The Shadow Of My Hand

 Sanctuary

* * *

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

 

 

IN THE VERY EARLY MORNING
—Joyce Odam

In the very early morning
the lights are still on in the city.
I wake to read poetry of dead poets,
to light an incense to the quiet
and to feel myself enter
the rare tranquility of such an hour.
I light incense to the ritual
of soft feeling
I pull another sweat-shirt on
and lean against the propped pillow
against the cold, night wall.

The shadow of my hand
moves over this narrow page…
the black ink flowing from my fingers,
the shadow of my hand falling
exaggerated
over the wool blanket.
I am distracted.

The column of
blue-white smoke
rises from the swift-burning incense,
wavers
and separates
into a brief and
sinuous pattern.
The red lamp with the dust on it
glows in a pattern around itself.
Light is levitated from its source.
I see shadows around everything.
The dead poet
of my closed book
hushes her words for mine.

                                    
(prev. pub. in One Dog, October, 1996)

 

 

 

Love Letters

 

ANGELS, THE NIGHT IS BLUE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After “Love Calls Us to the Things of This
World” by Richard Wilbur)

In the pale blue center of the dream
angels surround the dreamer in the deep
blue of the long, low, breath of the dream.

Angels hold the dream of the dreamer,
at the end of the dream, in the blue room,
in the deathless night.

                                 
(prev. pub in Brevities, December 2017;
City of Sacramento’s E.M. Hart Senior
Center Poetry Writing Group Anthology 2018;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/23) 

 

 

 

Rumors

 

 
IT IS AS WHEN THE GREAT HOWLS RISE UP
—Joyce Odam

out of the throat of some creature on a
frozen landscape—on hind legs perhaps,
stretched full, into sheer far-reaching anguishes . . .

or like the new-found cry of some new ghost
found reaching for a prayer—final and slow,
in the loosened, abstract grip of being . . .

it is all of this—this self-resounding proclamation—
seeking the way through one’s own terrible self
with such a cry as I am hearing . . .
                                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/5/16)

 

 

 

Of Belief

 

 
UNTITLED, YET AGAIN…
—Joyce Odam
(After “Reliquary” by Eric Pankey)

Perhaps there are prayers
lost in the cathedral light
of this sign
left
standing,
for centuries, perhaps,
the words
still giving the day’s message,
the sermon to be,
the
date,
the
time,
but that Sunday has failed to arrive—
this remnant glass, stained by the sun,
holding its light, and its color,
or time—
claiming its wilderness of word,
preferring silence—
the way it keeps
reminding itself, how it leans
in the direction of memory—
that flaw—
how it points toward eyes
whenever possible—how it always
lets light through and closes down at night
to admire the stars and the moon it rests beneath.

 

 

 

Inventing The Mirage

 

 

THE MISMATCHED LOVERS
—Joyce Odam

He had a face so sad
he made her love him.

Each was a child to the other.
Each had a mystery to solve.

Each told a solemn story
and allowed one word of pity.

They turned away together
into their gentle misery;

they turned away as one and
blended till they disappeared.

We heard them, underneath the
darkness, softly crying ever after.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/11; 7/15/14)

 

 

 

Only Fantasy

 

FRAGMENT
—Robin Gale Odam

his hands warm, hers like paper
his voice a mystery, hers a breath
introduction, heartbeat


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2015) 

 

 

 

Nude On Petals

 

 

THE OLD NUDES APPRAISE THEMSELVES
—Joyce Odam
(After a drawing by Kumi Pickford, The Fault IX, April 1976)
 
Remember us?
We are the beauties you once loved;
and how we loved our mirrors

as we love them still.
We surround ourselves with mirrors—
loving how we are familiar.

Remember how you hounded us—
promised and cajoled—
all for the surrender of our kisses?

Your hands were braille to our bodies.
Your eyes were as deep as mirrors.
You wanted to undress us.

Now we are nude for our appraising eyes.
How serenely we settle into our ravages—
give ourselves permission to be old.

                                          
(prev. pub. in A Tiny Book Of Nudes Mini-Chap
by Joyce Odam, 2002; Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/18/13)

 

 

 

Everland

 

INSOMNIA X
—Robin Gale Odam

The moon rises with the setting
of the sun—distant and low, opposite
horizons—I want them both. Like book-

ends they press me together—my pages,
my chapters—and daydream gives way
to restless hours in jealous moonlight.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2016;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/23) 

 

 

 

The Dark Afraid Of The Light

 

ASPECTS OF A DARK DIMENSION
—Joyce Odam
(After Tulipa, pastel by Maria Sylvester)

It’s in the feature known as
background—a drooping red flower,
huge crowding leaves for the hiding,
petals grown too heavy for the light,
the ineffectual light—caught
in a mottlement of shadows,
urgent daubs of green and splotches
of orange overwhelm the flower.

The breezeway trembles with confusions.
The shade has lost the light.
Someone has died here.
A death-bird sings in the absence.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16;
6/29/21 (with edits)

 

 

 

Timekeeper

IN THE IMMENSITY OF LOSS
—Joyce Odam

To be a small figure at the edge of a flat                    
sea—forever at calm for the reaching eye
to reach a brief forever with a far-reaching
stare into the loss of possibility through the
air that is gold with sunset and as far as the
soul’s horizon—to stay here with no need
to make one more fierce or melancholy
cry, where there is no ear and there is
no answer—this timeless moment
that stays in the suspension
that is mind in memory
sorting the self against
the enormity of despair.

                                             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/15/22)

 

 

 

Ruin Takes Time

 

CRYING IN THE RAIN
—Joyce Odam

An old woman crying—what is her grief—
who cares about her? She is barely visible,
crying in the rain, walking across the street

in front of the cars,
letting the rain pour down on her,
looking straight ahead as her hair goes stringy

and her clothes soak through.
Still, she does not hurry. She is an old woman
walking in the rain. She has crying to do.
                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/11)

 

 

 

Full Moon And The Street Light

 

  

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD MOONS
—Joyce Odam

The moon comes up each night and floats
across the sky,
I am that sleepless one who stares
and marvels why.

Full moons leave me wandering
the mind’s abyss
where I explore my restless thoughts—
that endless list.

Alas, for all those dark-moon nights
when life enshrouds—
those nights that let no moonlight through
night’s heavy clouds           
                                                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/21/23)

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have sent us work today that is, as the Seed of the Week prescribes, “Sheer Poetry”, and our thanks to them for their fine words and Joyce’s fine visuals to go with them.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Dark Cave”. Remember to go wide, go deep—go past the literal, maybe. Is there room for metaphor here? 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

 

 

 

 It’s Tuesday!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A reminder that
Soul Vang and Gary Thomas
will be reading in Modesto
tonight, 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
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—or get changed!—
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