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—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
FIVE FIFTY-FIVE
—Robin Gale Odam
I woke
from
an old sleep
and I knew.
I lay still
two lifetimes
then
pulled
myself
into
this
day.
—Robin Gale Odam
I woke
from
an old sleep
and I knew.
I lay still
two lifetimes
then
pulled
myself
into
this
day.
.jpg)
Other Side of Dark
QUESTIONED
—Joyce Odam
Is that a stain
or just a shadow
on the floor
beyond the door.
It’s something
red—
that is
a clue—
now
what to do
with what I see . . .
a shadow or a stain upon the floor
or something more
beyond the door ?
Is that a stain
or just a shadow
on the floor
beyond the door.
It’s something
red—
that is
a clue—
now
what to do
with what I see . . .
a shadow or a stain upon the floor
or something more
beyond the door ?
.jpg)
At The Shadow
HONEY
—Robin Gale Odam
My name is Honey. Remember?
You still keep my shadow, for comfort,
and because, as shadow, I change shape,
one time full around you, and then, as you
go your way, barely a trace.
.JPG)
His Own Self
AGE OF MIRRORS
—Joyce Odam
She crawls through mirrors to be near you. Is it love?
Is this the season of surrender, are you aware
of her presence, in your mind . . .
do you dream her, crawling through glass, inter-
locking
the images, touching you with her eyes,
her nearness, familiar now . . .
where is her shadow, holding her so strangely while
she is crawling through all these mirrors
to be near you. Is it love . . . ?
.JPG)
What's Moved Is Light
YOUR REFLECTION
—Joyce Odam
Only I could see you,
as you are,
I was that vain.
How could you
bear me,
face after face,
looking at you
from mirror after mirror—
going through life like that.
And when you would leave me
I would wait, timeless as a stone,
and wear myself out, looking for you.
And you changed. And I let you change.
And I grew afraid, for myself. I could not
love either of us—both—I was that vain.
—Joyce Odam
Only I could see you,
as you are,
I was that vain.
How could you
bear me,
face after face,
looking at you
from mirror after mirror—
going through life like that.
And when you would leave me
I would wait, timeless as a stone,
and wear myself out, looking for you.
And you changed. And I let you change.
And I grew afraid, for myself. I could not
love either of us—both—I was that vain.
.jpg)
A Glass of Wine
SIPPING WINE
—Robin Gale Odam
when was it you became
a dream—either before, or
after . . . it seems as though
you were a memory from the
beginning—we felt like we had
always known one another
turns out one of us
was wrong
.JPG)
Words To Murmur
THE MEMORY-SCENT
OF DRIED ROSE PETALS
—Joyce Odam
What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this—
expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.
Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.
Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,
trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/19; 6/28/22)
—Joyce Odam
What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this—
expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.
Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.
Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,
trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/19; 6/28/22)
.JPG)
So The World Won't Cry
FIRE FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
I was sipping darkly.
I heard the most beautiful music—
many voices, women, poets, singing.
You should have heard it.
I called because I wondered if I’d
vanished. I thought I remembered
your arms around me. I felt your
silence. The music filled me, lifted
me back from . . . somewhere.
I lit the candle and twisted pieces of
paper into little blossoms, blackened
their edges in the flame—fire flowers.
How did the grandmothers do this?
Did they have potions? Did they pray?
Did they dream and awaken to kisses
in nightfall? Kisses in nightfall—I am
rambling.
I placed the burned flowers in that little
vase. I lifted the tiny porcelain baby and
danced around in the voices of poets.
And I wanted to ask you to remember.
I should be going. I left ashes.
Ok, then. Yes, they are asleep.
Everything is locked up. You’re welcome.
You will rejoin your company, make
light conversation, look into the night sky.
I have not vanished—the moonlight will
follow us, you in this night and me in your
eyes.
.jpg)
Autumn Will Find Us
POEM FOR THREE VOICES
—Joyce Odam
After “The Grief of Cafeterias” by Donald Justice
What does poverty care for love, she asked, and
rose from her chair and flew through the window.
