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—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
* * *
Poetry of all things enchanting…
THE BREATH OF TIME
—Joyce Odam
[as we celebrate the year of Joyce’s 100th birthday]
The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine
and the sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells
from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar
through all my dreams—
all explained. My body
is light, and my mind
has never been so deep.
Love shines from within me
and touches everyone.
It is brief but good.
I feel a swarm of color
and am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.
I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.
—Joyce Odam
[as we celebrate the year of Joyce’s 100th birthday]
The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine
and the sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells
from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar
through all my dreams—
all explained. My body
is light, and my mind
has never been so deep.
Love shines from within me
and touches everyone.
It is brief but good.
I feel a swarm of color
and am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.
I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.
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Frog
MUSE
After “When I Met My Muse” by William Stafford
—Robin Gale Odam
She finds me now and then—she holds
my name and rocks me when I’m dead.
Today a weathervane of tin, with hair of
clouds and voice of wind—she calls me
to the empty sky, for scraps of day to try,
for writing on the night when it should fall.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2017; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)
After “When I Met My Muse” by William Stafford
—Robin Gale Odam
She finds me now and then—she holds
my name and rocks me when I’m dead.
Today a weathervane of tin, with hair of
clouds and voice of wind—she calls me
to the empty sky, for scraps of day to try,
for writing on the night when it should fall.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2017; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)
.JPG)
Eyes
THE MUSE, MUSING AROUND IN MY HEAD
—Joyce Odam
She was younger than I expected, kinda sad,
if you know what I mean, as if I actually
knew her, though she was
here—
in my head—
like a dream
and she was comforting me,
comforting me.
But why?
I felt no need of her,
no joyful or painful recognition,
no words pressing me to hurry.
And I could not hurry.
I was at the beginning of a scream.
I felt it,
building,
and I was paralyzed,
paralyzed in the dream,
the muse
wavering
brokenly around me
like something forgotten,
and old now,
and withering, like fire-smoke, or fog,
shot through with headlights
in the middle of an ocean—one I could not
swallow with my throat so full of scream,
and my muse
was distantly humming, something familiar,
and I had words,
I had the words, and we were writing . . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/20)
—Joyce Odam
She was younger than I expected, kinda sad,
if you know what I mean, as if I actually
knew her, though she was
here—
in my head—
like a dream
and she was comforting me,
comforting me.
But why?
I felt no need of her,
no joyful or painful recognition,
no words pressing me to hurry.
And I could not hurry.
I was at the beginning of a scream.
I felt it,
building,
and I was paralyzed,
paralyzed in the dream,
the muse
wavering
brokenly around me
like something forgotten,
and old now,
and withering, like fire-smoke, or fog,
shot through with headlights
in the middle of an ocean—one I could not
swallow with my throat so full of scream,
and my muse
was distantly humming, something familiar,
and I had words,
I had the words, and we were writing . . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/20)
.JPG)
The Mandolin
MUSE (OFF THE RECORD)
—Robin Gale Odam
How could this be said—
out of sorrow, type and strike,
type and strike again.
Every keystroke, suffering,
every etching of the pen,
every bother yearns to weep.
Salt and dust are on the floor,
every unrest lingering,
every keystroke, suffering.
Every trouble yearns to keep
every etching of the pen—
how could this be said.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)
—Robin Gale Odam
How could this be said—
out of sorrow, type and strike,
type and strike again.
Every keystroke, suffering,
every etching of the pen,
every bother yearns to weep.
Salt and dust are on the floor,
every unrest lingering,
every keystroke, suffering.
Every trouble yearns to keep
every etching of the pen—
how could this be said.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)
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Smitten
I LOVE THE LIE
—Joyce Odam
Darling, I love the lie upon your silken
mouth, your abstract kiss,
the practiced way you mold your syllables.
And I love the way you dwindle into pout
that I must coax with my own kiss
when you must pout me to your way.
And, Darling, I do believe the things you say,
though I watch your eyes, the way you
somehow twist in slight response
and fix your charm
upon me once again with one more lie
of love, love, love
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/13/18; 2/12/19)
_____________________
LISA POURING IMAGINARY WINE
—Joyce Odam
She has silver toenails.
