The Serenity of Stone

 We Are Not Meant For Sorrow

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE MELANCHOLY DANCE
—Joyce Odam

Let us be melancholy together.
we are so poor, with our
serious dance and deepest stares

into the shadowed mirrors of each other.
Let us say love with a particular
meaning. We are so sure

of destiny and fate—merged
into some dim happiness.
We are not meant

for sorrow, our favorite word,
polished with our tears. And so
we dance in a small circle,

in the tiny room of our survival,
the window rained shut,
and the hours fading into morning.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/25/14) 

 

 

 At The Shadow's Door

 

CANON (THE WEIGHT OF THEORY)
(Portrait of Leo Tolstoy in His Study
by Ilya Yefimovich Repin, 1891)
 —Robin Gale Odam

Should I go out today, I would take up my shadow
for a wrap and my volume of values for company—
we would take that one path and veer away from
burden.

Back in my study I would turn from the weight of
theory to the bottom of the page, and collect my
title.

Only gravity would be weighed in, only one such
measure, and then I would collect my title.

On reflection, I would parlay my shadow and
translate my values, and then I would collect my
title.

I would adjust the light and cast my shadow at the
door, should I go out today.

    cumbrous in the air
    gravity would fall to rest
    at the shadow’s door


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)

 

 

 

 The Thin Directing Stream

 

PRECINCTS
—Joyce Odam

Shadow-bird finds the deep canyon of sleep,
follows the thin directing stream
until it comes
to the vulnerable alley of night
with its haunt of houses.

The hurrying sky
pulls the clouds in the other direction.
Shadow-bird enters the restless dream
of a boy who is frightened of the dark

—cries out.

One of the windows opens and lets the bird in
and
the boy
out
—becoming Shadow-Bird,
remembering back to some un-
wounded wilderness where it was not extinct.

                                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/1/11; 10/28/14)

__________________

IN THE SERENITY OF STONE
—Robin Gale Odam

Preparing for the arena, bathing in the
northern light, cool as nerves in meditation.

The swordsman, consummate entertainer
schooled in the ethics of dying well—or to
live another day, to outwit the game of the

opponent, the rage of the wild beast,
the eyes of the condemned, to take up
the passions of a thunderous audience—

the gladiator, admired in the bloodthirsty
age of humanity—and in the arts, rendered
in the serenity of stone.

 

 

 

 Gathering Perfume

LAVENDER  

—Robin Gale Odam

She makes it at dreamtime, to pacify sorrow—
the lavender tea in her grandmother’s teapot of
iron with spikes of tall flowers cast into the
handle—she lifts it and pours at the table he
made her of what he selected from out of their
youth, from the forest beyond the far meadow.

Her tears are from winter, she holds them inside her.
She takes up the cube of white sugar for sweetness.
She sings to her children who dance with the morning
in fields deep with lavender, gathering perfume
to steep in her teapot, to braid in her dark hair,
to sip over dreamtime to sweeten the sorrow,
to soften the evening of gathering memory—
to quiet the tears . . . for the quiet of tears . . .

 

 

 

A Beautiful Weeping Bird

 

MARATHON IN FOUR MOVEMENTS
—Joyce Odam

Do not take me onto the blurry floor to
walk-dance in the drunkenness—the tired
music, the numbness of arms falling to sides.

Do not lose me through the blurring ceiling light
above the floor—the sallow, mottling bulb
still trying to glitter for the dance.

Do not let some cold unfeeling mouth or probing
eyes close over my eyes—turning me into a mask.
I am a mask already—and this is masquerade—
no partner here but my own illusioned one.

I am a quiet, sane, person on a seashore in an 

hour of
soft blue light moving toward me—as slowly as it can,
a beautiful weeping bird with wings of whitest white.

                                                             
(prev. pub. Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/10/20)

__________________

IN BROKEN ROSES NOW
—Joyce Odam

After "White Bee" by Pablo Neruda
from Twenty Poems and a Song of Despair


we lie among thorns
caress the long stems
and twine among the petals

sweet
sweet smelling
and clinging

they fall like rain from our arms
as we fall
from each other

like
the
roses

so many flounderings
against the
love

__________________

AFTER READING “WAKING AT 3 A.M.”
BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
—Robin Gale Odam

  . . .  even in the cave of the night
  . . .  all that the darkness ripples across
  . . .  as far as your thought can run
                                   —William Stafford

even in the cave of the night . . .
at the resting in the dreamscape between the
first and second sleeps, the neuro-chemistry
will cast dark ripples of imagination—

all that the darkness ripples across . . .  
will stir and blink against the sprint of thought
and the chatter of reason, at the ripples, the
original mirage, an imaginary vision—

as far as your thought can run . . .  
and as far as you can wander the dream will
pull you to the chase of curiosity and morph
into the mirage of disappearance—

the timepiece will hold the hour for hours,
and the sun will rise and set again 

 

 

 

 In A Deep And Recovery Sleep

Today’s LittleNip:

OF SYMBOLIC NECESSITY
—Joyce Odam

On a soft leaf—on a living tree,
a perfect shaped and glossy
leaf—I picked it.

You were in a hospital corridor—
on a gurney—in a deep and
recovery sleep.

Not able to sleep, or pray, I waited,
all the while—holding on
to the soft and living leaf.

___________________

An abundance (our Seed of the Week) of thanks to Joyce and Robin Odam today for their fine poetry and Joyce’s photos

Our new Seed of the Week is “Unexpected Surprises”—redundant terms, it’s true, but somehow they seem right together. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Kourage Kat
Something we need in abundance…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Jazmarie LaTour, Kristy Lauron,
Elizabeth Sousa and Kevin Walton
will read tonight in Modesto, 7pm.
For info about this and other
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
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 into the little beige box at the top
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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send poetry and/or photos and artwork
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Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

Surprise!