expensive
or out of stock,
when all we need
are things
that feed, clothe, and shelter—
enough not too much—even love.

___________________

Sanctuary is what we’re all seeking in these troubled times, and Joyce Odam responded to our Seed of the Week: Sanctuary, with her probing poems and pix, as we wind up the month of June, 2022. Thank you, Joyce—all of us taking sanctuary in her beautiful words and thoughts!

Our new Seed of the Week is “You are what you drink”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that poet Luz María Gama passed away Sunday night. Our thoughts are with her friends and family.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “Let’s hope for a happy ending. . .”

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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