Thin Havens

Refuge

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

HARBOR LIGHTS AT THE END OF SUMMER
—Joyce Odam

remember the way to the harbor ?
the seagulls were circling and circling
the skies were so broken we shuddered
the breezes came up of a sudden
the turbulence sudden with meaning
the docks set to rocking and rocking
the twilights grew longer and colder
our long-ago summer was ending—
moonlight and starlight’s last ember
we watched the small boats bump together
we watched how the lights touched the water
we lingered     then lingered the longer
remember ?     remember ?     remember ?

                                                 
(prev pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/12; 10/30/15;
3/24/20)

 

 

 

Winter Dream

 

TO PASS THE WINTER

—Robin Gale Odam

Now the sleeper dreams in the
book of fables, bookmark at the
one page read to pass the winter.

But the night stays in the frozen
dream, in the blue of cold under the
silver baldachin of winter leaves.

The bookmark holds the page at the
litany of the night, for redemption of the
dreamer in the asylum of wintertime.

                              
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2022)

 

 

 

Lost in Thought

 

NAMES
—Joyce Odam

My real name is Beauty, a name beloved by mirrors,
a name vanity favored, my first young name.

Cat says my name is Hunter, for she hunts vanity
and purrs to me her power.

I think of myself as Sunrise, for I am a Leo child—
a child of eternal summer.

Time calls me Lazy, and that is also my name,
for I love indolence and all things slow and effortless.

Priest calls me Purity, as do, husbands, lovers,
and all other saints and sinners who would define me.   

Grief calls me Wisdom, for I have learned patience
and silence and other virtues of loss and deprival.

And silence calls me Sound, for I have returned
one to the other and named them synonymous.

Haven is my secret name, though I use it sparingly.
Only those who truly love me may shelter here.

                                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/5/10) 

 

 

 

A Quiet Place

HER ALTERING MOODS
—Joyce Odam

She prefers dim candlelight
in a flower-heady room
—a dark glass of bitter wine

with its shimmer—the night still
young.  She will play some old tune
over and over—resign

herself to night’s yearning wait,
all her tried-on dresses strewn
about, as if to define

her changing moods.  She’ll invite
the ghosts back in to resume
their place at her mood’s old shrine

—comfort her there in the blur
of all that’s tormenting her—
candles to soften her tears
—wine, her face in the mirror.
                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/16/13; 2/7/17)

___________________

LOBBY  
—Joyce Odam
                    
After Edward Hopper’s Hotel Window, 1956

In the hotel of wrong decision she waits in her red
hat and dress, her legs crossed prettily in black high
heels—posed for her own imagination—staring out
at the night which is staring back through her re-
flection. I think she’s my mother; patient as always,
haughty in red, sitting there in her camel coat with
the fur collar draped over one shoulder. She thinks
it will rain.

I remember her clearly—notice the wet smell of
the air—the black couch—the pale yellow wall—
the blue rug—the white pillar outside the window.
When did her hair go white, I wonder. She doesn’t
seem to notice I’m there. I’m outside the power of
my observation. Her mind is planning ahead—her
purse hugged guardedly on her lap—all her
important papers in it. I get the feeling she’s
leaving for good this time. I haven’t been born yet,
and she’s already old.

Someone is changing our history—someone who is
late—or not coming—someone she already regrets.
Perhaps the night is not there—or the dim effort of
light that illuminates this tableau of vague trans-

ition. Perhaps it will rain and she will return to her 

room. She’s in control of my existence—this woman 

I want to weep for—seem to know—fear for the un-
certain direction of her future.
                                                                

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/21/17) 

 

 

 

Asylum

I CAME TO LOVE
—Joyce Odam

It was your easy voice with the smooth edge, not
ragged like mine; mine was torn like a sheet of
paper. What was torn away was important, but
became lost—what I never found again, like the
right words. How could I trust you, you were
perfect, like a mirror. Still, I could not give you
my eyes—too adoring—too shy, like a first crush.
The effect you had on me was numbing, like my
futile admiration. In bringing myself to you—a
torrent of hard rain driving me to your door—I
spilled what I carried, dropped my chances like
fine china in clumsy hands. Where would you put
me in the sanctuary of your house—stuck with
me—your apologetic guest—some great storm out-
side my heart, roads washed away, bridges down?
And the storm never let up. How I compared my-
self to you—postured and mocked myself into a
caricature for your recognition. And you came to
love me, and I came to deserve you . . . you tell
me . . .you tell me.

 

 

 

Sanctity

 

THESE DARK POLARITIES
—Joyce Odam

It was the link,
what we knew and did not know,
what held us together and apart . . .
                .
Softly the sorrow came to me,
whispered, oh, whispered so strangely,
my name, the condition of my dark . . .
                .
Lies! Darling, Lies!
Your own angels distrust you,
fastened like pain to your shoulders . . .
                .    
We have no heaven here.
Pass through the curtains and see
for yourself . . .
                .
Frail as ecstasy, this tower of ash
in the light of candles,
or was it incense . . .
                .
Two crows, under the fan,
turn ever so slightly,
turn toward and away from each other . . .
                .
Oh, grievance, thy name is love,
and all dark solitudes,
and all reachings into harsh light . . .
                .
Oh, tender stone.  My heart.  My pillow.
My book of sorrows.  My weapon and my fist.
I don’t know what else to call you . . . .
        

