Echo
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
DIMENSION OF MYSELF
—Joyce Odam
Echo, have you never heard
my voice?
You, who could mirror sound,
have found me silent
though I shout in every wind
and though
my cries are needles in the quiet.
What is my worth
if not to be
some poem
for your answering?
O hear me
in the absolute dimension of myself.
I have language in my eyes.
Am I so mute
that you would fragmentize
that meaning
in your silent mouth?
Then let me be your echo.
Make a sound.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967)
__________________
UPDATE, BLAH BLAH BLAH
—Robin Gale Odam
at the worst it couldn’t be better,
worry cast over souls—cups of cold
coffee and bagels with honey, splayed
broom in the closet and dust balls gone
rogue
the children drink vodka for breakfast,
or worse—the engine at dawn, the creak
of the gate, short trip to-the-small-store-and-
back at first light—little dog curls on the sofa
to wait
—Joyce Odam
Echo, have you never heard
my voice?
You, who could mirror sound,
have found me silent
though I shout in every wind
and though
my cries are needles in the quiet.
What is my worth
if not to be
some poem
for your answering?
O hear me
in the absolute dimension of myself.
I have language in my eyes.
Am I so mute
that you would fragmentize
that meaning
in your silent mouth?
Then let me be your echo.
Make a sound.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967)
__________________
UPDATE, BLAH BLAH BLAH
—Robin Gale Odam
at the worst it couldn’t be better,
worry cast over souls—cups of cold
coffee and bagels with honey, splayed
broom in the closet and dust balls gone
rogue
the children drink vodka for breakfast,
or worse—the engine at dawn, the creak
of the gate, short trip to-the-small-store-and-
back at first light—little dog curls on the sofa
to wait
The Tangles
SHAPING THE HEAD
—Joyce Odam
Flexing his fingers,
he responded to mood and took
the damp cloth from the gray lump
of clay.
He drew out a nose and pressed
long cheek hollows, leaving the throat
thick until later.
Completing the contour,
he tilted the head so one would feel
impact of soul search.
He left the hair
between short and long, taking pains
with the tangles
that had such great significance.
Those who would look later
should decide if this were Man or Woman.
He was ready for the eyes,
the last detail.
They must portray the terrible knowledge
and ignorance of Man.
They must beseech, yet repel.
And he accomplished this
with deep, blank sockets.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967)
—Joyce Odam
Flexing his fingers,
he responded to mood and took
the damp cloth from the gray lump
of clay.
He drew out a nose and pressed
long cheek hollows, leaving the throat
thick until later.
Completing the contour,
he tilted the head so one would feel
impact of soul search.
He left the hair
between short and long, taking pains
with the tangles
that had such great significance.
Those who would look later
should decide if this were Man or Woman.
He was ready for the eyes,
the last detail.
They must portray the terrible knowledge
and ignorance of Man.
They must beseech, yet repel.
And he accomplished this
with deep, blank sockets.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967)
Incantation
SOUL
—Joyce Odam
Listen,
it goes
from here to there
in a straight line,
shadow of crow, perhaps,
but, no,
it dissolves in light
with a terrible
incantation, like sound,
silent
except to the mind.
Notice how fast
it is gone.
The people bring words
for you to wring
in your throat,
like love
that is torn from
its bird
so the wings
can glide.
It is spoken
and lost
between
dipthong vowels
of your slow turning
when you hear it
slip out of time.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam 1967)
Slipping Out Of Time
KEEPSAKE
—Robin Gale Odam
Just for looking at—but in case
of a lapse in caution, the drop of
weight into gravity, or the casual guest
musing through the rooms of the house,
nestled into the brocade bag . . . behind
the socks.
__________________
MANY A LOSS
—Joyce Odam
Many a loss is made of love,
loss too many a-love to bear—
sorrow is the reminder and
reminders go back and forth
like regret and relief, relief
too far away now to be true—
ask any woman or any man,
I’m not sure if it is true how
that goes, but ask the bachelor,
ask the hell-no! woman, one
is me, one is you—or it’s only
an old particular rue.
IN SYNC
—Joyce Odam
Once we weep it will be secondary for us
to deem which reasons of your call for com-
fort, to ply for the sense of the true reason
this time so your concern be real. But, tears
or not, there is a tension worth the query.
Tears sometimes go back as far as rain.
The tears and the weeper are not that easily
comforted—my tears, your tears usually
agree . . . but this time there is a freeze,
a hesitation. So we both must cry,
my dear one, oh, my dear, dear one.
—Joyce Odam
Once we weep it will be secondary for us
to deem which reasons of your call for com-
fort, to ply for the sense of the true reason
this time so your concern be real. But, tears
or not, there is a tension worth the query.
Tears sometimes go back as far as rain.
The tears and the weeper are not that easily
comforted—my tears, your tears usually
agree . . . but this time there is a freeze,
a hesitation. So we both must cry,
my dear one, oh, my dear, dear one.
Its Voice
Today’s LittleNip:
WITH THE DRIED FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
The poem went silent.
It took honorable mention
eons ago and the paper it was
written on was probably buried
with the dried flowers . . .
I cannot remember
its voice.
_________________
Thanks today to our two poetry-posies, Joyce and Robin Odam, for May flowers in the form of their fine poetry and photos!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Spring Cleaning”. Remember to think metaphorically as well as literally! 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.
WITH THE DRIED FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
The poem went silent.
It took honorable mention
eons ago and the paper it was
written on was probably buried
with the dried flowers . . .
I cannot remember
its voice.
_________________
Thanks today to our two poetry-posies, Joyce and Robin Odam, for May flowers in the form of their fine poetry and photos!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Spring Cleaning”. Remember to think metaphorically as well as literally! 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.
And remember that this Thursday is Sacramento's Big Day of Giving—but surprises await you if you make your donation early! Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_________________
—Medusa
_________________
—Medusa
"... shadow of crow, perhaps..."
Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
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