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—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
Words are far away from me today,
no fire or ice to say, nor color
worthier than gray.
I barely know
a thought,
or rush,
of something
to complete—
if only I could
rouse myself
from this morass—
this pit of gloom wherein
I find no art to give to life.
—Joyce Odam
no fire or ice to say, nor color
worthier than gray.
I barely know
a thought,
or rush,
of something
to complete—
if only I could
rouse myself
from this morass—
this pit of gloom wherein
I find no art to give to life.
—Joyce Odam
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Notions
A VERY HAPPY PERSON
—Joyce Odam
“You’re a very happy person,” you said,
so I laughed to show how happy I was
and went around smiling to prove
how lastingly I was happy
and was so grateful later that night
to chop onions for the excuse of crying.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/21)
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Isolation of Self
RESERVOIR
—Robin Gale Odam
I had to stifle the crying—
work to do, children to raise,
and all the rest, you know.
I had to save it all up for
later, maybe for now, in the
great boiler with its measuring
devices, timers, pressure
valves, dampers, and the little
foggy windows over the readings.
(prev pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 4/25/23)
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Recurrence
AN OLD DRAFT
—Joyce Odam
There is something that repeats itself
until, like dripping water,
it is known.
Like dripping water it is known
as some tired truth
or maybe just a single mouth—
a single mouth that opens,
making a simple howl upon a word
gone deaf as a prayer, say—deaf as
a doubting prayer in the numbing mind
of argued doubt. Oh, who can argue
rightly or wrongly here, when,
rightly or wrongly, the terrors build
and take their timeless place
inside the heavy-minded head.
Inside the head, chaos turns to
old monotonous dreams where there is
always something that repeats itself.
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Of Meaning
BEING
—Joyce Odam
The Being is here at the entrance
of the promise of the dream
that repeats me again and
again when I ask my question.
The need is large, then narrow—
I am waking into the same old words
I cannot get right—My poor soul is
so tired of my burrowing—old and
less than a shadow.
My dream dreams without me.
I know this—for I look through
the two mirrors
and see myself everywhere.
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MUSIC THEORY
—Robin Gale Odam
how long it would take to find the
river—scripted by translation from a
dream, from the sky in black and white,
from the chatter of tiny birds outside the
window above the table in darkest light
where the lamp has flickered itself out
pages flutter down the stairs from the
back door—tremble of music sorrowing
the root of the key signature at the bass
clef, or one of the tiny birds at a bed of
river rocks in a child’s jar with the lid
pierced with holes, near the tree
just outside the window
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 4/25/23)
—Robin Gale Odam
how long it would take to find the
river—scripted by translation from a
dream, from the sky in black and white,
from the chatter of tiny birds outside the
window above the table in darkest light
where the lamp has flickered itself out
pages flutter down the stairs from the
back door—tremble of music sorrowing
the root of the key signature at the bass
clef, or one of the tiny birds at a bed of
river rocks in a child’s jar with the lid
pierced with holes, near the tree
just outside the window
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 4/25/23)
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Love Letters
THE ROMP OF LOVE
—Joyce Odam
After Love is Chaos by Fakhruddin Iraqi (13th C.)
There is
a force at work—
Being and Nothingness
made to copulate—and now there
is love.
~
Love is
blessing and curse—
One would own the other.
Two will not be one—now there is
chaos.
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Tincture of Irony
THE BOOK OF FAIRY TALES
—Joyce Odam
What can we boast about now in our
new vagrancy. Not that we are lost,
but that we’re in a whorl of memory,
such stridings against a tide
of reason—resources now—
now that we’re wise.
There were two of us,
against the grain,
always seeking
over each other’s shoulder
for the truth, or reason
needed for existence in the chaos—
another word to use
for explanation.
It was the fairy tale we quarreled over,
whether it was real or metaphor.
You chose real.
I was sorrow to the core.
