Spiral, Ever Spiral

 

To Dance

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

 

 

THE POET BEFORE SUNUP
—Robin Gale Odam

The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,

Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,

Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.

 

 

 

Full Awake

      
     
There once was a girl

who stared all night through the shining rain,
through ways she would go
and the ways she came

through room after room of shudder shawls,
up flights of stairs, down one-way halls,
past swaying lights on closing walls.

She lay on the shafts of memory
and felt her body lift and fade
and felt herself become opaque.

Dark light shone through and found her soul,
made of thought and made of sorrow
now she can haunt herself again,

mark the night
with sleepless praying,
watch the window of her life

open,
open into being,
where sleep will enter to her name.


—Joyce Odam

 

 

 

Back to Sleep

HUSH
—Joyce Odam

Now in the dream of the bed, on the raft of night,
the child remembers the slowness of the day—

the quietness of the mother, the rustlings in the 

other room. The bed floats on the dark fear. The 

child lies beside the mother and tries to sleep. 

The mother whispers to the child . . .

Now in the memory of the dream, in the dream
of the raft, which tries to float out of the room
and down the stair; out of the day, which has
lengthened from night; out of the dream, which
tries to release her—the chance is exciting, but
the walls impede . . .

Now in the dream of the mother which tries to
release the child from the fear—from the raft—
from the rustlings of the other room, from the
whispering, comes the secret door of instruction :
Be patient.  Be quiet.  Be still.  Tomorrow
we will leave here.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/23/21) 

 

 

 

 Gathering

RESEMBLING A DREAM
—Robin Gale Odam
After The Surrealists by Bridget Tichenor, 1956

the children
the ones who came along
clothed in remnants of clouds
singing hymns of darkest hours

fixed in our memory and singing

singing memories of darkest hours
clothed in remnants of clouds
the ones who ushered us
the children 

 

 

 

 Visiting

                     
THE ANGEL OF COMMON DESPAIR
—Joyce Odam

Oh,
Angel—
pensive as stone—
 
shadowless
against a muted wall,
the winter light surrounding you,

your massive wings at rest—
how lost you seem—how without power
to persuade or frighten

—just another figure caught
in some
indecisive moment.

How pale you are
against the cathedral dark—
ghost in tragic stance,

one foot upon the stair as if to enter
—saddened there
as though some Love has befallen you.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/13; 8/31/21)

 

 

 

To A Day Dream

SPIRAL STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam

          spiral
      ever spiral
   ceiling height
 viral
if fear
of heights
or breath
deprival
what
dizzy urge
what
altitudinal
denial
does one confront
 with such an endless
  staircase
    spiral
       ever spiral

 

 

 

To The Park

FAME, DESCENDING A STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam
After Art Descending a Staircase
by Elaine B. Rothwell

When we disguised ourselves we were not old.
We were famous. Runways loved us.

We had many roles with many lovers.
We floated on admiration.

We put on mask after mask,
obeying the instructions of their faces.

It was a long walk between curtains.
But we were tireless.

Spotlights followed us.
Our costumes told their own stories,

how we were the creation of
famous artists and photographers.

Again and again our youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors, shining ever so darkly.

Even now, we tell of this like conspirators :
that the art of love is what love is made of.

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/10) 

 

 

 

 Where Did He Go?

PASSING
—Joyce Odam

ah,
    yes,
        you cry,
            into the
                revolving
                    world.  the
                        door opens.
                            a vast sky
                             swallows you.
                            you are dead .
                        you turn to say
                    this to me.
                you sift and
            disappear.
        I sit on the
    stair and
weep. 

 

 

 

 For a Walk

NOT DATED
—Robin Gale Odam

I’m going to go take a walk through the
mystery—I’ll be back in a long while.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2020;  
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22)

 

 

 

 Me To Know

MOTHER, I HAVE LEARNED
—Joyce Odam

Mother, I have learned how to hide.
I know where the shadows are.
I know where the light
shifts past.

I know how eyes
will follow such stealth as ours.
I have learned to tear evidence
of our existence.

I have learned to creep down
stairs in silence.
I have learned to stay silent
behind doors.

I have learned to veil the face
of all emotion.
I have learned that tears
are the confessions of fear—

that danger is always disguised
in the gentlest of eyes—
that no one loves us for long.
I have learned to leave

at a moment’s notice;
to go into the soft closing air
of disappearance, leaving only
a burning-dish full of wet ashes.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/24/23)

 

 

 

 Wandering Thoughts

STAIRCASE WITH CONJURED FIGURES
—Joyce Odam

And now, these long stairs—this last poem—the
    lovers halfway down, their shadows falling
        ahead

of them. The stairs are as wide as two distances,
    there is no top or bottom to them, they are
        merely
    
steps toward a metaphor. What is the metaphor !
    What must I discern from this : two lovers
       moving
      
down the stairs without a sign of apprehension.
    Why am I afraid for them? The stairs are half-
        toned

with shadow and dull sunlight, rock texture in
    relief; and they, themselves, diminished against
        the length

and width of this stair-path that is so steep, with
    no one else going up or down. They are so
        trusting of

these lines that writes them there. How long it 

    takes to reach to one stone from another, the 

        same slow

motion that is felt in waiting for what one can 

    never face. I make them mysterious. I give 

        them choice,

a way to alter fate’s design : they are halfway up  

    and halfway down : time to go on, time to turn 

        around.

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/18)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RITUALS
—Joyce Odam   

For all things willing
and all things sad
I lay this small gift
beside the empty place.
.
I bring in my basket of
prayers.
Take one, I say to everyone
till it is empty.
.
Ever so softly
for it is night
and everyone is sleeping
I go up and down the stairs with
my lullaby and candle.

       
(prev. pub. in California State Poetry Society
Quarterly, 1975; The Dividing Self [mini-book],
1989; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/3/12; 6/5/12)

___________________

“Down the back staircase” is our Seed of the Week which Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have so gracefully written about today, and many thanks to them for that and for visuals supplied  by Joyce. 

 

Our new Seed of the Week is “Frustration”. 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

 

 

 

Los Surrealistas (The Surrealists)
—Bridget Tichenor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“. . . youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors . . .”