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Fear-Of-This-Fear-Of-That
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
MELTING
—Joyce Odam
Don’t touch me.
I am not love.
I am grief.
I am alone in here.
Don’t enter.
Stay, then, with
your melodious eyes
upon my lack.
Do not let me
tell you any more of me.
You are not my believer
you should fear the dark.
Why am I empty
when you are pouring
so much light in me?
(prev. pub. in Hart Senior Center Collection of Poems
Poetry Reading, April 26, 1995)
Don’t touch me.
I am not love.
I am grief.
I am alone in here.
Don’t enter.
Stay, then, with
your melodious eyes
upon my lack.
Do not let me
tell you any more of me.
You are not my believer
you should fear the dark.
Why am I empty
when you are pouring
so much light in me?
(prev. pub. in Hart Senior Center Collection of Poems
Poetry Reading, April 26, 1995)
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Fear As Rumor
MY MOTHER OF SECRETS
—Joyce Odam
Danger followed us, I am sure.
Why else would I fear all secrets,
all telling, all revision of facts :
the where, the who, the when,
the what of questions?
Why else would I trust the
peripheral, the off-key,
the slant of words—
trust instinct over anything?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/5/13;
8/23/22)
__________________
NO LULLABY
—Joyce Odam
Danger followed us, I am sure.
Why else would I fear all secrets,
all telling, all revision of facts :
the where, the who, the when,
the what of questions?
Why else would I trust the
peripheral, the off-key,
the slant of words—
trust instinct over anything?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/5/13;
8/23/22)
__________________
NO LULLABY
—Joyce Odam
Sing me no lullaby
to numb me into sleep
with treachery of dreams.
Mama,
leave a light for me.
The moving shadows
have faces and eyes
and hands beneath my bed.
I cannot give my terror
words you chide away
with brief, indulgent laughter.
You warn me with your eyes
as you flick darkness
with your finger.
I do not know you
in some other room, some yellow
room my doorway hangs upon,
voice-swollen room where sounds
of your forgetting me
worry my sleep.
Sometimes the dark is you.
Sing me no bitter lullaby,
sleep frightens me.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967)
Sing me no lullaby
to numb me into sleep
with treachery of dreams.
Mama,
leave a light for me.
The moving shadows
have faces and eyes
and hands beneath my bed.
I cannot give my terror
words you chide away
with brief, indulgent laughter.
You warn me with your eyes
as you flick darkness
with your finger.
I do not know you
in some other room, some yellow
room my doorway hangs upon,
voice-swollen room where sounds
of your forgetting me
worry my sleep.
Sometimes the dark is you.
Sing me no bitter lullaby,
sleep frightens me.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967)
Tentative
MOTHER, I HAVE LEARNED
—Joyce Odam
Mother, I have learned how to hide.
I know where the shadows are.
I know where the light
shifts past.
I know how eyes
will follow such stealth as ours.
I have learned to tear evidence
of our existence.
I have learned to creep down
stairs in silence.
I have learned to stay silent
behind doors.
I have learned to veil the face
of all emotion.
I have learned that tears
are the confessions of fear—
that danger is always disguised
in the gentlest of eyes—
that no one loves us for long.
I have learned to leave
at a moment’s notice;
to go into the soft closing air
of disappearance, leaving only
a burning-dish full of wet ashes.
—Joyce Odam
Mother, I have learned how to hide.
I know where the shadows are.
I know where the light
shifts past.
I know how eyes
will follow such stealth as ours.
I have learned to tear evidence
of our existence.
I have learned to creep down
stairs in silence.
I have learned to stay silent
behind doors.
I have learned to veil the face
of all emotion.
I have learned that tears
are the confessions of fear—
that danger is always disguised
in the gentlest of eyes—
that no one loves us for long.
I have learned to leave
at a moment’s notice;
to go into the soft closing air
of disappearance, leaving only
a burning-dish full of wet ashes.