It was the words we entered, lit by
imagination for an ending—not this,
not this actual losing of each other
before all the pages were turned.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/15/20)
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Ethos
INEQUITY
—Joyce Odam
After Franz Marc: Woman
in the Wind by the Sea, 1907
The woman in the green coat
wrestles with her hat
and balance—
forcing her way
through the storm.
The winds
conspire to torment.
The blue sea gathers
more force
against the shore.
She struggles so—
her arms in a flail
—tearing at the air,
howling into the howling—
as if some fight she fights
would have it out with her.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/12; 11/6/12)
The woman in the green coat
wrestles with her hat
and balance—
forcing her way
through the storm.
The winds
conspire to torment.
The blue sea gathers
more force
against the shore.
She struggles so—
her arms in a flail
—tearing at the air,
howling into the howling—
as if some fight she fights
would have it out with her.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/12; 11/6/12)
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Curbside
THE LEAST BECAME THE MOST AND THIS
BECAME THE ARGUMENT OF THE DAY
—Joyce Odam
After Gertrude Stein
Not a moment passed without this tug
of will and quarrel, and the whole thing
became a weary of consternation. The
piano had the biggest voice, but it could
only say it in a bang of wrong notes.
Every light became suspicious and this
caused quite a chaos of glitter and blare
and nothing mattered to the mirror.
Yes, this was a mirror poem—full of
backward images and conclusions made
of glass. Wherever she looked, the rages
increased and crashed against the wall.
Her face shattered into tears and screams
and she felt satisfied. But she had dis-
turbed the dust, and now had to tend
to it—fleck by fleck—and she was sorry.
Not a moment passed without this tug
of will and quarrel, and the whole thing
became a weary of consternation. The
piano had the biggest voice, but it could
only say it in a bang of wrong notes.
Every light became suspicious and this
caused quite a chaos of glitter and blare
and nothing mattered to the mirror.
Yes, this was a mirror poem—full of
backward images and conclusions made
of glass. Wherever she looked, the rages
increased and crashed against the wall.
Her face shattered into tears and screams
and she felt satisfied. But she had dis-
turbed the dust, and now had to tend
to it—fleck by fleck—and she was sorry.
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Written in Stone
ON THE VERGE
—Joyce Odam
After “The trees in the garden” by Stephen Crane
There was a rain of blossoms
and web floated on the air;
the day’s breezes were gentle
and a great sighing was felt.
Sermons waited in cleared throats
of those who were on the verge
of finding what was unfindable—
only felt—by the lost and found alike.
All this was mentioned
by the misery of the loveless
who groped for what was ever gone
at their reaching.
Oh, good day of chance
and failure—
must I continue, and continue,
and continue?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/12)
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It Is In This Poem
DEADLINE
—Robin Gale Odam
Sorry I’m late.
The poem wasn’t finished.
There were still five dishes in the sink.
My hair lay the wrong way.
I finally found my brush,
in the cabinet next to the coffee.
Just one more cup, hot.
I couldn’t remember if I was
forgetting something.
I couldn’t leave without my heart.
It was somewhere in the house,
or maybe in the garden.
The key turned three times in the lock.
It took the whole morning to reach the car.
Then there were red lights and a slow train.
I wrapped myself in music
loud enough to fill all my empty places.
I am here.
My heart is beating in the garden.
I am yours for this long day.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2011;
Sacramento Voices Anthology 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/23)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
PSALM
—Joyce Odam
Dear God, thank you
for being.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/23; 10/24/23)
___________________
Gratitude to the Odam Poets for today’s fine searchings and the tangled mess that is the process, as they explore our Seed of the Week, “What a Mess!” Someone once said to me, “Who is this Joyce Odam and why is she writing about my life…?”
Our new Seed of the Week is “Stranded”. No islands are required for this; a person can be stranded in a job, a marriage, even a need for a ride home from a bad date (or in space!). 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
"tiny birds outside the window..."
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
A reminder that
Rosa Lane and Tama Brisbane
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.
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!
Rosa Lane and Tama Brisbane
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.
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!
now there is chaos.”
