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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
THE MOBILE
—Joyce Odam
you have tethered
the spirit
of wild geese
to your ceiling
mornings
they struggle
against their strings
in the brittle sunlight
that pulls at them
through the window
they turn
in the merest drift
of breathing
and swim
in the sterile air
on ever-spread
of ghost wings
spanning
the cardboard whiteness
of their staying
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/22/12)
—Joyce Odam
you have tethered
the spirit
of wild geese
to your ceiling
mornings
they struggle
against their strings
in the brittle sunlight
that pulls at them
through the window
they turn
in the merest drift
of breathing
and swim
in the sterile air
on ever-spread
of ghost wings
spanning
the cardboard whiteness
of their staying
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/22/12)
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Low Moon
LOVE
—Robin Gale Odam
he was fathomless—
i fell in love because of his
insanity, it was the same as my
father’s and maybe mine
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/19/24)
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A Study
THE TWO DOORS
—Joyce Odam
After Andrew Wyeth
Two doors hang side by side,
one door ajar
the other closed and locked.
A path of pale light crosses both
and gives a little warmth
to this cold room
that does not lead to anywhere
but this flat day.
One door holds back the story
that is here;
the other guards the answer
that there is no question for.
The open door looks out upon
the bit of land, the bit of sky,
combined there narrowly,
to make an unreality.
And in the dying light
of this still room,
the old dust teems
and squirms in its own drift.
No matter now.
A darkness
settles in upon the wall
and makes its comfort known,
the one door staying closed,
the other easing back
its slide-lock
in a last small patch of light.
—Joyce Odam
After Andrew Wyeth
Two doors hang side by side,
one door ajar
the other closed and locked.
A path of pale light crosses both
and gives a little warmth
to this cold room
that does not lead to anywhere
but this flat day.
One door holds back the story
that is here;
the other guards the answer
that there is no question for.
The open door looks out upon
the bit of land, the bit of sky,
combined there narrowly,
to make an unreality.
And in the dying light
of this still room,
the old dust teems
and squirms in its own drift.
No matter now.
A darkness
settles in upon the wall
and makes its comfort known,
the one door staying closed,
the other easing back
its slide-lock
in a last small patch of light.
.JPG)
Favorite Colors
JUST WHERE THE WISH LIES
—Joyce Odam
in the shallow well
with all the bright pennies
and nickels
all year
with the laughter of sunlight
and the glower of winter shadows
the wish lies
with its potential
with its curious direction
and is
or is not granted
—Joyce Odam
in the shallow well
with all the bright pennies
and nickels
all year
with the laughter of sunlight
and the glower of winter shadows
the wish lies
with its potential
with its curious direction
and is
or is not granted
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 06/14/11)
.JPG)
Evening Stroll
THE MECHANICS OF TIME
—Joyce Odam
After Cartier Mother of Pearl Clock, 1925
To open the puzzle clock that does not open,
to understand the mechanics of time
that has its own dimension . . .
A harp plays of its own accord in
a shuttered room; a soprano sings,
surrounded by the stopped time
of a white metronome.
To open such a clock is to impose your
curiosity upon the moving gears and the
arrowed hands, that turn, in tireless turning . . .
A violin cries to another violin
in the white room of troubled music;
softly, they out-cry each other.
To open the clock is to allow yourself an
unearned answer; the face of the clock
will haunt your questions . . .
The sunlight in the room shines across
the carpet to the white piano where
taut hands lift from the final note
and lay them quietly down again.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16)
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Memory
AND THEN THERE WAS THE TIME
—Robin Gale Odam
If I cling you will be afraid—
so I sit over here and listen to the stories,
once again, from across the room.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)
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Redwoods
TIME IS A QUESTION MARK
—Joyce Odam
After "The Alarm Clock" by Dora Maar, 1940
Time leans on its shadow
on a shadow-dial, measures
nothing but the time we give it.
Time is a question mark—
a yellow rule—a dot in a circle
—a shark-fin circling the mind.
Time, we call it, and it keeps
unwinding—this nothing that
we give so much credence to.
We give it clocks and clocks
and clocks of hurry but
it stays—or moves—
which, is not known.
Nor of relevance. We fear it,
mostly—waste it, always.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/21/13; 8/17/21)
—Joyce Odam
After "The Alarm Clock" by Dora Maar, 1940
Time leans on its shadow
on a shadow-dial, measures
nothing but the time we give it.
Time is a question mark—
a yellow rule—a dot in a circle
—a shark-fin circling the mind.
Time, we call it, and it keeps
unwinding—this nothing that
we give so much credence to.
We give it clocks and clocks
and clocks of hurry but
it stays—or moves—
which, is not known.
Nor of relevance. We fear it,
mostly—waste it, always.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/21/13; 8/17/21)
.JPG)
The Flowers
THE TEXTURE OF GRAY LIGHT
—Joyce Odam
Time has judged her. For a long moment
she just stands there, considering the
sadness of twilight. She does not feel
the texture of gray light on her face.
