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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
TODAY I WON’T WRITE ABOUT ANYTHING
—Joyce Odam
Not about—not about—just of. Just essence, slant,
suggestion. I want the eloquent waves of thought
to wash over me and leave their dissolving words...
no, that won’t do : I want a flat white screen of
sky and a white floor made of air, I want to
drift there as unspoken thought, I want to
fall as white rain among the sorrows
and the solitudes—touch
every face as
tears...
oh,
that’s not it.
I want a cave to hold me...
I will sit at its dark table and
write whatever dark words come
to me. I am sad, and that is enough
to be. I will say that to you, if you are listening.
—Joyce Odam
Not about—not about—just of. Just essence, slant,
suggestion. I want the eloquent waves of thought
to wash over me and leave their dissolving words...
no, that won’t do : I want a flat white screen of
sky and a white floor made of air, I want to
drift there as unspoken thought, I want to
fall as white rain among the sorrows
and the solitudes—touch
every face as
tears...
oh,
that’s not it.
I want a cave to hold me...
I will sit at its dark table and
write whatever dark words come
to me. I am sad, and that is enough
to be. I will say that to you, if you are listening.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 07/10/18; 1/14/20)
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Dream in Color
ANAPHORA
—Joyce Odam
In the dream, the mirror holds
my mother. She pleads to be
released. Her tears run down
the outside of the glass.
In the dream, my mother holds a
glass of something bitter; she
tastes and laughs. She dances
to the breaking music in the
mirror, her laugh in shatter.
In the dream, my mother is sitting
at a window. Night is caught
in the dark frame-light of the
mirror. She shuffles an old deck
of cards, lays them out again.
In the dream, I knock on the glass
and it shatters. My hand bleeds.
I try to run, but she holds me
with a look. I try to run, but
she holds me with a look.
In the dream, my mother is beside
me, smiling with me into the
mirror. In the mirror, she is
looking out at us—rage on
her face, pounding on the glass,
weeping and shouting.
(prev. pub. in Caveat Lector, Fall 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/31/12)
—Joyce Odam
In the dream, the mirror holds
my mother. She pleads to be
released. Her tears run down
the outside of the glass.
In the dream, my mother holds a
glass of something bitter; she
tastes and laughs. She dances
to the breaking music in the
mirror, her laugh in shatter.
In the dream, my mother is sitting
at a window. Night is caught
in the dark frame-light of the
mirror. She shuffles an old deck
of cards, lays them out again.
In the dream, I knock on the glass
and it shatters. My hand bleeds.
I try to run, but she holds me
with a look. I try to run, but
she holds me with a look.
In the dream, my mother is beside
me, smiling with me into the
mirror. In the mirror, she is
looking out at us—rage on
her face, pounding on the glass,
weeping and shouting.
(prev. pub. in Caveat Lector, Fall 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/31/12)
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Times Like This
SUNLIGHT KISS THE SHADE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth, 1948)
In the ruins of promises,
all the raspy words are behind me—
deftly you slipped away, just as I caught
my breath.
And now I sit in a doorway,
my back to a darkened room, unable to
remember what I would have said.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/27/24)
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Dirge
AT THE ALTAR OF DISSATISFACTION
—Joyce Odam
(After Altar of the Son, watercolor by Joanne Peltz)
Everything melts here, even the colors of love
—Joyce Odam
(After Altar of the Son, watercolor by Joanne Peltz)
Everything melts here, even the colors of love
diluted
by betrayal—all the wants and losings—this
is an altar to relinquishment.
Illusions smear in mirrors. Sacrificial birds that
by betrayal—all the wants and losings—this
is an altar to relinquishment.
Illusions smear in mirrors. Sacrificial birds that
could
fly are mired in the confusion. Terror beats its wings
against the tangled light.
Even reverential joy succumbs to a safe melancholy.
Some come with prayers and leave their words
to blend and lose their meanings.
Even beauty must be left in revelatory mirrors to
fly are mired in the confusion. Terror beats its wings
against the tangled light.
Even reverential joy succumbs to a safe melancholy.
Some come with prayers and leave their words
to blend and lose their meanings.
Even beauty must be left in revelatory mirrors to
die.
