Poem, Interrupted

 

What I Remember
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

SHARING RED MOUNTAIN
 —Joyce Odam

up where the wine is sad
in my mind
my eyes growing calm
i become the
far away person
that i am

i call back to you with
brimmed love
the glass deepens
you fill it again

you are my
wonderful friend
I love you without edges
without plan

we are now
the kitchen is
world enough
read the poem again

                         
(From Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, 1975
and Medusa’s Kitchen, December 12, 2017) 

 

 

 

 Urban Sky

 

UNEVEN PIECES
—Robin Gale Odam

Not the same as sugar melted
and then broken into brittle

But a day marked on the calendar—
a breath or a disturbance of wind or the
low cry of a tea kettle, spatter of tears
at early morning or a clock ticking,
or maybe just the tease of rain
at a window sill

Salt spills into days of years

                             
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May to December 2021)

 

 

 

 One Curse of Thunder

 

BREAKING THE HEAT
—Joyce Odam  

for days now
i have been listening
to the birds and the dogs of summer

it will rain soon
this has been mentioned
through the static voice of the radio

the man across the street
has been watering the same piece of lawn
for as long as i can remember

green is stubborn under his feet
the birds that come nearer to him
have grown darker and larger

through the heavy of sleep
i have a plausible dream
about the mailman weeping with
great personal tragedy
when i hand him a heavy letter

cloud rumors are lying
in grey lumps in the sky
the trees are discussing this and
telling it to the curtains

there is one curse of thunder far away
and everything goes flat again
against the day
                                         

(From Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, 1975)

 

 

 

 My Neighbor’s Figs

 

SYMPHONY OF NOISE
—Robin Gale Odam

I’ve lost something in a
chain of tercets—green sea
from dark river, blend of symphony

hushed by salt—and now my comfort
murdered by a trickle in rills on my
cheeks—it’s just lost, that’s all.

___________________

MY THOUGHTS
—Joyce Odam

my pen is silent to my hand,

it has nothing now to say, which
does not mean i wait across the inter-

rupters, i wait across the loss
of what i wanted to say but i miss
a lot of what i wanted to say, but i had

a thought and i miss a lot of
poems that way, my thoughts seem to
erase themselves, as usual, i didn’t have a
closing on that but i miss a lot of poems

that way, my thoughts, my pen is silent
to my mind, my pen is fervid to my hand,
it has nothing more to say which does not
mean to wait across interrupters, which
does not mean that i wanted

to wait across the loss of what i wanted
to say, wordless, my thoughts seem to erase
themselves but i had a thought, i miss a lot of
what i wanted to say, my thoughts seem to
erase themselves, as usual, my thoughts
seem to erase themselves now

 

 

 

 The Glass Deepens

 

THAT SONG
—Robin Gale Odam

I avoid it because it
stabs me in the heart with

emotional stabbings—I know
that sounds awful but it's the

awfullest way I can say this
awfulness—and now I can't

get it out of my mind. It's a
love song.
          

(prev. pub. in Sacramento Voices Anthology 2017) 

 

 

 

This Dark

 

WHEN I AM VISITED WITH DARK
—Joyce Odam

It sits in every corner
with depleted eyes.

It comes to me
when I am visited with dark.

It calls me love
and I am known.

I call it love
and it divides.

Now when it trembles everywhere
I cannot find the one of it.

But I am in the rounder house
of wind and stone.

Its house is made
of shape and sound.

It is a shadow.
I am bone.

It calls me once
and I am found.

I call it always.
It is gone.
                                

(From Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, 1975)

 

 

 

 It Calls Me Love

 

VESTED
—Robin Gale Odam

I am born into the landfill of
human life on earth—an array of
secrecy, and stuff strewn about . . .

to get through this terrible event,
these end times, I sweep the alleyway
with prayers . . .

___________________

THE DIFFERENCE OF TIME
—Joyce Odam

Let me be pure at last, I am so misplaced—
something has been haunting me to a sample.

And let us be pure at last, we are so misplaced—
and something has been haunting us to a sample.

What is my hold when I am so many—
different is not what I remember.

And what is our hold when we are so many—
and different is not what we remember.

I am a certain age
and have no permissions.

And we are a certain age
and have no permissions.

There is an other, and another, and
more or less of this side and the other.
For this we have no memory.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHEN I AWOKE IT WAS GONE
—Robin Gale Odam

In my dream I wrote the poem.
Three lines.
In my dream.
            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, October 4, 2011)       

_____________________

Joyce and Robin sent their combustible poetry today to do with our Seed of the Week, and we send them hearty thanks for their fine poems and pix! Our new Seed of the Week is “Rendezvous”. 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

 

 

 

 “…green sea from dark river, blend of symphony
      hushed by salt…” 

—Robin Gale Odam
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A note that there is still room
in this Thursday’s Ekphrastic workshop
in Placerville. Sign up at Lara Gularte’s
email: laralg@aol.com/.
For info about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

                           

 LittleSnake's Glimmer of Hope:

squirrels weave
the soft gray
lace of their beings
between falling leaves