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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
PEACE BE TO THE MORNING
—Joyce Odam
Peace be to the morning
with its cool announcement of arrival,
pale and thin, on wings of nothing . . .
And peace be to the fading of night
that takes away its dreaming and its sleep
or its long wakefulness . . .
Peace be to the mystery
of whatever is there—or not there—
that turns such pages . . .
Peace be to the memory
and the forgetting of all that needs to be
forgotten and remembered . . .
And peace be to the moment
trembling on the brink of the next one,
and to that mystery, peace, too . . .
(prev. pub. in Say Yes, 1999;
Chapbook: A Sense of Melancholy by
Rattlesnake Chapbook, 2004; and in
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/7/15; 2/23/21)
—Joyce Odam
Peace be to the morning
with its cool announcement of arrival,
pale and thin, on wings of nothing . . .
And peace be to the fading of night
that takes away its dreaming and its sleep
or its long wakefulness . . .
Peace be to the mystery
of whatever is there—or not there—
that turns such pages . . .
Peace be to the memory
and the forgetting of all that needs to be
forgotten and remembered . . .
And peace be to the moment
trembling on the brink of the next one,
and to that mystery, peace, too . . .
(prev. pub. in Say Yes, 1999;
Chapbook: A Sense of Melancholy by
Rattlesnake Chapbook, 2004; and in
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/7/15; 2/23/21)
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Tender
BUFFALO SOUL
—Joyce Odam
Buffalo Soul moves through pale morning,
lowering his head to the grass,
at peace with his surroundings.
He does not know of houses that clutch
in repetition around him
nor does he feel the traffic move through
the pale substance of his being,
there is no pavement beneath his hooves.
He wanders easily where
all the wilderness has ever been,
his sunrise to the east, his sunset to
the west, the whole sky between.
He has not yet become shape of tumbleweed
or hollow obstruction in wind.
He is there. He is Buffalo Soul. Eternal.
He remembers himself.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/9/22)
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For Ever And Now II
THE SERENITY
—Joyce Odam
Oh, here we are,
in the middle of a dream,
the day serene, the templed city blind.
One of us is nude,
the other clothed in rumpled blue.
Red fruit has fallen all around,
and is still falling
in a soundless fall.
We are not hungry now.
The mountains float behind us
in the bordered mist
blending into the diluted sky.
We’ve reached the stillness here—
the birdless air—
the trees that lean, asleep.
We lie, embraced, in mockery of love.
We’re simply here,
in the middle of an unremembered dream.
—Joyce Odam
Oh, here we are,
in the middle of a dream,
the day serene, the templed city blind.
One of us is nude,
the other clothed in rumpled blue.
Red fruit has fallen all around,
and is still falling
in a soundless fall.
We are not hungry now.
The mountains float behind us
in the bordered mist
blending into the diluted sky.
We’ve reached the stillness here—
the birdless air—
the trees that lean, asleep.
We lie, embraced, in mockery of love.
We’re simply here,
in the middle of an unremembered dream.
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Artistry
PASTEL
—Joyce Odam
After Mademoiselle Julie Manet, 1887
—Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1979)
Girl and cat
in tranquility of pastel.
Girl day dreams. Cat purrs.
Her shadow against the couch
is motionless.
The cat allows itself to be loved.
Vague light in the room
stays soft. The walls diffuse.
Her thoughts hide in her eyes.
All is fading—
losing context
in tone after tone of quietness.
I watch for her breathing.
She does not know how I linger
over this moment she has claimed
for herself—
how even the cat
is unaware of my imposition.
—Joyce Odam
After Mademoiselle Julie Manet, 1887
—Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1979)
Girl and cat
in tranquility of pastel.
Girl day dreams. Cat purrs.
Her shadow against the couch
is motionless.
The cat allows itself to be loved.
Vague light in the room
stays soft. The walls diffuse.
Her thoughts hide in her eyes.
All is fading—
losing context
in tone after tone of quietness.
I watch for her breathing.
She does not know how I linger
over this moment she has claimed
for herself—
how even the cat
is unaware of my imposition.
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Sketch Pad
AXIOM
—Robin Gale Odam
Because my eyes are masked,
and because rivers of tears have
stained my cheeks, and even though
my lips are hidden in shades of dark,
she has come to my hand out of the
axiom of art—from the quill pen—the
rue bird from the theory of sorrow.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/24)
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Translate
THE GREEN WOMAN
—Joyce Odam
How serenely she wears
the art of the painter’s hand
who painted her all green—
or is it the deception of light
turning her into
a numinous map of the sea
that follows her contours
with shapes and symbols
of intricate design—
even to the closed mouth
and eyelids, the hair sculpted
into deep waves: how
ever swim back now
to the real
and lose all this… how
ever clothe, and hide
the breathing design of her body,
so perfectly stained…
—Joyce Odam
How serenely she wears
the art of the painter’s hand
who painted her all green—
or is it the deception of light
turning her into
a numinous map of the sea
that follows her contours
with shapes and symbols
of intricate design—
even to the closed mouth
and eyelids, the hair sculpted
into deep waves: how
ever swim back now
to the real
and lose all this… how
ever clothe, and hide
the breathing design of her body,
so perfectly stained…
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Beyond The Need
IN THE SERENITY OF STONE
—Robin Gale Odam
Preparing for the arena, bathing in the
northern light, cool as nerves in meditation.
The swordsman, consummate entertainer
schooled in the ethics of dying well—or to
live another day, to outwit the game of the
opponent, the rage of the wild beast,
the eyes of the condemned, to take up
the passions of a thunderous audience—
the gladiator, admired in the bloodthirsty
age of humanity—and in the arts, rendered
in the serenity of stone.
—Robin Gale Odam
Preparing for the arena, bathing in the
northern light, cool as nerves in meditation.
The swordsman, consummate entertainer
schooled in the ethics of dying well—or to
live another day, to outwit the game of the
opponent, the rage of the wild beast,
the eyes of the condemned, to take up
the passions of a thunderous audience—
the gladiator, admired in the bloodthirsty
age of humanity—and in the arts, rendered
in the serenity of stone.
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Vertical
AFTER READING “WAKING AT 3 A.M.”
BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
—Robin Gale Odam
. . . even in the cave of the night
. . . all that the darkness ripples across
. . . as far as your thought can run
—William Stafford
even in the cave of the night . . .
at the resting in the dreamscape between the
first and second sleeps, the neuro-chemistry
will cast dark ripples of imagination—
all that the darkness ripples across . . .
will stir and blink against the sprint of thought
and the chatter of reason, at the ripples, the
original mirage, an imaginary vision—
as far as your thought can run . . .
and as far as you can wander the dream will
pull you to the chase of curiosity and morph
into the mirage of disappearance—
the timepiece will hold the hour for hours,
and the sun will rise and set again
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/9/24)
BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
—Robin Gale Odam
. . . even in the cave of the night
. . . all that the darkness ripples across
. . . as far as your thought can run
—William Stafford
even in the cave of the night . . .
at the resting in the dreamscape between the
first and second sleeps, the neuro-chemistry
will cast dark ripples of imagination—
all that the darkness ripples across . . .
will stir and blink against the sprint of thought
and the chatter of reason, at the ripples, the
original mirage, an imaginary vision—
as far as your thought can run . . .
and as far as you can wander the dream will
pull you to the chase of curiosity and morph
into the mirage of disappearance—
the timepiece will hold the hour for hours,
and the sun will rise and set again
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/9/24)
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Alba
SILVER MOONLIGHT
—Joyce Odam
O silver moon on dark water,
you alone
make all this beautiful :
the sea
in its quiet
where you make a path
and dark churnings build
while the sky
sleeps on the horizon
and everything looks like
a black-and-white photograph
that one might send home
for the great silence
under the low sea sound
in the peculiar calm of loneliness . . .
