A Gentleness About It
—Poetry and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
MORNING PROCEDURE
The cat has been stroked
and has left my lap to the
lamplight in the dark morning.
Hum of early traffic begins . . .
no . . . it is only an airplane drone
—gone now.
My pencil scrapes the page with a
strange sound—whisper of language
a pen does not know . . .
A thin whine in some far background
says, Here . . . Now . . .
in my ear only.
Shall I rise to the dark morning
and put all this away,
unfinished?
Now that morning no longer
belongs to me,
I am distracted.
But the words still compel me with their
illegible scribble; time is going,
and they accuse me.
Where is the comfort-cat now—
that silent shadow
of casual existence?
___________________
IN SOOTHING DISTANCE
I watched the green waves of trees for while—
how, in the wind, they swayed and moved
in a single lyric pattern—so wonderfully attuned.
The cat has been stroked
and has left my lap to the
lamplight in the dark morning.
Hum of early traffic begins . . .
no . . . it is only an airplane drone
—gone now.
My pencil scrapes the page with a
strange sound—whisper of language
a pen does not know . . .
A thin whine in some far background
says, Here . . . Now . . .
in my ear only.
Shall I rise to the dark morning
and put all this away,
unfinished?
Now that morning no longer
belongs to me,
I am distracted.
But the words still compel me with their
illegible scribble; time is going,
and they accuse me.
Where is the comfort-cat now—
that silent shadow
of casual existence?
___________________
IN SOOTHING DISTANCE
I watched the green waves of trees for while—
how, in the wind, they swayed and moved
in a single lyric pattern—so wonderfully attuned.
Lines Drawn Simply
THE CHARCOAL SKETCH
After Child on Horse by William M. Duff
Famous Artists Magazine, Spring, 1962
Lines
drawn simply
like a primitive mural
on a gray wall :
a thin-legged, feisty horse,
rounding its back—
joyous child
astride—
grinning
and flinging
Watch Me arms
out wide.
A Strand of Blue
IN LINE
Enter the swaggering man with his dark suit
and hat,
and his cane,
one hand on the railing
at the edge of a crowd of pressing people
in line . . . in line for what . . . ? . . .
He stands with his weight on one hip against
the gray wall—off to the side—
way off
to the side of everyone.
He seems so fragile, standing there,
this delicate man with such a swaggering manner.
Enter the swaggering man with his dark suit
and hat,
and his cane,
one hand on the railing
at the edge of a crowd of pressing people
in line . . . in line for what . . . ? . . .
He stands with his weight on one hip against
the gray wall—off to the side—
way off
to the side of everyone.
He seems so fragile, standing there,
this delicate man with such a swaggering manner.
How Round the Hour
MODEL IN SOFT WINDOW LIGHT
How round she is in day’s soft window light,
bending her arms above her head—her
hands in her hair—her face a mask
of pleasure—her whole self
anointed by a tenderness
of shadow.
How round she is—her soft fat, pleasing to the
room’s dim eye—her belly—her thighs,
the width of her hips—her eyes soft,
looking toward the
daylight.
How round, how round, her round self, posing
for some camera—adoring her roundness,
the soft touch of her hair through her
hands, the curving way she sits
on the floor by the window.
How round the hour that embraces her like this,
a rounding hour that will move slowly—
slowly like a look of pleasure—
For this she wills herself
to be beautiful, never
self-conscious,
never shy.
The Intensity of Love
HUNGRY
Taste.
This is sweet—
this is sour.
One is fine grape—
one is mysterious lemon.
Both are true to the mouth
which responds with different pleasure
which gets hungry so often
which needs…which needs.
Do not starve the mouth.
It has no kiss to protect it.
Do not starve the mouth.
After “Celebration”, Vesuvian Press, 1987
Complexity of Prayer
NIGHT EASE
“The black oyster of night opens
to release a white moon,”
From “Desolation”
by Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni
The countless stars spill freely from the sky. The
white moon stares after them. The cold darkness
pulsates as the sea accepts the stars that pulsate
with sensation as the stars touch the water. There
is nothing lost from the sky—nothing to prove of
this.
Children at bedroom windows recite their prayers,
then sleep under the restive sky. The sea makes a
hollow singing that sounds like the wind. The moon
is a luxury tonight—a white wish for those who
used to be sailors.
The sky takes back the moon with a slow gather-
ing of dark clouds. In city trees, nightingales are
easing the hours of the sleepless.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine—
Slight line-break revision, 8-14-2020)
The Mind and Heart Begin to Heal
WE ARE
all particle—of the earth—of the air—
of every whispering voice and every
tear fallen from grief, or joy, and every
tear for the silk fabric of fog, mist over
water, sound of crying, the harsh notes
of rage, the emptied stare,
looking at everything—brooding,
crying—the very act of this—the
very rhyming in every windowed
reflection made of glass, the sensation
of touch, the rush of pleasure, the feel
of darkness to the grope, the sunrise,
the sunset, the blur of hope in the frazzled
mind, the very hope of existence in the doubt,
the distance and the near—the everything,
and everywhere—in this moment, here.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
UNDER-LIFE
—Joyce Odam
My mother named me happiness.
Shall I believe her?
Time passes through me
like poured water.
Gold fastens to my sand.
I gleam with pleasure.
(prev. pub. in Poetalk, 1993)
_____________________
Joyce Odam’s poems and artwork speak to us today of Contentment, our Seed of the Week. “Do not starve the mouth. It has no kiss to protect it.” “Time passes through me like poured water.”
Yesterday I spoke of the Tuesday Night Workshop with reverence for all it did for me for many years. Joyce was a central part of that workshop in those days, and encouraged me through writing, editing, getting myself published, and finally my Rattlesnake Press publishing endeavors. Again, thank you, Joyce…! (There were many others who passed through the workshop, but for me personally, Joyce was a kingpin.)
I know I’ve talked about this before in the Kitchen, but I feel that I need to keep bringing it to the forefront.
the distance and the near—the everything,
and everywhere—in this moment, here.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
UNDER-LIFE
—Joyce Odam
My mother named me happiness.
Shall I believe her?
Time passes through me
like poured water.
Gold fastens to my sand.
I gleam with pleasure.
(prev. pub. in Poetalk, 1993)
_____________________
Joyce Odam’s poems and artwork speak to us today of Contentment, our Seed of the Week. “Do not starve the mouth. It has no kiss to protect it.” “Time passes through me like poured water.”
Yesterday I spoke of the Tuesday Night Workshop with reverence for all it did for me for many years. Joyce was a central part of that workshop in those days, and encouraged me through writing, editing, getting myself published, and finally my Rattlesnake Press publishing endeavors. Again, thank you, Joyce…! (There were many others who passed through the workshop, but for me personally, Joyce was a kingpin.)
I know I’ve talked about this before in the Kitchen, but I feel that I need to keep bringing it to the forefront.
Our new Seed of the Week is, in anticipation of Halloween, “Alleys at Midnight”. 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
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
“Where is the comfort-cat now—?”
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
“Where is the comfort-cat now—?”
