—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
WRATH
Lightning
strikes the sea which writhes
and the sky recoils
and the whole sky is torn
and there is the thrill of fury everywhere
and the whole night bristles
with all this force of
lightning tearing at
the sea.
THE WORLD . . . THE SUN
When the sun came out this morning, it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with
stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness—the dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.
When the sun came out this morning—everything
that was too fragile thrived, then shriveled—know
that this light is forever— ; it borders the cold world
and the cold heart . . . bask in it . . . bask in it . . .
let it heal whatever can bear such healing.
THE CROW THAT DIED IN A CAGE
She found it long after he had died,
didn’t know it was there,
how it got there—
or if he put it there,
what perversity of intent
trapped it in the rusty rabbit cage
in the overgrown jumble
under the huge tree
that shaded that part of the yard.
She never ventured out there,
had no reason to explore.
She lived in the house. Closed in.
Didn’t want the outdoors then—
all that space that seemed to be his alone.
And when she finally found the crow,
dried out, lying on its back,
she grieved for it to a degree
she never grieved for him.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/22/09)
____________________
WHERE I WOULD BE
After “The Message of the Rain” by
Norman H. Russell from A Child's Anthology
Anywhere there is rain after a dry day of long
hot hours with the slow clock turning on its
upside-down numerals, as if time made
no sense at all and has forgotten
how to read or hold onto its
private reasons for
winding around
like that.
I would like to fill the town with rain, for I
like that sound, and the wetness, and the
coolness, and how it suits my thought
of it in summer, which has grown
long and tiresome, and I feel
heavy as a stone at the edge
of watering, and all the
trees are dusty and
whispering
for rain.
(prev. pub. in Rattlesnake Review and
Mini-Chap 2002 by Joyce Odam from
Choice of Words Press)
WRUNG
your cry
on the soft darkness
your tears
in a tight handkerchief
making the rain
such sorrow
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, 1991)
DEATH IN THE NEWS
There is something avidly curious
about a death made of violence :
The watching of the news.
The mystery.
The clues.
The innuendo of suspicion.
The voyeuristic thrill of solving :
The how.
The who.
The little pools of dread that feel like shadows.
You read the news—want an update—more
information. But other happenings are there
with their importance—political or otherwise
and this death lingers in your curiosity—
as if next door—or down the street—
or is about to happen—
always imminent.
Like any death.
Yours.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/19/11)
WORLD POLITICS
When I was a child I read of
Princesses, and Kings, and Queens.
Life was a fairy tale—a book—
pages and pages of yearning and learning.
There was a real Queen in the world.
I read of her. She had two daughters…
two real princesses… my age… like me…
I could be a princess, too, with them.
I wore a tiara, my costume, my royal life.
I felt familial.
We occupied the same story world.
It was real.
I did not stay a princess.
I became a girl. I became a woman.
I became old, like the Queen, like me. Now.
Hail to the Queen. She is still alive.
Like me. We still live.
This is not a political poem.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/25/17)
_____________________
WORLD-FRAGMENT
(after “Two From Gallup” from
Pieces Of A Song by Diane Di Prima)
Wore the soft light of evening for awhile. Dressed
up in neon. Admired my arm at rest on a quiet
table. Went for the mirrors with my eyes. Broke
my own tradition.
Who is my sorrow now, sweet person?—one with
new lies. Don’t ask me to squander a moment. I
am too far. Don’t ask for my story or tell me yours.
I took the care out of caring and left it where it lay,
like a precious coin for somebody’s rainy day. And
I walked away—oh, new person—
I walked away, with the music still blaring and the
night too full of something I wanted to say, but the
neon world had begun to shiver, so I walked away.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/29/20)
POLITICAL DISADVANTAGES
In the politics of love, there is no need for sorrow.
Take what you want and give it your blessing.
It is all earned. You deserve what you want
and your skill is praised. It is a war of win.
In the politics of sorrow, no favor is granted.
You are left alone with your soft pillow
and your tears;
your heart
burns
and words
smear on your mouth.
You have nothing left to give.
You will feel this way all your life.
In the politics of regret
there is no room for peace.
Your walls will be hung with reminders.
Love is an old word you’ll remember and remember.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/23/21)
ALONE NOW
How infinite the consequence—how true—
how far the drift, alone in bright surroundings
with your thoughts and view—limitless,
and without sound and without shore :
where are the birds . . .
where is the sky . . .
and where
all that you thought you wanted,
all that you thought you knew . . . ?
~
It is like coming out of a spiral,
changed and erased of
all damage, making
one step forward
into a vast whiteness,
no memories impede—
you are the one made of
particles, as if you have yet to
become real and looking for the other—
the one you have dreamed—the one you love
without knowing love, the one you need for a mirror.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/11/20)
RUMOR AS TRUE
What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.
Look how it is forming—
becoming a climate.
It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WORRY STONE
—Joyce Odam
I am the worry stone,
sent to worry you,
to fit your hand
and pocket—
not your shoe;
I would not have you limp
or toss me free—
I would have you
remember… remember…
ever remember me.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine,
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/21/20)
_______________________
“The World Goes Upside Down” is our Seed of the Week for this past week, and Joyce Odam has sent stories of storms and sorrow and love and all the other ways our worlds flip over on us. Many thanks to her for that, and for her original artwork; her work rumbles and tumbles and roars on the page, for sure!
Our new Seed of the Week is taken from Joyce’s first poem: “Wrath”. Wrath of man? Wrath of Nature? Wrath of the gods? 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.
______________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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