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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
CIRCLE ME DEEP
—Joyce Odam
arc me into long flight
indiscernible curve
arrival
no thought backwards
sigh
whisper
here
pin me into staying
I with my
butterfly shape
and moth journey
and no love for velvet
circle me deep
of one continuous spiral
I who am always falling
brace me with edges
I who collect things for boxes
and fill them with dust and
never open them
scribble me sane
I with my loud dark line
all in a tangle
blot me with slow surrealistic white
in drift of easiness
tender phasing into dream flight
fancy me the soul of a bird
no song
no care
vision me everywhere
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/13/13)
—Joyce Odam
arc me into long flight
indiscernible curve
arrival
no thought backwards
sigh
whisper
here
pin me into staying
I with my
butterfly shape
and moth journey
and no love for velvet
circle me deep
of one continuous spiral
I who am always falling
brace me with edges
I who collect things for boxes
and fill them with dust and
never open them
scribble me sane
I with my loud dark line
all in a tangle
blot me with slow surrealistic white
in drift of easiness
tender phasing into dream flight
fancy me the soul of a bird
no song
no care
vision me everywhere
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/13/13)
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A Torn Page Lies Waiting
IN THE RECESSES
—Joyce Odam
In the murk of remember,
a torn page lies waiting
for this poem:
I prefer the damaged—
the substandard—over the
sleek perfection of unmarred pages;
I favor this wrinkled sheet with its fading,
its stain from some old spill, its torn corner
from an uneven stack of such pages.
this page will do for my first draft
of whatever poem will come to me—
those phantom words I try to find
to honor the imperfect moments,
the illusive and unexplainable,
unworthy of acclaim.
I would dig deep into the rising
of mind-fragments for
what I would say
in empathetic musing
that would mean
the way my heart feels when it is broken.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16)
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Before I Wake
INSOMNIA XI
—Robin Gale Odam
Eyes closed in the dark of the hour
I remember a melody, where it lifted
into its higher register—I used to sing
when my voice was younger, resilient
and fair as daylight. I hum a rasp of alto
in the asylum of nighttime.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2016;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/4/23)
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I Remembered
INSOMNIA XXI
—Robin Gale Odam
crescendo of night
silver light through window blind
whisper of a song
syncopated memory
hollow night, echo of prayer
(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/26/23)
crescendo of night
silver light through window blind
whisper of a song
syncopated memory
hollow night, echo of prayer
(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/26/23)
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With Hours Made Of Time
TO A MENTOR
—Joyce Odam
I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,
and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—
thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :
poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind
with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back
—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/7/17; 6/1/21)
I follow you with hours made of time
though you do not remember
let alone know anything of me,
and yet our years connect,
one for birth
and one for dying—
thus do I honor—
who am mentored
by your words—the words I love :
poet words,
words caught
in the pulsate nudgings of the mind
with tongues that sting on syllables
of pain, and taste, with tears,
the vowels that love back
—what I accede to—
that I, with my last breath,
will whisper to the hours of my life.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/7/17; 6/1/21)
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Promising Everything
THE WAY OF WORDS
—Joyce Odam
You touch the gray light
at the edge of that dark word.
How you speak—
so dense and deliberate.
Is it regret you say—
so heavy with pleading—
promising everything . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/9/22)
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The Perfect Day
PSALMS
—Robin Gale Odam
i read your
beautiful songs,
closed the book,
dusted the cover
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/23)
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She Wanted Me To Know
MOTHER CALLS ME WITH HER DYING
—Joyce Odam
Mother says she is dreaming that she is dying and
just wanted to warn me, prepare me for the phone
call that would come.
I am calm, remove myself from responding. I
don’t want to hear this. Mother’s voice is turned
down low. I can barely hear her.
She says she has to be careful, that they listen at
the Nurse’s Station, but she is dying in her sleep
and she wanted me to know—wanted to hear
my voice—hundreds of miles between us, and time
itself three hours away.
Now, I don’t want you to grieve, she tells me in her
old no-nonsense voice, and though I try to open my
mouth to answer, she keeps on talking.
I cannot interrupt her, though she dwindles off again.
Wake up! I want to say—but don’t know what that
would mean—if she is really dying—in her sleep—
in her mind—in my imagination.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/13; 10/22/13)
—Joyce Odam
Mother says she is dreaming that she is dying and
just wanted to warn me, prepare me for the phone
call that would come.
I am calm, remove myself from responding. I
don’t want to hear this. Mother’s voice is turned
down low. I can barely hear her.
She says she has to be careful, that they listen at
the Nurse’s Station, but she is dying in her sleep
and she wanted me to know—wanted to hear
my voice—hundreds of miles between us, and time
itself three hours away.
Now, I don’t want you to grieve, she tells me in her
old no-nonsense voice, and though I try to open my
mouth to answer, she keeps on talking.
I cannot interrupt her, though she dwindles off again.
Wake up! I want to say—but don’t know what that
would mean—if she is really dying—in her sleep—
in her mind—in my imagination.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/13; 10/22/13)
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You Whisper Back
I WHISPER INTO THE TELEPHONE
—Joyce Odam
I whisper into the telephone.
You whisper back.
We talk of silent things . . .
we talk of silent things . . .
repeating ourselves
and offering questions.
Oh?
and, Yes?
Dyings are like this.
And waiting for dyings,
which is what we
have no words for,
though we speak and speak
in these whispers.
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, 1994;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/11;
10/22/13, 1/5/21; 7/19/22)
I whisper into the telephone.
You whisper back.
We talk of silent things . . .
we talk of silent things . . .
repeating ourselves
and offering questions.
Oh?
and, Yes?
Dyings are like this.
And waiting for dyings,
which is what we
have no words for,
though we speak and speak
in these whispers.
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, 1994;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/11;
10/22/13, 1/5/21; 7/19/22)
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Confess Myself
ADMISSION
—Joyce Odam
Talking into a dead phone, I apologize
to the silence, confess myself
to the listening . . .
as if through a
curtain . . . imagine a
response . . . imagine a sigh of sympathy.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/19/22;
9/20/22; 3/19/24)
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The Long Quarrel With Time
Let it whisper away
all you meant to say
the long quarrel with time
and its occasional rhyme
all the sorrows and woes
all faith as it goes
wondering again
in search of an amen
to contradict the prayer
that is ever there
beginning of the aftermath
in God’s hollow laugh
whisper then alone
faith is the undertone
that burns into the soul
the part of you that’s whole
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16)
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/16)
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Life And Its House
Today’s LittleNip:
TEARS
—Joyce Odam
They were never for this symbol
—not the tender image of a poem,
softly jeweled by a glint
of light
on a smooth face—but a
smear of dark feeling, salty to the taste,
making wet stains upon some pillow.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/21/10)
__________________
Our Seed of the Week was Whispers in the Night, and the Odam poets have sent us whispers of all kinds—whispers in the night, whispers of words, whispers of a song—and we are most grateful for their magical touch.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Vacation”. 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 glint of life on a smooth face . . .”
Woman in a Red Head Tie
—Painting by Constantin Aleksandrovich, 1939
—Painting by Constantin Aleksandrovich, 1939
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!
