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—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
ON THE DEATH OF POETRY
—Joyce Odam
We talk of light the way we talk of dark.
We mention gray twilights for compromise.
But really, it is only light and dark.
Our voices set against each other—shrill
and distant—our gestures rising in a dance,
intense with choreography.
Night flounders down
with clumsiness.
We fold into its tangled garments and sleep.
~~~
I wake briefly to see someone searching
among us for whatever she has lost. She
picks up page after crumpled page and reads.
She nudges each of us with a question.
But that is not it. She picks up a child from
the center of us and carries it away with her.
~~~
The window is full of birds. One of the birds
thinks up a song of pure senseless joy
and begins singing.
—Joyce Odam
We talk of light the way we talk of dark.
We mention gray twilights for compromise.
But really, it is only light and dark.
Our voices set against each other—shrill
and distant—our gestures rising in a dance,
intense with choreography.
Night flounders down
with clumsiness.
We fold into its tangled garments and sleep.
~~~
I wake briefly to see someone searching
among us for whatever she has lost. She
picks up page after crumpled page and reads.
She nudges each of us with a question.
But that is not it. She picks up a child from
the center of us and carries it away with her.
~~~
The window is full of birds. One of the birds
thinks up a song of pure senseless joy
and begins singing.
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Who Are We
AIR SPACE
—Joyce Odam
Here I live in this old ugly room behind
this noncommittal door that locks and
this stingy window that opens to the
flat near wall, where I look out
to see the shadows pass.
If this is metaphor, and I am room,
then let me tell you more . . .
I am the hallway and the stairs that I
trust myself to climb. I am the mirror
and the wall, the ceiling light and bed.
I am the sleep, I am the hour after hour,
and the rent I pay.
If you are curious, and I have need to
analyze . . .
then I collect old curiosities and more;
I gather evidence of theft, the souvenirs
of crime and fear, all compromise and
promise, all surrender that gives in.
If you are horrified, or do not care . . .
I have no news for you. I am this cold
and ugly room, this noncommittal door
that locks and this mean window opened
to the flat near wall where I look out and
see the shadows pass.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/2/17)
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What Hour
AS THE FABLE GOES
—Robin Gale Odam
The worry creeps in, the low shudder under the
deep, silent hour, for the ripple of rumors—
and in the garden, the curiosity and the knowing,
and, of course, the even number of pages—
and the rasp of a breath—or the faint flourish
of an author—perhaps a whisper, as of a tight wind
for those on the wing—and the chrysalis, for
unfolding—
and gems, lots of gems—the uneven number of
petals, the golden grasses, the crown and the
face of beauty—and the sky the color of dark wine,
and someone to arrive as a cue, as for an ending.
The ripple of an hour should do.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/22; 6/13/23)
______________________
WOMEN OF BONES COME OFF THE MOUNTAIN
—Joyce Odam
women of bones come off the mountain
their songs are left echoing behind them
they have told their children they will
return by morning
they have deliberate eyes that
look until they find
in the taverns the men are pretending
to enjoy their beer
and challenged games of pool
their dollar bills lie wrinkled on the bar
they are bored of jukebox music
and each other
and think they will go home to wives
they turn
as at a chill of memory
when the women are suddenly there
looking at them
with no smile
and no compromise
and sipping tomato beer
the men look closely
but cannot see
the mountain’s green darkness
within the women who
have bare feet and tangled hair
who have come for more children
to take back alone
back to the mountain
(prev. pub. in 13th Moon, 1977; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/16)
WOMEN OF BONES COME OFF THE MOUNTAIN
—Joyce Odam
women of bones come off the mountain
their songs are left echoing behind them
they have told their children they will
return by morning
they have deliberate eyes that
look until they find
in the taverns the men are pretending
to enjoy their beer
and challenged games of pool
their dollar bills lie wrinkled on the bar
they are bored of jukebox music
and each other
and think they will go home to wives
they turn
as at a chill of memory
when the women are suddenly there
looking at them
with no smile
and no compromise
and sipping tomato beer
the men look closely
but cannot see
the mountain’s green darkness
within the women who
have bare feet and tangled hair
who have come for more children
to take back alone
back to the mountain
(prev. pub. in 13th Moon, 1977; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/16)
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Which One Of Me
AS INTO CRYSTAL
—Robin Gale Odam
I hold your love, clear as water
summoned to my palm—and if I gaze,
as into crystal, you will stay with me
but if ever I should weep for you,
salt will steal you then away.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2018; and
City of Sacramento’s E.M. Hart Senior Center
Poetry Writing Group Anthology 2018)
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Inward Thoughts II
MAYBE A ROBE WITH ROSES
After “My Life In Robes” by Leonard Cohen
—Joyce Odam
My life in roses . . .
I thought this is what you meant to say,
but words melt in the rain
when compromise is made.
What else is there to believe
but what one wants to hear?
