.JPG)
* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
THE JANUARY SUN
—Joyce Odam
Sitting with our ice cream cones in the January sun that almost felt warm, we soaked-in the light and had our serious conversation, until we grew chilled and sat in the car and looked at the bright day, wondering which way to continue as we mapped ourselves forward, taking the respite seriously, filling in with 'what next', what for dinner, how each day grew a little longer, and watching the white clouds drift over, taking the solution to our concerns into some trivia for the relief of laughter, 'the what if', only a pinpoint for later, though the moment was now, and here, to be seriously valued, so we took off in our vague directions of procrastination and finished our ice cream cones in the usual indifference to our vague unhappiness.
Sitting with our ice cream cones in the January sun that almost felt warm, we soaked-in the light and had our serious conversation, until we grew chilled and sat in the car and looked at the bright day, wondering which way to continue as we mapped ourselves forward, taking the respite seriously, filling in with 'what next', what for dinner, how each day grew a little longer, and watching the white clouds drift over, taking the solution to our concerns into some trivia for the relief of laughter, 'the what if', only a pinpoint for later, though the moment was now, and here, to be seriously valued, so we took off in our vague directions of procrastination and finished our ice cream cones in the usual indifference to our vague unhappiness.
.JPG)
Mother's Moods
JANUARY
—Joyce Odam
I do my
own calendar.
Death Month.
Mother’s.
Which day?
So close to midnight
Three time-zones
between.
I do my
own calendar.
Death Month.
Mother’s.
Which day?
So close to midnight
Three time-zones
between.
.jpg)
Me As Me
LOVE
—Joyce Odam
Love is the circle of being—
temper me
temper
me—
take the curse from my mouth—
tread me through all the waters,
the circular sea—
the circular
me.
___________________
WARRIOR
—Robin Gale Odam
After Minotaur, Sculpture by Petro Roquejo Novoa
He considered the worth of weapons
and settled with his back to the morning.
He remembered the relevant name he was
given—the vows to war and the passions.
If only the nuance of foreign jargon
hadn’t been his elective. If only he had
studied art.
He thought of the weeds in the grove—
he shifted and practiced the consonant
sounds of splendor.
At the early black twilight of the gloaming
he cried inwardly to the god of design.
Love is the circle of being—
temper me
temper
me—
take the curse from my mouth—
tread me through all the waters,
the circular sea—
the circular
me.
___________________
WARRIOR
—Robin Gale Odam
After Minotaur, Sculpture by Petro Roquejo Novoa
He considered the worth of weapons
and settled with his back to the morning.
He remembered the relevant name he was
given—the vows to war and the passions.
If only the nuance of foreign jargon
hadn’t been his elective. If only he had
studied art.
He thought of the weeds in the grove—
he shifted and practiced the consonant
sounds of splendor.
At the early black twilight of the gloaming
he cried inwardly to the god of design.
.JPG)
Maybe The Song
A LOVE POEM
—Joyce Odam
A woman made of snow cannot love a man of fire,
with all the difference that will torture them
with harsh desire.
A man of snow with all his melting ways,
his summer moods, will always blame
a woman without praise, who also broods.
Alas again, for all inequities by which
imbalances betray. Take music, or take silence;
expect of this what words can never say.
The hollow heart will echo till it fails. What has
abandoned it? Why can’t it listen? It gave and gave
and gave, and gave again, and nothing back will give.
How selfish are the sufferers who have no right to woe.
How helpless, too, the inability of sympathy
to ease a single throe.
Words are useless—fire and snow—
a window placed between a love that streams and ends
at last as rain—the tears love comes to know.
—Joyce Odam
A woman made of snow cannot love a man of fire,
with all the difference that will torture them
with harsh desire.
A man of snow with all his melting ways,
his summer moods, will always blame
a woman without praise, who also broods.
Alas again, for all inequities by which
imbalances betray. Take music, or take silence;
expect of this what words can never say.
The hollow heart will echo till it fails. What has
abandoned it? Why can’t it listen? It gave and gave
and gave, and gave again, and nothing back will give.
How selfish are the sufferers who have no right to woe.
How helpless, too, the inability of sympathy
to ease a single throe.
Words are useless—fire and snow—
a window placed between a love that streams and ends
at last as rain—the tears love comes to know.
.JPG)
There Are Secrets
VISCERAL
—Robin Gale Odam
After Green Landscape by Marc Chagall, l949
The tiny boat, the sea of green, the
bloom of indifference, and these
shadows—just one kiss.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2017)
—Robin Gale Odam
After Green Landscape by Marc Chagall, l949
The tiny boat, the sea of green, the
bloom of indifference, and these
shadows—just one kiss.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2017)
.JPG)
Rapt
JUST NOW I RECOGNIZE GRIEF
—Joyce Odam
as tangible—a brooding figure
settled down beside me
on a cold bench in winter
waiting for a bus or time to
pass while figures haunt by
with their own sorrows—we
are but shapes of sorrow and the
one at my side wants me to listen
while it spiels and spiels and spiels.