—Joyce Odam
O silver moon on dark water,
you alone
make all this beautiful :
the sea
in its quiet
where you make a path
and dark churnings build
while the sky
sleeps on the horizon
and everything looks like
a black-and-white photograph
that one might send home
for the great silence
under the low sea sound
in the peculiar calm of loneliness . . .
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As Arrangement
SOMETHING ABOUT DROUGHT
(Deism)
—Joyce Odam
In the garden, O fated one, I sit with my cup
extended and empty, waiting for the wine
of rain to fill it to the brim and overflow.
I wait until nightfall. I wait until dawn. I wait
through all the promises with my waiting.
And my hand does not tire, O fated one.
My face is serene, O divine one, waiting for
the expression of your approval—the
dark mirror of your face into which I stare.
The twilight shadows creep across the ground,
and up the hem of my robe,
and even myself, to conceal the waiting.
O, I wait forever, with patience, which is all
I have, and in which you are timeless.
Even so, the dawn brings more waiting.
My loyal cup waits for the rain, O fated one,
empty and thirsty and sure of patience,
though my hand now trembles as does
my mind in the concept of waiting.
What do I see in the shadows that touch so
lovingly around me, what trembles there
with confusion and brings no news of rain?
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Path
A TIME AND PLACE
—Joyce Odam
for purple candles
and for music
for some lazy time of
day-dreaming
for light that falls in a
certain way
where you like to look
there light the candles
play the music
let your thoughts be tranquil
close away
whatever needs closing
in a place of private storage
under purple tassels
and embossed shadow
leave open what you love
life is yours
give it your happiness
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Rain As Promised
Today’s LittleNip:
KOMM, SÜSSER TOD
—Joyce Odam
KOMM, SÜSSER TOD
—Joyce Odam
Suddenly death comes in—
sets up his music stand and begins
to play his tiny violin.
Death, I knew you were vain,
but talented, too? The hours wane;
your music sounds like winter rain—
like little drops of notes
that turn into little ferry boats
on which my life serenely floats.
Oh! I think I see shore.
I feel like I’ve seen all this before.
I am so sleepy. Play some more.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/11)
___________________
Our thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for their serenity poems today, our Seed of the Week. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Our new SOW is “Bedlam”. Bedlam was the scene chez Kieth this weekend. Bee guards! I’ve had hummingbird feeders for over 40 years, except for recently. I hung one again last winter, and all has been peaceful until—bee season! How could I have forgotten to use bee guards! So this weekend was bedlam around here—bees chasing birds, hornets chasing squirrels, chasing wasps, chasing hummers—truly bedlam! (A few bed guards fixed the problem.)
Surely you can find a corner of your life which is bedlam (I suspect more than just one). 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.
Or—heck—write about bee guards! I don’t care; just send me something . . .
___________________
—Medusa
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/11)
___________________
Our thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for their serenity poems today, our Seed of the Week. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Our new SOW is “Bedlam”. Bedlam was the scene chez Kieth this weekend. Bee guards! I’ve had hummingbird feeders for over 40 years, except for recently. I hung one again last winter, and all has been peaceful until—bee season! How could I have forgotten to use bee guards! So this weekend was bedlam around here—bees chasing birds, hornets chasing squirrels, chasing wasps, chasing hummers—truly bedlam! (A few bed guards fixed the problem.)
Surely you can find a corner of your life which is bedlam (I suspect more than just one). 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.
Or—heck—write about bee guards! I don’t care; just send me something . . .
___________________
—Medusa
Bee Guards—don't leave home without 'em!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that
Aideed Medina and
Russell Reza-Khaliq Gonzaga
will read in Modesto tonight, 7pm.
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!
Aideed Medina and
Russell Reza-Khaliq Gonzaga
will read in Modesto tonight, 7pm.
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!
