The Turbulence of Time

 

It’s All Wordless
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

ABOUT POETRY
—Joyce Odam

One humid August night the moon hung
on a string held by a single star
in a sky gone suddenly black.

The night felt as though
all the fight had gone out of it—
the day so long and quarrelsome.

The tired moon hung—
half a moon—facing homeward
as we drove in our quiet car

in the direction it pointed,
over the quiet freeway—
it was that late.

The hot night shone
as though swept clean of something.
Our talk was slow,

as though even this late hour
dwindled out of enough meaning
to go any further with words.

“Is it all
about poetry?”
one of us asked. And one of us said,

“Yes.” And one of us said, “No.”
And the mobile moon
did not sway—not even a little bit.

___________________

A SHADOW MOVING FROM THE WALL
After “Waltz” from The First Echelon
by Dmitri Shostakovich
—Joyce Odam

Fine piece of music—
hypnotic—
one might even want to

waltz,
alone or with another,
a shadow moving from the wall

onto the floor
into the swirling
where the dance seems not to end

until all the dancers tire and leave,
except for
one dark lady

holding on
to the shadow’s arm,
the echoes flowing through the wall.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/23/18)

 

 

 

 Of That To Be Learned

 
ABERRATIONS OF DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

Wings lowered—hands raised in offering—
I know that pose—caryatid—envile
against mortal at risk—temptation,
offered to resistance—Lilith,
goddess of the dark,
enigmatic of face,
unblinking of eyes
—representative
of her dark divinity,
her talons grounded
on the subordinate backs
of lions—force against helpless
force; by her side, two sated owls
rigid in stone—to mock and warn—
ever-guarding, mocking aberrations
of either direction—Lilith—regent of
the afterlife—ready for your knowing.

 

 

 

 The Listener

 

SPOKEN
—Robin Gale Odam

Your words
hung at the doorway
of my comprehending.
They waited for my recognition.
They waited for so long.

(Come in, come in, words,
now that you are spoken,
come in.)


(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2014) 

 

Of Storms And Weather

 

DESPAIRING OF LOVE
—Joyce Odam

A drop of love is falling
through the sky,
a perfect pearl,
still moist
from the heavenly oyster
falling in slow motion
as if falling through water—
a black sea of waiting,
tide after tide,
for the arrival.
Who will see it,
know what it is,
if not someone
mad with grieving,
never having known
the least drop of love,
someone who is somewhere
with hand outstretched in
one last supplication, in one
final prayer. If love will reach,
it will be when the distance has been
traveled between need and answer.

                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/16/21)

______________________

INSOMNIA XLVII
—Robin Gale Odam

Vespers, evening whispers,
a prelude for the writing—for the
litany of promises and the spectre
at the crest of night, for the turn
of the hourglass and the pouring of
salt, for the passing of the hour.

Not a turning point, not at all . . .
but then the trailing, or maybe
just the trail . . . or the early dark
along the rills of the passions.

My pencil for a chapter—for the
vespers, for whisperings of prayers.
 
                        
(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2021) 

 

 

 

 Of Prayer And Petition

 

ABSENCES (OUTSIDE OF THE PAINTING)
—Joyce Odam

          “I’ll get them to delay the train for Rouen  
           half an hour. The light will be better then.”
          “You’re mad,” said Renoir.
                                   —Monet (Gare St Lazarre)

train silhouette at dawn,
passenger silhouettes in cold huddle . . .

the turbulence of time—
its railway tracks—its flurry . . .

night-fog dispersing its heaviness,
impatience of the hour . . .

long thread of excitement—anxious for
the ‘all aboard’—the long ride to here . . .

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/2/14;
12/2/14; 4/3/18)

___________________

THE ARTIST
—Robin Gale Odam

He believed
the first was born
of idle tinkering,
but he worked into the night
as time moved silently.

They came to form
in his strong hands.
He understood them,
suspended between thought
and movement.
He was their breath.

In his youth he had sipped
the holy water.
He had lived in the music.
He had gathered stones.
He had known of desire and
gazed into dreams.

He dreamt
of heaven’s music
blowing over the water
and graceful figures
moving through shadow.
They were coming to listen.

He awoke to some sweet song.
Inspiration rose up in him
and he closed his eyes to see.
He was shadow.
He heard himself
singing in the night. 

 

 

 

 Of Peace

 
                
ABSTRACTION
After “Yana Yamaya” by Carina Clavija
—Joyce Odam

she closes her eyes against the world,
the time of the world,
the guise of the world

she paints her face, her eyes, her lips,
signs her name at the credit edges
of her mind

she borrows a tune to hum,
changes the words,
finds her trance

she does not merge into a wall,
it recedes—recedes—into
a memory of space

she dis-
connects
from the space around her

she is who she will be forever—
forever and now
and the now of forever

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ABSTRACT LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

Woman sitting in the garden
in stippled light,
in artist pose.

The abstract light
plays with her face,
her thoughts, her clothes.

Nothing matters but the day
that turns. The hour
slows.

The garden whispers,
spreads its shadows,
glows.

___________________

Our thanks for today’s bountiful blessings of poetry and photos from Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, with their talk of all the arts—dance, music, art, poetry—and fine photos to mark their words.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Murmurations”. 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

 

 

 

 

Carina Clavija

https://voiceofnature.tumblr.com/post/73030284132/timjan-yana-yamaya-by-carina-clavija-3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Joshua McKinney,
Autumn Newman, and Aaron Bradford
will be reading tonight at
Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento;
and Major Jackson will be presenting
the first of a series of online workshops
on Galway Kinnell later this afternoon.
For info about these 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—
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!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

cocky covey struts
along the sidewalk
seeking easy pickin’s—
Oops! Here comes
that little one
who’s always late…