__________________
TREES
—Robin Gale Odam
After “What Kind of Times are These”
by Adrienne Rich
Two stands of trees—
a vanishing, a sort of dread,
the edge, this place
This edge of dread—
a growth of green, a blade, a leaf,
the sort of place to talk of this
Dark mesh of woods—
endangered, loved, this rue of dread,
this grief, this darkly fetching mesh
And I won’t tell—
what place of dread, what blade or leaf,
dark mesh of woods, of trees
But there it is—
a cautionary tale of greed
and the murmuring of trees
.jpg)
Three Selves
LYRIC
—Joyce Odam
When I was the one, the first holy one,
of my other being; when I knew myself,
and the way of myself
and out of longing for myself,
and there was no other,
and even then I sought,
and my own blood was flowing,
and I bled until I was pure of my bleeding,
and this was God in my pleading,
and I answered,
and was ever fated to ask and answer
and still I complained of my prayer
and my conviction,
and I went to the tower of words
and it was a mountain
and it leaned into the falling sky
and even then I signified nothing
for a moment,
for a long, powerful moment,
and was united with my birth
long after I died,
and thus I cried and cried
for myself and others
and nothing came to me
except my ego which was made of words
made of thoughts, and they entangled.
Oh, why do I remember this?
It was all done before it began,
and I was diminished.
My tears drained me and I was a river
pouring down a mountain in the eyes of God.
—Joyce Odam
When I was the one, the first holy one,
of my other being; when I knew myself,
and the way of myself
and out of longing for myself,
and there was no other,
and even then I sought,
and my own blood was flowing,
and I bled until I was pure of my bleeding,
and this was God in my pleading,
and I answered,
and was ever fated to ask and answer
and still I complained of my prayer
and my conviction,
and I went to the tower of words
and it was a mountain
and it leaned into the falling sky
and even then I signified nothing
for a moment,
for a long, powerful moment,
and was united with my birth
long after I died,
and thus I cried and cried
for myself and others
and nothing came to me
except my ego which was made of words
made of thoughts, and they entangled.
Oh, why do I remember this?
It was all done before it began,
and I was diminished.
My tears drained me and I was a river
pouring down a mountain in the eyes of God.
______________________
LOVE STORY :
—Joyce Odam
After Green Landscape by Marc Chagall, 1949
Call it green, like youth,
like love before it betrays itself,
like any place together or apart—
like any sentiment
before it turns to cynicism,
or the bitter taste that will be next.
Erase this from your heart—you have
a chance—impossible at best—despite all
love’s disclaimers who will preach and preach.
.jpg)
Muse
LULLABY TO AN OLD BEAR
—Joyce Odam
Rock in my arms, old toy, all ragged and
worn, all trite with loving. How many tears
can drown you?—how many absences
can you endure?—old reincarnated thing,
ghost of my wanting, toy I never had.
Only the doll—rigid and nameless—
not like you, old Teddy, fuzzy and plush,
and so obedient, waiting like a dog
for me to find you in some perfect store,
your price tag hidden, your sad expression
fastened to my passing glance. Let me
prop you by my pillow now where we can
comfort each other and listen to the rain
and reminisce on all our years together.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/12/14)
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
JUDITH SINGING TO SPARROWS
in her front yard
the flock flew down
and listened to her singing
and when she stopped
they flew away
she cried
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub in No Name Newsletter For Poets,
May 1990, and Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/16)
____________________
Many thanks to Joyce and Robin for today’s fine poetry, and to Joyce for her photos! ’Tis the painful month of February, bringer of love and sad stories, and we shall hope for better days ahead, with plenty of love for all of us.
Our new Seed of the Week is “One Day at School”, which was suggested to us by Carl “Caschwa” Schwartz of Sacramento. 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
Moonbirds
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
A reminder that Bob Stanley
will interview Patrick Grizzell
at Coffee and Poets, 2pm, at
Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento
this afternoon; plus this is the
Poetry Out Loud Finals in
Nevada City, 5pm; and tonight
Angela Drew and Linda Scheller
read in Modesto, 7pm.
For info about these and other
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—
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.
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?
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.
Poetry Out Loud Finals in
Nevada City, 5pm; and tonight
Angela Drew and Linda Scheller
read in Modesto, 7pm.
For info about these and other
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—
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.
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?
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!
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
