—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
When I am in a certain mood,
feeling black about certain things
(though not as big as wars,
or famine, or something
as small as bee stings)
but more like the broken heart
love has occasionally,
or a bad hair day
or any irksome
turn that ruins a day,
and I, truly morbid now,
am building to a mood
for dark music, low lights,
and doors closed against everything
when all I can think of (grateful
for the comic relief it seems), am
down to cobwebby shadows, strong
black coffee and black jelly beans.
feeling black about certain things
(though not as big as wars,
or famine, or something
as small as bee stings)
but more like the broken heart
love has occasionally,
or a bad hair day
or any irksome
turn that ruins a day,
and I, truly morbid now,
am building to a mood
for dark music, low lights,
and doors closed against everything
when all I can think of (grateful
for the comic relief it seems), am
down to cobwebby shadows, strong
black coffee and black jelly beans.
Virtual Applause
FOREST BIRD
Soft chirping on dark morning, barely listened,
only once, oh, sweet loss, barely owned by ear
and heart—and where is the lonely center,
entered and left, intrusive with exquisite
recognition. And why only once?
Was it a dreaming? Is it extinct, gift of nostalgia,
all else that is gone, gone like all else, a treasured
moment? I probe silence, hurt with haunting.
Once more the bird speaks, sweet return—safe
in the late summer tree—a dark green voice—
calling to itself, since there is no other.
Can it know where it reaches?
Only to me, beyond its need.
It speaks and speaks through the under-
listening of other sounds, I isolate this one,
find the unknown language of its singing.
Yakity-Yak, Yakity-Yak
GIFT
all wrapped, guessing better
than knowing, maybe never
open, let gather dust, box of
wonder—maybe box within
box-within-box-to-
something as small
as a thimble maybe,
or joke
just the
BoXeS
____________________
GIFT
The poem has waited for you to grow into it,
to read it at a later time to learn its power,
what it says, and what depths it has.
Not just the words but the force
under the words, the life
that lights up darkness,
reveals the dimension—
the poem has waited
for you to listen, a sound,
time as the first time, what
is here that was always there,
this growth, this maturity, this
acceptance of sadness and love—
this readiness to accept your creativity.
Jack and Jill, Up the Hill
PERSPECTIVE
After Three Men Walking, 1948 by Giacometti
Walking out from the center of the mirror, I face
three directions and am at once at the mercy of
three compulsions. Thus am I split into the three
measurements of existence : I am past, present,
and future. But, still, I am of the mirror—that
mothering eye that will not diminish or release,
but only gives me a glimpse of illusion—that
bordering reach—that drift off the fathomless
edge around me. If only I can pull away at the
exact moment, I will escape the unguarded blink
that must occur. Even now, I can feel my three
selves slip the magnetic hold of my own fear
and reluctance—that pull at the weakening
center—if only I am that brave—if only I can
break my own trance, and that of the mirror . . . .
(first pub. in Tiger's Eye, 2001)
____________________
TIME RESTORED
City Recreates George Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon
in “Art is alive along the River”, Beloit, Wisconsin
The moment caught.
(Ah, hold breath.)
History holds its breath
(Release breath.)
The scene is faux
(Sigh in.)
Each breath is twice,
(Sigh out.)
The scene familiar
(Revise breath.)
(Laughs at the realization)
(Big belly-breath.)
History on a same-such-day
(…It is only so…)
Oh No, Detour
TO SAY MY DARKNESS
I come with a heavy word now
for your lonely mouth
the kiss is heavy too
and made of weariness
each gift is broken first
to give you perfect sadness
I put my hand across your eyes
to say my darkness
I lay my fever
underneath your touch
I cry gray laughter
for your ashen echo
I bring you everything I am
and call it love
(first pub. in Oregonian, 1972)
____________________
DISCERNMENT
Whatever speaks. Whatever listens.
The blessing between. Extended. Received.
There is a moment, reached,
Closed eyes open.
Mute voice finds word. Gesture means,
A frail stillness is what is.
So is motion, one builds on the other,
becomes. Call this power.
Look through the presence you call ghost
as it flows through you.
Now
you are one.
Even here, separation will exist.
The longing toward the unobtainable.
I come with a heavy word now
for your lonely mouth
the kiss is heavy too
and made of weariness
each gift is broken first
to give you perfect sadness
I put my hand across your eyes
to say my darkness
I lay my fever
underneath your touch
I cry gray laughter
for your ashen echo
I bring you everything I am
and call it love
(first pub. in Oregonian, 1972)
____________________
DISCERNMENT
Whatever speaks. Whatever listens.
The blessing between. Extended. Received.
There is a moment, reached,
Closed eyes open.
Mute voice finds word. Gesture means,
A frail stillness is what is.
So is motion, one builds on the other,
becomes. Call this power.
Look through the presence you call ghost
as it flows through you.
Now
you are one.
Even here, separation will exist.
The longing toward the unobtainable.
Lullaby, For the Flowers
THE WORLD . . . THE SUN
When the sun came out this morning it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness. The dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning, everything
that was too fragile thrived then shriveled.
Know that this light is forever. It borders the
cold world and the cold heart alike. It wobbles,
then settles into a golden ring. Bask in it . . . bask
in it . . . let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CALL TO MIND
—Joyce Odam
Fragment only of the word I lost.
Let it return, new and unused,
like a curse not uttered,
like a prayer there was no word for,
like the gift of silence
meant for the art of listening.
_______________________
December lights to Joyce Odam today for opening up what we hope will be the gift of December—pretty lights, unwrapping of packages, gifts of love. And of course the gift of poetry, from Joyce and all our SnakePals!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Secrets in the Pines”. 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.
—Medusa
When the sun came out this morning it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness. The dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning, everything
that was too fragile thrived then shriveled.
Know that this light is forever. It borders the
cold world and the cold heart alike. It wobbles,
then settles into a golden ring. Bask in it . . . bask
in it . . . let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CALL TO MIND
—Joyce Odam
Fragment only of the word I lost.
Let it return, new and unused,
like a curse not uttered,
like a prayer there was no word for,
like the gift of silence
meant for the art of listening.
_______________________
December lights to Joyce Odam today for opening up what we hope will be the gift of December—pretty lights, unwrapping of packages, gifts of love. And of course the gift of poetry, from Joyce and all our SnakePals!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Secrets in the Pines”. 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.
—Medusa
Bird in the Forest
—Public Domain Artwork
—Public Domain Artwork
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.
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that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
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