And even you who come to lay your broken heart
on the marble ledge and watch it tremble
must honor your despair. Why should I watch this
any longer. I have nothing more to leave. It is
all surrendered. It is all there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)
And even you who come to lay your broken heart
on the marble ledge and watch it tremble
must honor your despair. Why should I watch this
any longer. I have nothing more to leave. It is
all surrendered. It is all there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)
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Theatre
DARK THEATRE
—Robin Gale Odam
there it is, the dark of the
darkening space of disregard
where someone stands at the
door, knocking—
there is the final breath of christ,
there is the gasp of the centurion,
iscariot dies into the test of
grief, and yet
there is still the knocking—
the projector plays it again
there it is, the dark of the
darkening space of disregard
where someone stands at the
door, knocking—
there is the final breath of christ,
there is the gasp of the centurion,
iscariot dies into the test of
grief, and yet
there is still the knocking—
the projector plays it again
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Composition
THE TOY SHELF
—Joyce Odam
—Joyce Odam
In the cavern of toys live the blue horse, a pig, a
pink giraffe and a tiny elephant, holding its pose
on a small round tower. They live in the dark
shelves of storage under the low arch of darkness
and the gloom of surrender, all singular to each
other. Childhood no longer lives here; these are
the remnants, along with the favorite shadows
and certain river stones that line the floor. How
patient they are in their darkness—in the long
remembering—the thin sleep of shared environ-
ment. Who mentioned this before—with simulated
reverence—as if letting out a secret that will make
everything vanish.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/12/14)
pink giraffe and a tiny elephant, holding its pose
on a small round tower. They live in the dark
shelves of storage under the low arch of darkness
and the gloom of surrender, all singular to each
other. Childhood no longer lives here; these are
the remnants, along with the favorite shadows
and certain river stones that line the floor. How
patient they are in their darkness—in the long
remembering—the thin sleep of shared environ-
ment. Who mentioned this before—with simulated
reverence—as if letting out a secret that will make
everything vanish.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/12/14)
.JPG)
For His Mother
FROM THE BOOK OF ANIMAL TALES,
—Arthur Rackham
Framed within a likened border—
a convergence—Old White Owl
in a huddle of listeners
and fidgeters—
something is being
revealed—
apprehension builds . . .
a worried tremble of wings . . .
Rooster knows
and Parrot knows,
Duck and Pelican know, as does
hulking old vulture and
Wee
Sparrow—
Old White Owl, in all his
pomp and seriousness, has told them.
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/15/20; 12/19/23)
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Paisley
MUSE WHISPERS
with a warning told
not to linger in the night
of the shortest day
but it seems she wrote him there
as she stroked her graying hair
not to linger in the night
of the shortest day
but it seems she wrote him there
as she stroked her graying hair
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2015; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/14/23; 7/25/23)
.JPG)
Before Dawn
SILVER HOUR
—Joyce Odam
bell sound
soars over Sunday
hollowing sleep
with clamor of church tone
loosed on the silver hour . . .
early the joy song
in bell-throat
spilling its glitter
of God-Thought
through man’s hiding . . .
pealing
carrying
lifting
like wing throb
of south-going birds . . .
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Belonging
CITY MOMENT
—Joyce Odam
At the doorway of twilight, two boys
sit on the warm sidewalk,
side by side—cross-legged—
almost identical—
as the world rolls by
in twilight cars,
and the day’s light steepens
its shadows, and the building
lowers its own slow shadow,
filling the doorway,
and the two boys gaze into
the moving world—
their eyes set in the deep
engrossing stare of childhood.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)
—Joyce Odam
At the doorway of twilight, two boys
sit on the warm sidewalk,
side by side—cross-legged—
almost identical—
as the world rolls by
in twilight cars,
and the day’s light steepens
its shadows, and the building
lowers its own slow shadow,
filling the doorway,
and the two boys gaze into
the moving world—
their eyes set in the deep
engrossing stare of childhood.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)
.JPG)
Through Half-Light
THE NIGHT IS FILLED WITH BARKING DOGS
—Joyce Odam
far away dogs
who start softly
and you don’t really hear them
and then become urgent and
monotonous
and soon the echoes of night
carry and distort with the
ragged complaint of the dogs
who answer and answer
from everywhere
and the night is hollow
and lets itself fill
with this chorus of telling
and then
when your listening is
most strained
you feel the abrupt silence . . .
at once
in unison they have signaled
and the absence hangs suspended
with shuddering echoes
before it swallows back
along the air
back over the miles of city
back to the cocked listening
of the dogs
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/11; 12/19/23)
—Joyce Odam
far away dogs
who start softly
and you don’t really hear them
and then become urgent and
monotonous
and soon the echoes of night
carry and distort with the
ragged complaint of the dogs
who answer and answer
from everywhere
and the night is hollow
and lets itself fill
with this chorus of telling
and then
when your listening is
most strained
you feel the abrupt silence . . .
at once
in unison they have signaled
and the absence hangs suspended
with shuddering echoes
before it swallows back
along the air
back over the miles of city
back to the cocked listening
of the dogs
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/11; 12/19/23)
.JPG)
Half Awake
ENTERING THE SLEEP CAVE
—Joyce Odam
(After Surreal Landscape by Tamara De Lempicka)
To enter the caves is to enter the dream,
the hidden ways to follow, the curves
and turnings, the depths and narrows.
All chance to take for the finding.
The finding is only for itself.
The caves hold only for as long
as you perceive them. When you
cease to think of them, they are gone,
as is the dream they exist in.
Notice the absence of sound—
the tangible glare of light
from no source other than itself.
When you go there, leave nothing of
yourself behind—not one sigh
of regret or one spark of curiosity.
Go for yourself. The caves exist
only for your going and continue
to deepen in the lake of their reflections.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE SHAPE OF SILENCE
—Joyce Odam
The way it sits
at my edges
and haunts me
how it loves
my hollows,
fitting in and staying
___________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam as they take us into dark caves today (our Seed of the Week) with their fine poetry and Joyce’s visuals. Our new Seed of the Week is “An Unexpected Guest”, with credit to Robin Gale for 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
Surreal Landscape
—Tamara De Lempicka
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
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!
