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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
ENDINGS
—Joyce Odam
1.
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”
2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.
3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.
4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.
1.
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”
2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.
3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.
4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.
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When
NIGHT BIRD STOLEN FROM
A GRAY CANVAS
—Joyce Odam
After “Night Bird” 1990, Wonsook Kim Linton
Small dream bird, I hold you through the prison
of sleep while an old black brooding hawk watches
from night’s dark tree and hunches itself over the
release of waking, which has its own landscape of
terrors.
How will I save you when my hand is offering you
flight away from this dream; why do you tarry in
patient trust like a careless omen of yourself?
Are you the signature of life? Symbols surround
us— surreal and dense—merging to a collage of
mystery. We share this brief connection: I give you
my fear so you can translate it into flight—yet you
stay with me.
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, Winter 2003;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/5/18; 12-26/23)
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Before I Wake
THE POET BEFORE SUNUP
—Robin Gale Odam
The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,
Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,
Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 02/04/25)
The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,
Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,
Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 02/04/25)
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Songbird
BLACKBIRD
(Song)
—Joyce Odam
Black Bird, Black Bird, flying so low
Black bird, black bird, I watch you go
Down wind, downward, into the snow.
Soft touch, soft touch, open your hand.
Some tell fortune—some make demand,
Black Bird, falling on a cold land.
Omens, omens, all over town.
Fortune cookies cover the ground
Black Bird finds them.
What has he found?
Hard truth! Hard truth, where is your lie,
now that wind chimes trouble the sky.
Every winter they learn to cry.
(Repeat 1st verse)
Black Bird, Black Bird, flying so low
Black bird, black bird, I watch you go
Down wind, downward, into the snow.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/27/22)
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Distance Traveled
INTO WINTER
—Joyce Odam
And when I go,
I will go as geese
calling softly into winter.
I will hear the sound of my soul
move through winds and darkness
and feel sad thoughts of men
touch me, as some dry mist
I must travel through;
and it will be a soaring,
like a remembering of dreams
when I flew wingless,
looking down on cities,
and moved as easily through air
as the sea-buried
sliding through water.
In my transitory moment,
warmth and cold
will be one sensation. I will
shed pain from body and mind
in final molting,
and the sound of my last breath
will be like the migrating-murmur
of geese calling
softly into winter.
Into Winter was my first contest-winning poem—CFCP (California Federation of Chaparral Poets),—receiving a 1st H.M. in 1962—part of my poetry beginnings. The poem was published in the Ina Coolbrith Anthology in 1963 and is included in The Confetti Within (my first chapbook) in 1966. —Joyce Odam
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Where Do We Go From Here
POETS LIE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After my mother, 08/07/1924-09/14/2025)
Soon or never, the figure
at the pulpit casts the long
shadow across the floor
The character sits, just
barely, at the edge of the seat,
at the farthest pew, out of range
for the ray of light dimming
through imagined glass
The one prayed for,
on the bed in the quiet room,
exhales on the whispered breath,
something found in the writer’s
scraps
Soon or never, the figure at the
pulpit casts the long shadow across
the floor, the pathway, and the
sanctity of truth
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Today’s LittleNip:
ASHES
—Robin Gale Odam
We leave our bones behind—
tray of whatnots, reading
glasses, pencils and notes . . .
_______________
This is a particularly touching set of poems and art today, made, as usual these past few years, by Robin Gale Odam from her and her mother’s portfolios. It is touching because, sadly, Joyce Odam passed away shortly after 2am Tuesday morning—appropriately enough, saying goodbye to us on her weekly day in Medusa’s Kitchen which she held for almost 20 years. Joyce was 101 years old and had suffered from Alzheimer's for several years. Robin was able to keep her in her home, which was a blessing, for sure. Keep Robin Gale and the rest of Joyce’s family in your thoughts. Joyce was a huge part of my life, and she will be missed.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Cooler Mornings, Shorter Nights”. 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
ASHES
—Robin Gale Odam
We leave our bones behind—
tray of whatnots, reading
glasses, pencils and notes . . .
_______________
This is a particularly touching set of poems and art today, made, as usual these past few years, by Robin Gale Odam from her and her mother’s portfolios. It is touching because, sadly, Joyce Odam passed away shortly after 2am Tuesday morning—appropriately enough, saying goodbye to us on her weekly day in Medusa’s Kitchen which she held for almost 20 years. Joyce was 101 years old and had suffered from Alzheimer's for several years. Robin was able to keep her in her home, which was a blessing, for sure. Keep Robin Gale and the rest of Joyce’s family in your thoughts. Joyce was a huge part of my life, and she will be missed.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Cooler Mornings, Shorter Nights”. 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
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Last Dance of the Night
—Photo by Joyce Odam
—Photo by Joyce Odam
A reminder that
Mary Mackey, Julia Connor,
and Dotty Wilber will read
at Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento
tonight, 6pm. Reservations
strongly recommended!
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!
Mary Mackey, Julia Connor,
and Dotty Wilber will read
at Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento
tonight, 6pm. Reservations
strongly recommended!
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!
