That Perilous Looking Glass

 

Dawn’s Early Light

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

THIS DAY HAS YET TO BE
—Joyce Odam

This day has yet to be. I watch the
clock to see how far away the world
will be. The clock has yet to know.

Oh let the fury stay until I find
the edges of the world taking sides,
changing times, taking me away from
me—always too slow, always too soon.

When I was safe in my same old
comforts—oh the mind that always
used to stay behind my sense of time.

Oh let me be a bit behind, learn
to catch up, learn to find the place
of me : I am always here where I want
to be, knowing myself before it loses me.

I am like an old new car,
that could always stop on a dime—
every time. 

 

 

 

 Broken Rhythm

 

 

 

PENDING
—Robin Gale Odam

one generic poem,
whatever comes our way

it’s today again—that keeps
happening

____________________

CIRCULAIRE
—Joyce Odam

The mirror is mine.
It knows just what to see.
It will obey and I will approve.

There is a ring of shadow on the
glass, that I touch when I go there
for beauty or design. How perfectly

I go again : my eyes and my eyes as
ever a bit further, a bit further from
my old promise to stay so young.

I look around for other eyes
to meet my mirrored and
searching eyes. 

 

 

 

Night is Shadowless

 

INSOMNIA XLVI
—Robin Gale Odam

I would ascribe a synonym
for this night and the mirror said

       look away the sky is gray
       wounded by the light of day

       what reason now for memory
       what promises not made

       no counterpoint no melody
       no compliment to fade away

       mid-day, nimble range of space
       night is shadowless

Perilous. The looking glass. I would
ascribe the synonym for the mirror.

 

 

 

 Held In Its Rest

 

 

THE ALTERNATE WEATHER
—Joyce Odam

the blink of light this cruel day,
the sense of fright to push away

with hands that have no strength,
no say—this is a cruel, cruel day

__________________

CENSURE
—Robin Gale Odam

only in darkness,
the mirror and her secrets

beauty at the surface,
the background worrisome 

 

 

 

 Wandering Moon

 

POOL WITHOUT IMAGE
—Joyce Odam

Unwhorling to stillness
that water
lies deep
in the terrible heart
of night.
Thin
light
of a wandering moon
mists over my shoulder.

I come to water
with mirror-need.
I am
a broken rhythm
to my eyes.

But the pool
without image of my face
lies held in its rest,
and below
the lost heart-pulse
a gathering sound
coils up to me.

When
I break surface
with my listening hand
I feel the swallowing.
Black
     ripples upon black
         upon black
             upon shoreless black.

            
—From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967 

 

 

 

Further and Farther

 

THE DREAMING
—Robin Gale Odam

1.
the mirror, there personified by her
questioning eyes—further and farther,
and thus and such, every morning the
wind would toss the branches

2.
every morning the wind would toss the
branches for the little birds—and she
would try to weep but the tears were in
the wind and in the pages of her books,
and in the mane of the blue horse

3.
and in the mane of the blue horse, now
stepping with measured steps in the gray
morning, its hooves pressing fine imprints
along the pathway to the waters, and in the
shades of the forest of promises

4.
and in the shades of the forest of promises,
all reflecting back, the dreaming images
of her eyes moistened by the early dew
and the sifting of the evening rains

5.
and the sifting of the evening rains
will be taken up and written into her
stanza of despair, and for the want of tears 

 

 

 

More Than Substance

 

SOME MOOD OF YOU
—Joyce Odam

have I touched you then
in some passing
of you
          after the dying,
          almost past memory.
has some drift of you
found my sudden anguish
and clung
          comforting
          for a moment.
sometimes
I seem to find more than
substance
in things I touch;
          hair blown to my cheek
          or the leaf my foot breaks
are not
          hair and leaf,
          but some mood of you
          like a voice
          from the other side of pain.


—From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTERMATH
—Robin Gale Odam

aberration of fragile heart
troubled relationships
my father was in a war

        
(prev. pub. in Poems-For-All: Scattered Like Seeds)

_________________

Our thanks to the Odam poets for today’s reflective poems! Our Seed of the Week was Mirrors, and I’m sure readers will like what they see.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Sprouts”. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Feeding those wee sprouts~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA











 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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