But he was not there to answer. He had used the
door. The room twirled in confusion. The child
played quietly in the dark curve of the turning.
Room after room repeated this—rooms of stolen
light bulbs and solitaire—the child turning the
cards while the mother soared against the ceiling
with the white moth that was so beautiful. We must
kill it, the mother said, handing the broom to the
child.
The child learned to fly beside the moth through
the scene-changing years. The cards learned to
tell their own fortune. The rooms simply changed
the walls and windows while the mother learned
to sing with the voice of the child who had learned
to harmonize.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/17/15)
.JPG)
Thinking Back
KALEIDOSCOPE
—Robin Gale Odam
It’s been so long,
where shall I begin . . .
He had an affair.
I’ve gotten over it.
He still lives here.
We are polite shadows
of each other,
history of pain and love
and shared time.
The children are
giants, full of smiles,
glowing in tomorrow’s sun,
unaware of the storms.
And of storms,
my brother is dying.
Our childhood echoes
through me forever.
My oldest giant tells me
we all are dying, I suppose
to comfort me—or perhaps
to shelter himself.
Daddy’s memory lingers
in the beating of my heart.
I hear his voice in the wind,
with the other child.
Mama is eternal. She knits
words with the skill of a master.
She speaks color and dimension.
She knows how to ride storms
and keep secrets. When I was little
she used to nibble on orange peels.
I breathe because my
lungs want to be filled and emptied
and there is the deepest pleasure in it.
This may be my greatest strength,
but then philosophy gives
so many choices.
It is always now, ever changing,
a living kaleidoscope.
Today I will look into my shadow.
I will admire my giants.
I will consider my brother’s sweetness
and the voices in the wind.
I think I’d like to keep my secrets—I have
prepared a little plate of orange peels.
—Robin Gale Odam
It’s been so long,
where shall I begin . . .
He had an affair.
I’ve gotten over it.
He still lives here.
We are polite shadows
of each other,
history of pain and love
and shared time.
The children are
giants, full of smiles,
glowing in tomorrow’s sun,
unaware of the storms.
And of storms,
my brother is dying.
Our childhood echoes
through me forever.
My oldest giant tells me
we all are dying, I suppose
to comfort me—or perhaps
to shelter himself.
Daddy’s memory lingers
in the beating of my heart.
I hear his voice in the wind,
with the other child.
Mama is eternal. She knits
words with the skill of a master.
She speaks color and dimension.
She knows how to ride storms
and keep secrets. When I was little
she used to nibble on orange peels.
I breathe because my
lungs want to be filled and emptied
and there is the deepest pleasure in it.
This may be my greatest strength,
but then philosophy gives
so many choices.
It is always now, ever changing,
a living kaleidoscope.
Today I will look into my shadow.
I will admire my giants.
I will consider my brother’s sweetness
and the voices in the wind.
I think I’d like to keep my secrets—I have
prepared a little plate of orange peels.
.JPG)
Sanctuary
READING RILKE
—Joyce Odam
The Love—become the symbol of
desire—the long look
into the self that looks into
the empty mirror for release—
the bewildered soul
in its essence—you the container,
you the griever and believer—
torn, as faith is torn, between mind
and mind, in their difference.
All is as it is. Pay no one debt
to your limitation.
Let words take blame
as thought gives utterance.
How else believe in desire, leading
to love. All is not loss, or gain,
all is in the reaching, and the having
—the grasp into non-substance—
as relief—as joy—and the pain of joy.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
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.)
___________________
Welcome to October 2024! We’ve started it off right with fine poetry and pix from the Odam Poets, Joyce and Robin Gale, and we send them hearty thanks for today’s fine fare, as “timeless as a stone”. The Seed of the Week was Nosy Neighbors.
Our new Seed of the Week is “The Imperative to Stash”. I have WAY too much stuff. Other creatures only stash once a year; humans often seem to get carried away with it… 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
Beefing (pepperoni-ing?) up for winter…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
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!