You always were the one
to speak into silence
as though it were a script
for tragedy—and roses
seemed a likely word to say,
whatever the stage of surrender.
You lick the blood from your finger
when I mention this.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2009; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/15/14)
___________________
REM-SLEEP
—Robin Gale Odam
i saw the pastor at the market,
i’m sure it was him, he was in line
looking forward empty as though
he hadn’t noticed me standing nearby.
otherwise he would have had to say hello
and ask, how is your daughter, and did
you and your husband ever marry?
and then did he die?
i’m sure it was him.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/22)
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Farewell With No Echo II
THE ECHO ZONE
—Joyce Odam
Repercussions of light,
residuals of dark—
meld of refusal and compromise,
life’s crowding moments—
torn open by reach into distance
through hollows of deaf height,
howlings and ravings that fill and
fill—emptying voice and mind
into another world of you.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/4/12)
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At The Window Glass
WINDOW AND SEA
—Joyce Odam
And the tides—as they pull again
at the moon’s urging
and the earth’s response,
the slow motion of time,
the gray window that lets in light,
yet holds the darkness.
Such is the compromise :
subtleties of shadow,
the way the cold walls shift,
or seem to.
How near the sea—
the old admonishing sea,
claiming what it claims,
whispering,
come near . . . stay back . . .
And the sea breathes in and out
with its glimmers of sunlight—
the sea’s reflection.
And the tiny window
glints out over the bay
and the day fills with strangers
changing the mood and rhythm
between window and sea
and breaking the connection.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/19/16)
_____________________
WE ARE THAT LONELY
—Joyce Odam
We will lose heart
my darling
many times
before we die.
We will learn bitter truth
that we will label lie
when we undo ourselves
from love
and wonder why
we are so bitter.
We will confuse each other
over and over
and cry less than
we used to
visibly
though we
will assault the mind
with inner
weeping.
We will not find
the lost perfection of
the early vows.
But now that we are wiser
and have learned
to compromise
we will untouch
and touch again
over and over
we are that lonely.
(prev. pub. in Charas, December 1972)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A MAN SITS WHINING
(After Stephen Crane)
—Joyce Odam
A man sits whining
on the side of the road.
He is tired of his life.
He loves, but cannot be loved.
He is tired of compromise,
the resistance to his words.
He shudders with hate.
All he wants is love.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/17)
____________________
Joyce and Robin Gale Odam are talking about Compromise today, (our Seed of the Week), and we send them many thanks for struggling through this phenomenal, uncompromisng, record-setting heat!
WE ARE THAT LONELY
—Joyce Odam
We will lose heart
my darling
many times
before we die.
We will learn bitter truth
that we will label lie
when we undo ourselves
from love
and wonder why
we are so bitter.
We will confuse each other
over and over
and cry less than
we used to
visibly
though we
will assault the mind
with inner
weeping.
We will not find
the lost perfection of
the early vows.
But now that we are wiser
and have learned
to compromise
we will untouch
and touch again
over and over
we are that lonely.
(prev. pub. in Charas, December 1972)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A MAN SITS WHINING
(After Stephen Crane)
—Joyce Odam
A man sits whining
on the side of the road.
He is tired of his life.
He loves, but cannot be loved.
He is tired of compromise,
the resistance to his words.
He shudders with hate.
All he wants is love.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/17)
____________________
Joyce and Robin Gale Odam are talking about Compromise today, (our Seed of the Week), and we send them many thanks for struggling through this phenomenal, uncompromisng, record-setting heat!
Our Joycey will turn 100 on August 7! Joyce has been published a lot by Rattlesnake Press and has posted weekly on MK almost since the beginning, and we're pleased to see on the new Poet News from Sacramento Poetry Center (https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews) that there will be a party on Aug. 6 at 2pm at the Hart Center to celebrate Joyce! Poet News says, "Joyce Odam has seen the whole spectrum of the growth of poetry in Sacramento, and was one of the groundbreakers. . . [and boy! could she tell you some stories!]. Joyce, with Norma Kohout, founded the Hart Center Poetry Workshop over 30 years ago and it is still thriving. She is one of the most prolific and widely published poets in the area, with many credits to her name, and is an inspiration to us all."
Joyce has also edited and published several journals herself, the most recent being her wee Brevities, and she's been active in many area workshops, including the SPC Tuesday Night Workshop, among others. And Joyce is always more than willing to share her considerable expertise with struggling poets such as myself. I'm so glad to see her being recognized on this milestone she's come to. Poet News promises to say more about her in their next issue, so watch for that.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Grumpy”. 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
Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
______________________
—Medusa
At least tomatoes love the heat...!
—Public Domain Photo
A reminder that
Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center's
Second Tuesday Reading will feature
Monolin "Manny" Moreno and Lillian Valle
tonight in Modesto, CA, 7pm.
For info about this 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.
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!
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!
