The Wine Cellar of the Lighthearted

 Dark Morning

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

I WANT  

—Joyce Odam

I’m October.
I’m moody.
I don’t know what I want.
I want it all.


(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, Oct. 1996)

 

 

 

Before Sunrise

 
 

I AM WRITING A POEM ABOUT SUNSHINE
—Joyce Odam

The day begins. It is a slow gray day. It may rain.
The window is filling with first thin light. But I
am writing a poem about sunshine and will use only
yellow words to cast off these gloomy predictions.

I will turn on every light in the house . . .  
I will play music . . . I will call you on the phone
and talk nonsense until you laugh.

I will not accept any gloom today. I am contagious.
I will uncap my brand-new tube of sunshine
and smear it everywhere; I have more than I need.
Open up your old dark house and see for yourself.
                                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/19/22) 

 

 

 

Candle Light

 

  

I FIND IN SUNSHINE
—Joyce Odam

(Response to a challenge line:  
“Hope is a thing with feathers.”
                    —Emily Dickinson)

I find in sunshine what I need
and hardly stop to wonder
at why I need, or why I find
in such a simple pleasure,

a moment of eternity
that rests upon a flower
and balances that part of me
that does not fit an hour,

where time is not akin to life
and life is but a moment—
and time a strange, elastic force
that has no ending to it.
                             

(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Dec. 1996;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/3/12) 

 

 

 

The Broken Mind

 

MUSE (OFF THE RECORD)
—Robin Gale Odam

How could this be said—
out of sorrow, type and strike,
type and strike again.

Every keystroke, suffering,
every etching of the pen,
every bother years to weep.

Salt and dust are on the floor,
every unrest lingering,
every keystroke, suffering.

Every trouble yearns to keep
every etching of the pen—
how could this be said.
              

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/20/24)

 

 

 

Days Of Slow Hours

 

I FIND MY CHILD SELF
—Joyce Odam

I find my child self in the same old hallway,
toys all over the carpet outside the door,

to watch for my mother to come home,
to guard the length of the waiting,

get lost in the play,
watch for her,       watch for her,

rearrange the toys,       be small and quiet,
I think I am eight years old.
                                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/14/10; 10/9/18) 

 

 

 

Pear Tree At Dusk

 

I BUILD A NEST
—Joyce Odam

I build a nest of things discarded,
make sure it can’t be seen,
disguise it in the weeds—
forget it even—
to keep it safe from all invasion.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/10) 

 

 

 

The Dark Note

 

 

I GO WHERE MOCK REALITY
—Joyce Odam

I go where mock
reality, in a play,
performs itself.

Oh, Life!
I cry, and embrace
the nearest shadow.

 

 

 

Dark Place

 

 

NAKED
—Robin Gale Odam

(Staircase. La Rocherfoucald
France. Leonardo da Vince. 1517)

In vivid percipience the spiraling floor
with doors to dark and night all naked,

with rooms in riddle for me to remember,
and the ceiling of helices calling me down

into the hallway—or into the past
of secrecy where I was born

when I was born in secrecy—
into the dark where I was born. 

 

 

 

Writing About Rain

 

 

I DREAM OF RAIN
 —Joyce Odam

There is a glass of rain
at your elbow. I have saved it
for you. All night. Under the rain.
Holding the glass out in your name.

Now you lie under such a
great weeping your face drowns
and your eyes cannot stop.
What is the matter with you?

Now you lie quiet. You are
your own dream at last. The glass
of rain knows you will reach for it.
You are its thirst.

I lie beside you on a small, narrow bed.
We are far away from each other.
As if in different times. I sleep.
You lie awake. I dream of rain.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/18; 11/9/21;
9/13/22)  

 

 

 

In The Dark Of Mind

 

I learn to sleep sideways
in a narrow bed.

My books confine me.
My dreams are made of thread.

        —Joyce Odam
                            

(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov-Dec 2020;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/13/22)

 

 

 

After All

 

OF WIND AND TIME
—Robin Gale Odam

And so you would guard the
secret that is posing as your life . . .

in the center of the stage
at the bias of performance,
the casting of the smokescreen—
the method of intent—bravado and
chaos, secrecy of untruth and the fetter
of fear, and the ambrosia—the wine cellar

of the lighthearted, of the connoisseur,
the zealot, the addict, the junkie—the child
in the costume of the savage, of the warrior,
counterfeit for strength and virtue, words
in the place of the shield, words in the
guise of love, so the song is written,
or maybe just a riff—

for love is something done,
burden of the heartbeat and the breath—
progeny in the meadows unfettered
at the play of wind and time.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/28/23)

 

 

 

Pastel

 

 
Today’s LittleNip:

I AM SO SORRY
—Joyce Odam

One by one the animals disappear.

The land that held them
yields to houses.

Windows
glint at other windows.

Ghosts of animals drift between.

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have sent us an extravagantly fine batch of poems today. Surprisingly, all of Joyce’s begin with “I”—that’s not extravagant, is it? Anyway, we don’t care if it is; we’re just glad to have ‘em (and Joyce’s graphics, too!).

Our new Seed of the Week is “What a Mess!”.  Are we talking about the world here? A marriage? Or just my house…? 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

 

 

 

A staircase in La Rochefoucauld, France
—Created by Leonardo da Vinci, 1517

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Charles Entrekin reads
in Nevada City today, 4:30pm.
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.

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