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Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
THE PAIL OF DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam
I carry the pail of darkness
up the hill to silence
which is full of stars
punctuated by sleep
which is full of seas
tidal at deep
pulling at all my skies
and land and
entering the structure
of my hand
which holds everything I am
and I put
the pail of darkness down
upon a dream
which is reverent and real
and where I seem
to enter with my crime
which has been
given me to carry
and I am held
in humming danger
eerie light of apprehension
things to flee
a turning figure everywhere
and I am helpless
all my effort pulls
I follow into
each revision of myself
my arms attempt to lift
are held
my smothered cry surprises me
I am in a barren place
the sky pulls deep
I look in
the pail of darkness,
am swallowed
by a sleep.
—Joyce Odam
I carry the pail of darkness
up the hill to silence
which is full of stars
punctuated by sleep
which is full of seas
tidal at deep
pulling at all my skies
and land and
entering the structure
of my hand
which holds everything I am
and I put
the pail of darkness down
upon a dream
which is reverent and real
and where I seem
to enter with my crime
which has been
given me to carry
and I am held
in humming danger
eerie light of apprehension
things to flee
a turning figure everywhere
and I am helpless
all my effort pulls
I follow into
each revision of myself
my arms attempt to lift
are held
my smothered cry surprises me
I am in a barren place
the sky pulls deep
I look in
the pail of darkness,
am swallowed
by a sleep.
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Today This Bread
BROWN BAG
—Joyce Odam
At dark of morning
he prepares my lunch;
how he surprises me
with
unusual bread,
creative combinations,
a sandwich
of such taste . . .
and I, at work,
unwrap it slowly
on my half-hour,
to see
what delicacy,
or what plain fare,
is there.
Today—this bread:
Whole wheat.
Buttered meat.
Some carrot strips.
An apple, quartered.
_____________________
THREE RIVERS
—Robin Gale Odam
three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour
offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows
the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing
blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer
holding my heart
and keeping them here
an empty page
three blank lines
—Robin Gale Odam
three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour
offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows
the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing
blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer
holding my heart
and keeping them here
an empty page
three blank lines
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Holding The Light
A BOOK OF LOVE AND REGRET
—Joyce Odam
Year after year I anthologize you, loose pages
full of smears where conversations failed,
whole pages of complicated silences,
paragraphs of lyric tears—ah—
such a book as you have become . . .
compiled of your own complexities,
your dark symbolism, your comic surprises.
It is not fair that you still argue the old points—
refuse to surrender the grievances between us . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/12/19)
%20.JPG)
forgive....forgive....forgive....
BAD MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam
Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.
And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,
a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments
until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21)
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The Lyric of Tears
THE UNEXPECTED WEEPING
—Joyce Odam
tears came to my eyes
and I marveled
that they were for
a fox in a poem
that got hit
by a car,
and I wept and wept
to myself
in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of
—Joyce Odam
tears came to my eyes
and I marveled
that they were for
a fox in a poem
that got hit
by a car,
and I wept and wept
to myself
in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of
THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam
To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—
or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,
and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :
should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,
a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18; 5/5/20)
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To Myself
I NEED NO PRAISE
—Joyce Odam
“In a past life, I was Nostradamus.
Nothing. I mean nothing, surprises me.”
(based on leaping silhouette of man against sea
and horizon)
Oh, this is such a night. I am the dance of joy.
I own
the very sky—the sleeping sea.
I can hold the light. Everything fits my leap and
waits for me to return through gravity.
No one remembers me as I was—and as I am—
pure self, released from others. I own the moment.
The horizon is unimportant—nor the seamless sea
beneath my levitation. For this I need no praise.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 12/20/16; 4/7/20)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam
the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .
the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .
the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .
but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .
___________________
Lovely “unexpected surprises”—our Seed of the Week—from Joyce and Robin Odam this morning, and many thanks for those!
You may’ve noticed that I recently proclaimed March 22 to be Earth Day. I suppose I could say I meant to do that, but…well…no…Just one of Medusa’s little quirks these days—a diminishing ability to keep things straight. Anyway, there’s no harm in having two Earth Days each year, yes?
Anyway, let’s get back to the conventional calendar, and celebrate April 22 as the official Earth Day. So this week’s Seed of the Week is Mother Earth. 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
the very sky—the sleeping sea.
I can hold the light. Everything fits my leap and
waits for me to return through gravity.
No one remembers me as I was—and as I am—
pure self, released from others. I own the moment.
The horizon is unimportant—nor the seamless sea
beneath my levitation. For this I need no praise.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 12/20/16; 4/7/20)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam
the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .
the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .
the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .
but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .
___________________
Lovely “unexpected surprises”—our Seed of the Week—from Joyce and Robin Odam this morning, and many thanks for those!
You may’ve noticed that I recently proclaimed March 22 to be Earth Day. I suppose I could say I meant to do that, but…well…no…Just one of Medusa’s little quirks these days—a diminishing ability to keep things straight. Anyway, there’s no harm in having two Earth Days each year, yes?
Anyway, let’s get back to the conventional calendar, and celebrate April 22 as the official Earth Day. So this week’s Seed of the Week is Mother Earth. 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
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
For future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