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Fear Of Love
THE GENTLE TYRANNY
—Joyce Odam
We are the last emotion
of the mind.
We tremble where
the stillness of the eyes
burns on the face. We touch
where flowers wait
our murmurings.
Forever seems a promise
we can mean.
Sweet vows, like petals,
squander from our stems.
We are the warm winds
gathering.
Our green veins
throb the length of love.
Our fingers shape to leaves.
Fire sings where we have learned.
But we are rooted now, and deep
as two decisions flowing,
wrist to wrist,
to share the full commitment
of ourselves.
The earth is rich with us.
And for the gentle tyranny
of first demands
it gives back seasons.
(From My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967)
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Fear Of Night
MANY POWERS
—Joyce Odam
many powers move us and delay us
create any change for misery or gain
whatever resists
may be healed or destroyed
shadows crawl into other territories
suggest a fear made obvious
what does the dark bring—
something is always there
what is safe for the wary—
an echo lasts forever—
still sounding
from the long effort of listening.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/3/13)
___________________
MIND POLLUTION
—Joyce Odam
Let us now remember
the city
which is dying
amid its streets and buildings,
its glinting glass and broken shadows.
Its lost humanities
are still trying to survive
their suffocations.
Let us undo the begetting of walls
and the paranoia of closed doors.
Music still blares where silence cringes.
Faces still glare toward each other.
Sirens still rush to emergencies.
Mannequins break out of store windows
and cars run into each other.
Authority signs point everywhere.
Let us now seek
the impoverished of spirit
the ill of mind,
the money-minders,
and ask them to give us back
our mercy
and give them our fear
in return.
Let us now have
accountability—
accept
blame—
heal
from the center.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/16)
many powers move us and delay us
create any change for misery or gain
whatever resists
may be healed or destroyed
shadows crawl into other territories
suggest a fear made obvious
what does the dark bring—
something is always there
what is safe for the wary—
an echo lasts forever—
still sounding
from the long effort of listening.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/3/13)
___________________
MIND POLLUTION
—Joyce Odam
Let us now remember
the city
which is dying
amid its streets and buildings,
its glinting glass and broken shadows.
Its lost humanities
are still trying to survive
their suffocations.
Let us undo the begetting of walls
and the paranoia of closed doors.
Music still blares where silence cringes.
Faces still glare toward each other.
Sirens still rush to emergencies.
Mannequins break out of store windows
and cars run into each other.
Authority signs point everywhere.
Let us now seek
the impoverished of spirit
the ill of mind,
the money-minders,
and ask them to give us back
our mercy
and give them our fear
in return.
Let us now have
accountability—
accept
blame—
heal
from the center.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/24/16)
.JPG)
Fear Of Fear
THE MERCY BIRDS
—Joyce Odam
The birds fly over this disconnected world.
There is a map in the air
but no candles for the windows.
Time represents our confusion :
how can the birds save us?
Symbols are failing to be truth.
We watch with hope and fear
we are ever at the mercy of . . .
what will become of us . . .
***
oh, what will become of us :
time represents our confusion
that we are ever at the mercy of.
Still, we watch—with hope—and fear,
with no candles for the windows.
There is a map in the air
and birds fly over this disconnected world,
but how can the birds save us
when symbols are failing to be truth—
***
symbols—failing to be truth—
yet we watch, with hope and fear.
Time represents our confusion :
how can the birds save us?
There is a map in the air,
but no candles for the windows.
We are ever ‘at-the-mercy-of’ . . .
and birds fly over this disconnected world.
What will become of us?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/30/11;
2/7/17; 10/3/17; 7/6/21)
The birds fly over this disconnected world.
There is a map in the air
but no candles for the windows.
Time represents our confusion :
how can the birds save us?
Symbols are failing to be truth.
We watch with hope and fear
we are ever at the mercy of . . .
what will become of us . . .
***
oh, what will become of us :
time represents our confusion
that we are ever at the mercy of.