Her mood is green.
She wears a borrowed dress.
She balances a bottle
full of green water on her head.
She does a dance of herself.
In this poem-light
he looks at her
and becomes a poet to her charm.
She laughs and pours imaginary wine
into his upheld glass.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, April, 1997; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/8/15)
_____________________
OLD CITY-SCAPE IN RECALL
After Rain by John Salminen
—Joyce Odam
Soft as its own shadow in the receding mist,
the gray building—not really there—not
the slow figures moving in the rain, nor
the wet trees without their leaves, or
the black posts of the street lamps
in long formal rows. Wide blue
shadows catch at the light the
rain keeps pouring through.
The strolling figures
never reach the end
of the public walk.
Cars stay parked.
Nothing echoes.
This is a silent rain
for the time it takes for
memory to remember : it was like this,
just like this rain, only longer and farther
than this place, only a depiction, only this
slow recall, the gray transparent building
still shimmering apart against the sky.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/11/16)
—Joyce Odam
Darling, I love the lie upon your silken
mouth, your abstract kiss,
the practiced way you mold your syllables.
And I love the way you dwindle into pout
that I must coax with my own kiss
when you must pout me to your way.
And, Darling, I do believe the things you say,
though I watch your eyes, the way you
somehow twist in slight response
and fix your charm
upon me once again with one more lie
of love, love, love
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/13/18; 2/12/19)
_____________________
LISA POURING IMAGINARY WINE
—Joyce Odam
She has silver toenails.
Her mood is green.
She wears a borrowed dress.
She balances a bottle
full of green water on her head.
She does a dance of herself.
In this poem-light
he looks at her
and becomes a poet to her charm.
She laughs and pours imaginary wine
into his upheld glass.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, April, 1997; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/8/15)
_____________________
OLD CITY-SCAPE IN RECALL
After Rain by John Salminen
—Joyce Odam
Soft as its own shadow in the receding mist,
the gray building—not really there—not
the slow figures moving in the rain, nor
the wet trees without their leaves, or
the black posts of the street lamps
in long formal rows. Wide blue
shadows catch at the light the
rain keeps pouring through.
The strolling figures
never reach the end
of the public walk.
Cars stay parked.
Nothing echoes.
This is a silent rain
for the time it takes for
memory to remember : it was like this,
just like this rain, only longer and farther
than this place, only a depiction, only this
slow recall, the gray transparent building
still shimmering apart against the sky.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/11/16)
.JPG)
Something Given
WHAT THE BIRD TOLD ME
—Joyce Odam
when it flew so near,
when it brushed my hair,
when it held my eyes
when it framed the air with its wings
and it heard my cry
from the numbness of my mind
and I raised my hand
for it to rest upon
but it had no need
so I held it with my breath
and it almost touched my face
and I did not move or fear
it was the pain,
and the bird told me
to tell the pain to go away
we were mind to mind
with no one near
to say I lied
to say how the bird
took all the darkness
that I could not love, and could not say
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/24/19)
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The Rose Petals
MORTAL
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887
—Robin Gale Odam
I hold gently to death. He leads me
towards the tree shadows near the unfolding.
I wear my best transparency. He bears my name.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SENT
After Prayer by Rodica Besliu (Photo)
—Robin Gale Odam
I tell you my name—
I press against your chill,
hearken to your silence.
I was called for. I am sent.
I have come to you—
you prayed.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017)
______________________
Two of our enchanting SnakePals have sent us fine poems today for our Seed of the Week, Enchantment, and we are very grateful for these wonderful works. Our new Seed of the Week is “Desolation”. 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
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887
—Robin Gale Odam
I hold gently to death. He leads me
towards the tree shadows near the unfolding.
I wear my best transparency. He bears my name.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SENT
After Prayer by Rodica Besliu (Photo)
—Robin Gale Odam
I tell you my name—
I press against your chill,
hearken to your silence.
I was called for. I am sent.
I have come to you—
you prayed.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017)
______________________
Two of our enchanting SnakePals have sent us fine poems today for our Seed of the Week, Enchantment, and we are very grateful for these wonderful works. Our new Seed of the Week is “Desolation”. 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
“… the bird took all the darkness…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
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!
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!