She has become a pattern of the room.
Her face matches the curtains.
She balances against the small table
that holds some faint rumor of flowers,
maybe not even that much detail.
Her body is assuming the shape of shadow.
Her dress rustles when she breathes.
Her hand is lost in its reach.
Maybe someone has asked her a question
and she does not want to answer.
She is a familiar story. Must she tell
it again? She does not know the ending.
Maybe the hour has come to say goodbye.
Maybe the door has already closed, or maybe
someone is just arriving. Must she care?
Maybe she will still be able to withdraw
her hand from the heaviness of its gesture.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/19/13)
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Keepsake
YOUR PART IN THIS
—Joyce Odam
As if drawing an outline of a body
in chalk
in the rain . . .
As if fading back
into doorway after doorway as if
you were guilty . . .
As if you have simply come
a moment after
and have nothing to tell them . . .
As if you have simply risen
out of the mediocrity
and become famous . . .
Now they are looking for you.
They have questions,
you were last seen . . .
The fact that this is your time and place
to be an innocent bystander
is wrong . . .
You are suspect, even though you saw
no one pushed, or fallen—no one stabbed,
or shot—no one merely ended. . .
You have simply come
a moment after
and have nothing to tell them . . .
You will have to pay for this—
you will remember it all your life,
the chalk, the rain, the resemblance . . .
.JPG)
Sweeter
THE POWER OF HEAVEN
—Joyce Odam
This is the power
of heaven :
No prayer can fill it.
No death can bring it down.
It is God’s mind, unentered,
mystery of
light and dark,
continuance and
oblivion.
Stars make it far.
But far is
where we are from it.
Paths of sunlight
seem to reach;
the intangibles are what
we seek.
Oh, cry then,
into the claiming air
for whatever is there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16)
—Joyce Odam
This is the power
of heaven :
No prayer can fill it.
No death can bring it down.
It is God’s mind, unentered,
mystery of
light and dark,
continuance and
oblivion.
Stars make it far.
But far is
where we are from it.
Paths of sunlight
seem to reach;
the intangibles are what
we seek.
Oh, cry then,
into the claiming air
for whatever is there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16)
.JPG)
Ghost
WHAT IS NOT SEEN
—Joyce Odam
What is not seen is vital to our memory.
We call it ghost.
I no longer wish for saltless tears, but
let my eyes burn.
The cloud of knowledge : texture and
longing, ever-re-forming.
My mind flares up, caught again,
in violent description.
Now, to waken, is not to give in,
but to remember.
Lapses crowd in, little descriptions and
floundering, ‘the self’ forgotten.
Notes to myself
flutter neatly around me, like visions.
Hurt cries pain to sensibility,
caught on a thorn, pulling.
It’s all right, we murmur,
it’s all right.
Baying at the moon again,
my silent voice in patient bewilderment.
How can such a swirl make sense,
such a delirium become permanence.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/12/24)
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First Draft
MAYBE FOUR INSOMNIAS
—Robin Gale Odam
The pendulum, the metronome
and the heartbeat—something for
measuring.
The perfect lullaby is my favorite
song—I haven’t written it yet.
Oblivion and sorrow,
I am at the verge of a precipice—
the nature of the edge is over,
probably down.
Subtlety carries such power—
I may give it a try, write like my
mother.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/23)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE FOOLISH QUESTION
—Joyce Odam
“Can unhappiness kill you?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“Will I die, then?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“Will you cry for me?”
“Oh yes.”
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/13; 5/17/22)
___________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for catching us some fine poems about Time and love and all the magical things we deal with every day.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Fences”. 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.
And don’t forget—Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this Thursday, May 29, and we’ll celebrate with poetry, of course. It’s not too late to send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on Thursday. (20 years! Amazing!) Be sure to drop into the Kitchen tomorrow, also, for some other special treats~
___________________
—Medusa
—Robin Gale Odam
The pendulum, the metronome
and the heartbeat—something for
measuring.
The perfect lullaby is my favorite
song—I haven’t written it yet.
Oblivion and sorrow,
I am at the verge of a precipice—
the nature of the edge is over,
probably down.
Subtlety carries such power—
I may give it a try, write like my
mother.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/23)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE FOOLISH QUESTION
—Joyce Odam
“Can unhappiness kill you?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“Will I die, then?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
“Will you cry for me?”
“Oh yes.”
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/13; 5/17/22)
___________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for catching us some fine poems about Time and love and all the magical things we deal with every day.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Fences”. 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.
And don’t forget—Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this Thursday, May 29, and we’ll celebrate with poetry, of course. It’s not too late to send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on Thursday. (20 years! Amazing!) Be sure to drop into the Kitchen tomorrow, also, for some other special treats~
___________________
—Medusa
Cartier Mother of Pearl Clock, 1925
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!