Still, we watch—with hope—and fear,
with no candles for the windows.
There is a map in the air
and birds fly over this disconnected world,
but how can the birds save us
when symbols are failing to be truth—
***
symbols—failing to be truth—
yet we watch, with hope and fear.
Time represents our confusion :
how can the birds save us?
There is a map in the air,
but no candles for the windows.
We are ever ‘at-the-mercy-of’ . . .
and birds fly over this disconnected world.
What will become of us?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/30/11;
2/7/17; 10/3/17; 7/6/21)
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Looking Deep
MIND TRAVEL
—Joyce Odam
We’ve come to love the travel of the mind
where we can marvel and blithely wind
through purple hills that stretch as far
as they really are
and not ever go near them;
actually we fear them—
how one could get lost in such empty reaches.
And I prefer beaches
where the shore continues as far as light can
shine—
clear into that flat and seamless time
when the long day’s sun goes down—
then mosey back to some nearby, noisy town
for seafood, where candle-glow windows face
the sea.
I’d gaze at you—you’d gaze at me—
make ready, then, for some music and dancing—
even some romancing.
But, I’d rather just stay put and dream about all this.
So, goodnight, my old dear. Sweet dreams.
Kiss Kiss.
___________________
PSALM
—Joyce Odam
Dear God, thank you
for being.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/23)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
INSOMNIA XXXVII
—Robin Gale Odam
Who should be afraid of the
one who would write your story—
author with eyes the color of stone,
pen point dipped in the wine of the
fable—
I drop ice into the glass, open the
window for the old cat, slip into the
chair before the night sky, take up
my tablet.
Who should be afraid.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019)
___________________
Fear—our Seed of the Week—has brought an avalanche of images from Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, and we thank them for their talk of shadows and nightmares and . . . well, I leave it to you to immerse yourself in this fine poetry and Joyce's photography. Joyce, by the way, wins the award for the most republishing of poems—her “The Mercy Birds” has appeared in the Kitchen four times, a wonderful use of Medusa’s previously-published-is-okay rule.
Our new Seed of the Week is for the season—“Out of the Darkness”. 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.
____________________
—Medusa
We’ve come to love the travel of the mind
where we can marvel and blithely wind
through purple hills that stretch as far
as they really are
and not ever go near them;
actually we fear them—
how one could get lost in such empty reaches.
And I prefer beaches
where the shore continues as far as light can
shine—
clear into that flat and seamless time
when the long day’s sun goes down—
then mosey back to some nearby, noisy town
for seafood, where candle-glow windows face
the sea.
I’d gaze at you—you’d gaze at me—
make ready, then, for some music and dancing—
even some romancing.
But, I’d rather just stay put and dream about all this.
So, goodnight, my old dear. Sweet dreams.
Kiss Kiss.
___________________
PSALM
—Joyce Odam
Dear God, thank you
for being.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/23)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
INSOMNIA XXXVII
—Robin Gale Odam
Who should be afraid of the
one who would write your story—
author with eyes the color of stone,
pen point dipped in the wine of the
fable—
I drop ice into the glass, open the
window for the old cat, slip into the
chair before the night sky, take up
my tablet.
Who should be afraid.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019)
___________________
Fear—our Seed of the Week—has brought an avalanche of images from Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, and we thank them for their talk of shadows and nightmares and . . . well, I leave it to you to immerse yourself in this fine poetry and Joyce's photography. Joyce, by the way, wins the award for the most republishing of poems—her “The Mercy Birds” has appeared in the Kitchen four times, a wonderful use of Medusa’s previously-published-is-okay rule.
Our new Seed of the Week is for the season—“Out of the Darkness”. 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.
____________________
—Medusa
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
has featured readers tonight, 6pm.
For a list of those, plus info about
upcoming 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.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
has featured readers tonight, 6pm.
For a list of those, plus info about
upcoming 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.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
black stallions
at midnight—
dark thoughts:
wild horses
out of control!