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Between the Wars
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
WHEN AND NOW
—Joyce Odam
A lone figure walking,
a long stretch of wilderness
under a dark cloud following above,
always above—like a repetition.
Mountains, too, follow from their
distance which is dim and elsewhere.
Soon the sea overtakes the morning,
and the sky, swelling and raining.
I don’t want that figure to turn and look
at me when it becomes me and curious.
There are two ends, the beginning and
the following. Days take turns with nights.
I like how there was a rosiness,
to my glasses, fallen somewhere,
smudged with weariness,
tears having rusted into the frames.
I saw a shiver over the mountain-line,
as a reach, it frightened me had I not shivered.
Was that me again, dreamed, protected,
blindly gullible to dreams distant, undefended . . . ?
—Joyce Odam
A lone figure walking,
a long stretch of wilderness
under a dark cloud following above,
always above—like a repetition.
Mountains, too, follow from their
distance which is dim and elsewhere.
Soon the sea overtakes the morning,
and the sky, swelling and raining.
I don’t want that figure to turn and look
at me when it becomes me and curious.
There are two ends, the beginning and
the following. Days take turns with nights.
I like how there was a rosiness,
to my glasses, fallen somewhere,
smudged with weariness,
tears having rusted into the frames.
I saw a shiver over the mountain-line,
as a reach, it frightened me had I not shivered.
Was that me again, dreamed, protected,
blindly gullible to dreams distant, undefended . . . ?
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When
READING BACKWARDS INTO LIFE
Its sad journey...
words float into soundlessness
unspoke . . .
hop-scotch was always made
of white chalk . . .
charity shoes were always
tap-dance . . .
how tenderly the careful hand,
holding a butterfly . . .
herds of butterflies unfolding
in the skies, now disappearing . . .
a lone word for, mar-ve-lous
trails after . . .
all is all , knowing , unknowing
simply dissolving . . .
backward , outward , evolving
oh sigh , oh echo , oh cry . . .
—Joyce Odam
__________________
IN THE WALLED ROOM
—Joyce Odam
1.
In my walled room
with its small condition
I pace and count the measurements
wall to wall, and measure its height
to the window and wear
the light it gives me
like a promise
and a caution :
there is still the
boundary of wall
for the light to fail against
and I guess
brick by brick
is the only answer.
2.
In the walled room
with its nighttime story,
and its few stars at the window
and the soft light of moon drifting through
its own moonbeams and the simple shadows
that convert to whatever shadows do
to the mind and the mind's illusion,
the walls have no perspective
except that it's night
and there is only one source for everything.
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Wearing Thin
WHAT IT ISN’T
—Robin Gale Odam
over there the low wind
moving in the leaves
the bygone of a different time
just only barely away from me now
consigned to oblivion unremembered
lost or lapsed hushed forgotten
in the past or maybe erased from the
journal . . . but you in my memory
___________________
TIME-MEASURE
—Joyce Odam
The one I love, oh, the one I loved,
lives in pure memory
and fame . . .
Oh, that memory, oh that fame,
and the long, long years . . .
oh, the long
long years
since
then . . .
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In the Time of Destiny
PLAYING LIFE
—Joyce Odam
Words fall short, fall trite, fall sad.
I’ll let it go at that. I need the light,
the length of day, this life
or just this moment searching
its beginning and its ending, I in the
middle talking into a plastic microphone
which is scratching, does not like my voice
nor what I must tell. I am on the stage,
again—on what stage—this is not a ballad.
I have no story.
I have only the length
of my loss, my lack, the old beginning.
—Joyce Odam
Words fall short, fall trite, fall sad.
I’ll let it go at that. I need the light,
the length of day, this life
or just this moment searching
its beginning and its ending, I in the
middle talking into a plastic microphone
which is scratching, does not like my voice
nor what I must tell. I am on the stage,
again—on what stage—this is not a ballad.
I have no story.
I have only the length
of my loss, my lack, the old beginning.
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Survival
THE NIGHTLY ROSE
After The Perfect Scent, 1887, Viktor Schramm
—Joyce Odam
She touches the rose
to let her fingers feel the softness
and its petals fall.
The rose has felt the touch
and the crystal water in the glass
trembles in response.
This is the first ritual of her evening—
this reaching out to touch perfection
before it fades.
The painting on the wall behind her
boasts of a rose-colored chair of faded
tapestry—the same chair of her ritual.
The green wall is the same green wall
as in the painting, though hung
with a dull gold frame, but no rose.
She reaches again—forgetting all the days
before—her long dress rustling down
to the leopard-rug on the floor.
She becomes the painting—her hand
still cupping the perfect rose.
It fades a bit more. Its petals fall.
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Untitled
PSALM
—Joyce Odam
And now they turn to tears.
As though that can erase
what mars the mirrored face.
They sacrifice the years
to look beyond the glass.
Illusion, with tired eyes,
attempts to hypnotize
a vision it must pass
before it tells them: see
what I pretend for you—
but if you want life true
then turn again from me.
But they have found a word
responsible for all
the cracks that web the wall
and keep the image blurred.
They learn the quiet rage
of all they cannot find
within the other’s mind.
They reach another age.
And now the tears are dry.
The outer selves are calm.
Love has no better psalm
than to accept their lie.
From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967
—Joyce Odam
And now they turn to tears.
As though that can erase
what mars the mirrored face.
They sacrifice the years
to look beyond the glass.
Illusion, with tired eyes,
attempts to hypnotize
a vision it must pass
before it tells them: see
what I pretend for you—
but if you want life true
then turn again from me.
But they have found a word
responsible for all
the cracks that web the wall
and keep the image blurred.
They learn the quiet rage
of all they cannot find
within the other’s mind.
They reach another age.
And now the tears are dry.
The outer selves are calm.
Love has no better psalm
than to accept their lie.
From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967
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Belonging
INSOMNIA LIII
—Robin Gale Odam
. . . end quote
it’s how the hours would be,
something captured during the
night, a wisdom of sorts, and it would
toil at the heart and pull me up into the
kitchen, water simmering something like
mint or rose hips, or something uncanny
like threads of translation from the hour
of the question followed by the conflicting
answer in the singular language of oddity
from “the firstly-drafted dreams of a poem
dead from too many edits . . .
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
PEN
—Joyce Odam
These cold hours
of winter mornings
escaping sleep to go
to my chair to read
and write words
that come to me . . .
___________________
—Robin Gale Odam
. . . end quote
it’s how the hours would be,
something captured during the
night, a wisdom of sorts, and it would
toil at the heart and pull me up into the
kitchen, water simmering something like
mint or rose hips, or something uncanny
like threads of translation from the hour
of the question followed by the conflicting
answer in the singular language of oddity
from “the firstly-drafted dreams of a poem
dead from too many edits . . .
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
PEN
—Joyce Odam
These cold hours
of winter mornings
escaping sleep to go
to my chair to read
and write words
that come to me . . .
___________________
Many thanks to Master Songstresses Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today's post, bringing us thoughts about the Seed of the Week: Where Am I Going?
Our new Seed of the Week is “Hands”. 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. And Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
___________________
—Medusa
___________________
—Medusa
—Painting by Viktor Schramm, 1887
For 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
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!
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
memory’s a silken robe
she slips on to escape
the rough burlap
that is today
she slips on to escape
the rough burlap
that is today
