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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam
BAD MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam
Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.
And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,
a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments
until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21;
4/16/24; 5/28/24)
Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.
And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,
a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments
until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21;
4/16/24; 5/28/24)
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The Designer
THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam
To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—
or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,
and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :
should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,
a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18; 5/5/20;
4/16/24; 7/30/24)
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The Curator
THE SCRATCH OF A DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam
Outside in the garden, only the
morning—the sheet of plain paper, the
birds in blue feathers.
The hum of the laundry, the comfort of
dishes piled up in the kitchen—the short list
of something to do before nighttime.
The plain sheet of paper. Eight birds
in blue feathers.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/23; 11/26/24)
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The Dream in Black and White
SALOMES
—Joyce Odam
Ladies of dark dresses,
what do you know of
our naked dance;
what do you know of our
delicate fat under the music?
The music is upon us
and we are free for it.
How we shimmer and bounce.
We do not need makeup and bindings.
Ladies of dark dresses,
your eyes so frozen,
what do we care that you tell on us
or that you stand at our windows with
whispers and cameras.
We look at our hips in the mirror,
our round bellies,
our round legs.
We love the feel of our heavy breasts
in our own hands.
We are sensual at last.
We let the hair grow under our arms.
Ladies in dark dresses,
we do not approve of you.
We are the nudists of self-pleasure.
We do not have to be young to dance.
What do you know of our husbands
who weep with praise
and regret for all time wasted?
We are their lovers now.
We are safe for them at last.
They hold us when we dance.
They let us go
when we demand it.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/21/10)
.JPG)
Her Cat
OLD WOMEN IN A GARDEN
—Joyce Odam
After supper
the old women will walk
through the garden,
limping their way
over the knobby ground
in search of beauty.
How wearily-content
their bodies
take to evening pilgrimage
so they can stand in color
and in fragrance
in an easy wind.
One will gather
a bright bouquet of duty
for the complimenting guest.
The other will accept
with thin protest.
And for the long,
gaunt moments that they
linger, they hang
like scarecrows on their bones
and watch the Iris
bending in September.
(prev. pub. in Poet and Critic, Fall, 1966;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/18/12; 5/6/14)
—Joyce Odam
After supper
the old women will walk
through the garden,
limping their way
over the knobby ground
in search of beauty.
How wearily-content
their bodies
take to evening pilgrimage
so they can stand in color
and in fragrance
in an easy wind.
One will gather
a bright bouquet of duty
for the complimenting guest.
The other will accept
with thin protest.
And for the long,
gaunt moments that they
linger, they hang
like scarecrows on their bones
and watch the Iris
bending in September.
(prev. pub. in Poet and Critic, Fall, 1966;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/18/12; 5/6/14)
.JPG)
Her Ghost
THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam
the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .
the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .
the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .
but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)
.JPG)
A Distant Relative
THE VISITOR
-—Joyce Odam
She lifts her sanka-cup
to her prim-worded lips
and sips.
Her eyes smile narrow too.
And the sun
thins down
behind the window
of her mind.
Her passionate disasters
must unwind
to gray forgetting,
more unkind
than rich untelling.
She is wary of confess.
She nips
a cracker
with her careful teeth.
Taste must abstain
from eager bite.
Her blue-vein fingers
tense their grip
on life.
Her hair wisps thinly
in a trick of light,
mending her movement
still
again.
What was said
she does not hear.
Her gaze is razor thin.
She lifts her sanka-cup
to lukewarm lips
and primly sips.
(prev. pub. in Kansas Quarterly, 1971-72)
.JPG)
Her Story
HER BROKEN HOLD
—Joyce Odam
She was the pretender
of all roles,
invincible puppet, strung
to her own
manipulative hands.
Those days when she
was mother
she destroyed her children;
those nights when
she was wife
her husband cried.
She was the sadness
in the old guitar she strummed.
She plucked discord
and hummed herself
through all the listening air,
then sang the words:
Are we not happy?
Are we not aware?
She frowned. She put
her silence down and was
Child’s black crayola,
holding back
tomorrow’s undrawn art.
She made a scribble in her mind
and brooded in her heart.
That’s who I am, she smiled,
each time someone familiar
came and called, not seeing her
as some receding echo
in the haunted rooms.
That’s who I am, she purred, and was
the cat
beneath the visitor’s uneasy hand.
But once she was a dancer,
wearing motion like
a bird escaped to its lost wilderness;
and because she leaped and whirled
beyond the edge of sound
the drums were rolled—
a curtain stirred—
and music caught on time
and all her strings
were frayed and tangled
in her broken hold.
.JPG)
The Elephant in the Room
HAPPENCHANCE
—Joyce Odam
We met in a mutual memory—
stranger to each, but familiar,
one of us told the other why :
as if ordained . . . there was
a sort of sadness we shared,
tears came to our faces—
we
held
each other
in mutual sympathy.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/5/22; 9/20/22;
11/26/24)
.JPG)
Someone Knocks
THE UNEXPECTED WEEPING
—Joyce Odam
tears came to my eyes
and I marveled
that they were for
a fox in a poem
that got hit
by a car,
and I wept and wept
to myself
in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)
.JPG)
The Sorrows
THREE RIVERS
—Robin Gale Odam
three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour
offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows
the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing
blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer
holding my heart
and keeping them here
an empty page
three blank lines
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)
.JPG)
The Architect
Today’s LittleNip:
THE WINDS OF CHANCE
—Joyce Odam
That balloon lost in the sky . . .
That kite stuck in the dead tree . . .
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/17/24)
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep
____________________
Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry and photos on our Seed of the Week, An Unexpected Guest. Our new Seed of the Week is “Bugs”. 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
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that
An Evening Honoring Joan Didion
takes place in Sacramento tonight;
and Sue Norman & Moira Magneson
read in Placerville tonight, 6pm.
For info about these 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.
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!