(prev. pub. in Stones, Jan, 1998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/3/18)

 

 

 

 Seventh Draft

INSOMNIA XLIV
—Robin Gale Odam

Sorrow modulates down a half-note
in the measure of each passing night, now
tender and low, soft in the filter of secrecy

A devious dream vows comfort then
disappears in translation—what asylum
should wreak havoc with spittle of laughter
—this can never be a memory

An elusive moon interprets the fiction of
curiosity    I must have spilled my tea,
I remember swirling the leaves
with my finger    I probably
should not write this

I sharpen my pencil,
let the curls fall

                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 01/30/24)

 

 

 

Sanctuary

 

                                                       
THE ANCIENT ONE  
—Joyce Odam

After TAO, The Ancient One by Andrew Baker

I almost lost you this time, oh, Fragile One, but
here you are in the stack of paper waste—as ugly
as ever, and as wise—or so you claim with your
white eyes and mocking

countenance—amused and stern, and staring
right at me. You’ve had your horns polished,
haven’t you, and by whom? Some loving mis-
tress who adores your naiveté and

your generous praise, who even hands you your
worn-down walking stick when you clatter it in
her path, as you tell me with a wounded laugh.
And what do your hands cup now

with that empty leer you’ve perfected—what test
for my curiosity? And why are you still here in my
presence—what threat or favor bring to my sus-
ceptibility? Your old

wrinkles are sagging—as you exaggerate everything
about you, so easily broken like a glued figurine.  
I’m not as old as you, though you insinuate with a
burning stare in my

direction. Your beard needs trimming and my
scissors are out for sharpening, so go to your wimpy
old whore for that. I’m no Delilah and you’re no
Hercules, although you hint

at rumors I don’t buy. Oh, alright. You can stay
awhile. There’s much about you I don’t know,
and you do make an effective bid for sympathy—
so trembly and

leaning—leaning, as if you might fall over. And I
know how that is. Here, let me guide you past all
my guile and secrets and I’ll answer one more
question before you go.  

 

 

 

Strata

 

   

BOUNDARY LINE
—Joyce Odam

rest yourself
upon my
narrow
I am
a thin haven
not too much land
on either side
I leave myself
stark
and open to
those silences
that listen
I am
the one vibration-line
they cannot hear
you can hide
with me
for awhile
if danger comes
we will be
so small
it will
pass over us
hush
I will not entertain
you
or love you
I am a
quiet resting place
of kindness only

 

 

 

Sweet Nothings

THE CHOREOGRAPHY IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam

After “Arctic Heart” Poem Cycle by Gretel Ehrlich

She is the dancer made of light.
He is the shadow to which she molds.
Both are the same movement,
entwined and separate.

Folds and folds of soft blue envelop them:
the sky and the sea; the blue earth into which
they evolve.

Softly the music follows like the echoes of old
voices, the lost sad cries, and the repetitions.

These are the hands of air reaching toward
other self—endlessly there; they open
and close like mouths of wordlessness.

This is the grope of silences worn over
hearts of joy and hearts of sorrow.
Nothing will ease the tension of love.
It is the dance.

She goes toward a motion in the dark.
He follows. It is another blue.
Another cloth of time.
It hangs still, then billows.

The living creatures of sorrow appear
and are vain. They want their turn.
They flow and lift in exquisite precision.

They steal the dance; and the ones
who cannot dance steal them.
It is an agony of souls
who have found each other.

Light is the ghost here, repeats itself
until the floating is memorized
and the sensation is known,
even as the next movement begins.

The blue cloth does not end; it is
the mother of weeping.
It contains all there is of invisible music
that comes from everywhere.

She is weariness that does not exist.
He is the alter-energy. Together they
form a continuation even as the stage
becomes what they escape from
and what they escape to.

Put the two bodies together now
before they dissolve past recognition—
blue ice and white ice—black ice—

the scar of their experience,
or is this only another recognition?

A ghost face with bleak eyes looks in to
the room where they dance. It is a dream.
The face is an old bone sculpture.
Its presence is inevitable.
They dance to it and around it.

Mirrors do not live here.
They long ago lost their meaning,
became the continuous blue
through which another color insinuated.

Ache of cold waits for them to
end this futility; she will refuse it—
contorts to suggest the agony of self.

There is a trust to remember;
it borrows light to repair light.
The curtain tears again.
Light will mend it.
Nothing pours in but more blue.
It is the music.

Love is the experience;
they give it to one another,
tell it again all winter, when time is a cave,
when there is nothing but
the one word to say to each other.

Now their motion swirls like echoes,
though they are motionless.
Light pours around them, melting.
The vast blueness extends beyond silence.
Time quivers and is gone. Applause.


(prev. pub. Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/22/17; 3/26/24)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

INSOMNIA XLV
—Robin Gale Odam

In my dresser drawer, behind
years of lingerie and old letters,
the pad of parchment stationery                         
with the sterling pen-and-pencil set                    

I slip the page of ghost lines behind the
first sheet of paper so as to compose               
with evenly-spaced breaths

The pencil whispers across the page,  
the low wind of prayer, the sheer
curtain restless at the window                
                                           

(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/4/23)

_____________________

Poets Juyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have given us refuge (our Seed of the Week) in their fine poetry and Joyce’s artwork today, and we’re grateful, as always, for their visit! Our new Seed of the Week is “My Only Indulgence”. 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.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Hotel Window
—Painting by Edward Hopper, 1956







 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

MoSt in Modesto celebrates 

15 years of Second Tuesday Poetry

with a Members Potluck and Open Mic

tonight, 6pm.

For  more about this and other

future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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—or get changed!—
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My Only Indulgence…