The Craft of Hope

 Perseverance

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA

—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

TAPESTRY
—Joyce Odam

I carry the sense of melancholy on my back; I am
a beast
of my own burden.

I have acquired patience, which is a gift of
endurance;
I suffer in silent decibels.

No one hears me pass among them in my mortal
costume
though I wear small bells on my ankles to sound
my way.

My face is hidden deep in my collar and my
sleeves fill
with ache of home, which is here and nowhere.

My garment grows heavy with the dust of sunsets.
The threads of my first embroidery wear away.

I go everywhere once—and never return—you see
how
this is loneliness?
                                                                   

(prev. pub. in Tule Review, 2002)

_____________________

GINGER TEA
—Robin Gale Odam

The late sky was alive with clouds
—orange and burnt ginger and pale gray.

I heard myself crying, an inward crush of
passion born for a new production—to
stand alone or to find momentum in
a war of noise.
                               

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)

Daydream

 

ENDURANCE

—Joyce Odam

Do not ask them anything—the women of
silences wrap their tongues in cotton syllables.
 
The women of silences phrase their eyes
with secret blindfolds.

The women of silences mask their faces
with feigned expressions.

The women of silences shape their love
into heavy wings.

The women of silences cannot fly
through walls

The women of silences cannot break
their own strings.

_____________________

GRIT
—Robin Gale Odam   

i would not that the air be heavy,
as breathing without you—as clutching
a balloon filled with earth to my chest—

as nearing one full year i would not
that the creeping of time be small,
nor swift.

 

 

 

 Meditation

 

RUINS
—Joyce Odam

I have met myself in the broken mirror—watched
how
it cracked when I barely shifted, marveled and mar-
veled
at how I held together, eye to eye, and mouth to
mouth
with my fissured smile—admiring such a coun-
tenance.  

            ~~~

Today I go where violets are rusting in the rain,
carry
an umbrella for them, but it is all too late, they
droop
and bedraggle, even the yellow ones seem beyond
hope. I feel like a yellow violet rusting in the rain.

            ~~~

I felt I would never wear silence again—such
sobbing,
such sobbing—lost down endless corridors on
clumsy
reverberations, only to bounce at the end and go
silent.
That is what I mean, oh, silently, that is what I
mean.
    
            ~~~   

Found an old manuscript in the rain today—wept
at its
words—so lost, wept at its words, so blurring to-
gether.
Mourned at its meaning, words and meaning, their
ink
dissolving. I am an old manuscript blurring in the
rain.

 

            ~~~

Anger comes slowly now through the long en-
durance
of reasons—old patience spilling over into sorry
rage
against all that is so unfair.  The anger, the anger,
is
here, and how can I lose it, my anger that comes
slow.

            ~~~

Violence came up to me and said, “Hire me. Hire
me.
I am cheap. I am good at what I do. I haven’t eaten
in three  
days. I’m down on my luck.” And violence gave
me such a
look, I considered—considered—what would this
cost me?
                                                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/20/19)

 

 

 

Interpretation

 

I REMEMBER SWEARING

in another language—it was not in
words I understood but the surge of it
was exhilarating—evil stood behind me,
mimicking and memorizing promises,
and crying.

—Robin Gale Odam

     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2015; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/4/23)

 

 

 

Begin the Beguine

 

THE METHODS OF EACH OTHER
—Joyce Odam

We are down to
our nitty gritty now
hands deep in the soil of decision
crumbling the earth
and saying it is
good soil
suitable for our avid weeds and
bitter radishes.

We work the stones
to where we want them:
I leave mine where they are
to conduct sun-warmth;
you throw yours in a path
to walk upon.

We are difficult farmers
ever at odds with
the methods of each other,
never in rhythm with the crop,
watering when it rains,
harrowing the cracks in drought.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Coffee and Chicory,
Spring/Summer 1994; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/31/16)

 

 

 

Visionary

 

 HUMILITY
—Joyce Odam

What is it that has taught me this force,
this grand pretense, this mask of life
worn for survival

what is it that has taught me this craft
of hope and put my faith in this carrot
that I follow for the maybe of it

what will I thank for this that I go on and
on in absolute illusion, because just once
if I go on in any such reasoning, I go on

to the next day, and the next, because
I'll have conjured some attainment
that I need for
going on,
and on,
and
on

 

 

 

Precision

 

 

POEM WRITTEN WHILE SLICING
A GREEN ONION
—Joyce Odam

And right in the crotch
of the long-stemmed onion
the good soil lies

just where the translucent
white
meets the shiny green.

Black grit
is wound in the tiny slices,
absolute, contained.

Something wise
and poetic in me
leaves it there.

We shall eat the earth
today.
We shall realize

grateful communion
with the source
of such good fare.   

                                
(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/11; 3/2/21)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

JOURNEY
—Robin Gale Odam

as though time stood still
all the others watching us
bind our vows in vain

promise anchored in the deep
vessel fettered in the sand

                      
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)

___________________

Poets everywhere will be celebrating SnakePal Joyce Odam’s 100th birthday (which is tomorrow, August 7) at the Hart Center in Sacramento TODAY, August 6, 2pm. For more info about this massive celebrations, go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/07/repercussions-of-light.html/.  

And thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale for more fine Odam-treasure today! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week; our most recent one was Perseverance—something that centenarians can tell you a bit about.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Dangers of Winning”. Success has its perks and problems; I was inspired by Simone Biles’ story and her Maya Angelou tattoo, “and still I rise” (see https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/24/sports/olympics/simone-biles-gymnastics.html/). 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!