Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Speaking for the Unspeakable

—Photo by Joyce Odam


—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

She knew what it was to sorrow by degrees,
the thin extending shadows of her years,

the blank look in the mirror of her eyes.
Oh, she was sad enough to specialize

in winter’s puny light—that tone of gray
that January brings.  Each year she vowed

to lift the house with light—to have it
glow and penetrate the winter—still—

she hangs onto her angers like a duty.
She knows what it is to sorrow by degrees.

(first pub. in Hidden Oak, 2004)


—Joyce Odam

we sulk through the house
wising we could love each other
or wishing we could
hate each other better


—Joyce Odam

I am not so content
with roses now.
They crowd and suffocate.
Their petals drop like prayers—
unanswered and ignored.
They bruise my carpet
where I pace in all my fury.
Your love has killed me,
so I kill it back.
I shred it into screams.
These roses that you send
compress the air.
Why send me roses now!
Why offer insult upon sting!
Words cannot be taken back.
I scorn your roses—keep their thorns.

Ragged Leaf
—Photo by Joyce Odam


—Joyce Odam

How they react
to the weapon and the thought.
Hating it.
Wishing it away.

If a bullet should come at them
they would stand and weep
and hold their hands out.
They would offer their love.

(first pub. in One Dog Press)


—Joyce Odam

If I were the sea
I would use you for a focal point:
your light for my darkness;

I would use you for a boundary
to gauge my edge against;
I would know where I could test
my calm and fury,
let my ships beware,
warn my whales,
and give your shore-gulls praise
for marking stormy skies
with their whiteness.

I would always know where you are
so I could ever surge toward you
with my lonely power.


Thanks to Joyce Odam for our Kitchen fare today, finishing up our Seed of the Week: Danger! Explosives! Our new SOW is appropriate to the season: Empty Nests. Send your thoughts about that vacant real estate, either real or figurative, to kathykieth@hotmail.com

Trina Drotar sends us a link to her new website:  www.insearchofthecormorant.blogspot.com as well as to some reviews: www.sacramentopress.com/headline/68549/Book_Talk_Linville_Palmares_Meadows_Miranda_and_N
Poets everywhere will be saddened to know that Gene Bloom has passed away. Gene, originally from New York (where he briefly published a poetry journal by the name of Entrails back in the '60s) was a staple at Poetry Unplugged on Thursday nights. His raucous poetry will be missed.


Today's LittleNip:

—Joyce Odam

It is as simple as this:
words will do it—
speak for the unspeakable
—the dark thought
uttered and believed.

Truth is like that—
filtered through the strength
of opinion—given with
great influence of passion. 
Oh, my poems…



 Fish Tank
—Photo by Joyce Odam