I Am A Forest

At Once

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

 

 

morning filled with sleep
autumn color fills the air
yesterday thinning

         —Robin Gale Odam

_____________________

THE GUARDED WOODS

—Joyce Odam

Who watches me with the
strange indifference of flowers

in the guarded woods
of my imagination

where I go in search
of strange flowers

seen in flower books—
the many eyes and faces

of such flowers
in their dissimilarity—

at home in
their dark shadow places

where they thrive and compel
my curiosity, where

should I dare to pick one
I would be forever guilty.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/25/15)

 

 

 

Visitant

 

IN THE MIND OF
—Joyce Odam

All night they struggle through the forest,
two creatures from the tale of woe,
doomed to create an ancient story
from myth to moral—she

being borne on the back of a handsome beast
who would protect her from the evil that
lurks at the edge of fairy tales,
not yet written.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/9/11; 11/17/15)

_____________________

IN THE FOREST
—Joyce Odam

in the forest
which had been silent
something happened

a tree fell
taking at least
a century

it fell to the ground
and shuddered
taking at least a year or two

and made itself
comfortable there
while all its vibrations

reverberated still
and the air
resumed its breathing


(prev. pub. in Cotyledon 7, August l998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/9/11)

 

 

 

Beyond The Need

 

CONDOR
(10-ft wing span, 35 mph, no vocal cords)
—Robin Gale Odam

No call, no cry, no voice—
but the rush of feathers in flight,
translation of the windborne.

                     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March/April 2021; and
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021)

 

 

 

 Guardian Angels

THE OLD FORESTS
—Joyce Odam

this
is where
the
trees
thrive
that are
still alive
ageless
trees and tall
in a guarded
reserve
that are
very old
untouched by all
but the perfect moonlight
that shines secretly upon them
                              

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/3/22) 

 

 

 

 Solitary

 

QUIETLY READING HERE FROM
A JUST-OPENED BOOK
After The Reader in the Forest by Robert Henri

—Joyce Odam

I want to write to you about the history
of an hour just lived.
I have come to this tree
which is very tall, and very old,
and seems to welcome me.
There are many such trees  
that seem to be just as knowing
of my presence, and I am writing
from memories that seem to change as
day changes its light through the leaves.
I think I have become lost, but that
is only another small detail
to mention—if I am found,
and you are not even the
one I want to find me.
There was something
about something
that I wanted to say,
but the tree is humming
as I lean against it and
the shadows rustle
ever-so-softly.
I never knew
there were
so many
shades
of green.
I know this is  
only a small grove
pretending to be a forest,
but that comforts
my little while of hiding.
City sounds still try to
invade the silence—the sky
is vanishing through the leaves.
The hour I mentioned has not really
been lived, just these mood-wanderings, this
room of leafy green curtains that keep changing
their light—moment by moment through the hours.

                                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

 For Ever And Now

 

UNKNOWN HOUR OF WHEN
 —Joyce Odam

Time has brought me here—unknown hill
and sky—unknown hour of when.

An only tree looks familiar. I walk toward it.
Uphill.  Downhill is too dark.

How can this be morning—there is no clock.
I am thrust into timelessness.

I listen for birds in the tree.
Clouds hang still.

The tree rustles its leaves.
A voice-sound forms a question.

Ask and ask—I turn from my direction,
look down at the tops of trees.

A forest,
tightly held together by the silences.

I shout for an echo—call out,
call out—no echo in the density.

I have been asleep, and I have wakened
Where is the sleep tunnel?
                                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/18/20; 6/11/24)

_____________________

CALANDO
—Robin Gale Odam

When the credits roll, when happily
every after is embraced and the story
cleaves to a strand of illusion, the music
becomes slower and softer, dying away.

                               
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2016;
Sacramento Poetry Anthology, 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2017;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/24)

 

 

 

Fairy Godmother

FOR THE CUP THROWER
—Joyce Odam

I am glad to have your book
with the spilled coffee on it.
I know how it feels
to throw a cup against the wall.
All the precious paper in the world
cannot stay such anger.
What a furious design you have made—
all that splatter—all the poems
have become suddenly holy.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Epos, Winter 1975; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/19) 

 

 

 

The Sleeper

TRAGEDY AND TRAGEDY, FADING-OUT
After Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau, 1886
—Joyce Odam

Where are we now but in some dream
together, emerging a dark woods—

two mimes in white costumes,
wandering through a night-sketch—

late of a country carnival
(how long ago)?

displaced by time, perhaps,
the winter-stricken trees already lonely

for our presence
as we slowly diminish—

two cloud-wisps emulating us, the cold
and following white moon about to weep.

                                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/25/17; 9/17/19) 

 

 

 

 Me, Myself, and I

 

FORGIVE MY NEGATIVITY
—Joyce Odam

I know no other way to be these days—these
hard-lived days, days of revelation, hard to say
and hard to live—comma unto comma of sad
thought endlessly pursuing some conclusion.

I don’t want to say illusion here but have to let
it in for dull reality—I fail life and fail myself
past utterance and silence. At odds. I spiel and
spiel on paper made of trees, I am a forest—

gone from rain to fire, and fire to rain.
It’s all so complicated now. I spiel
and spiel. I hold still. I hold still
so I can know.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE PROMISED LOVE
—Joyce Odam

“The clearest way into the universe is
through a forest wilderness.”—John Muir

Follow the music of the trees.
Follow the music of the birds.
Follow the music of the
ever-deepening winds
that pull you deeper
into the waiting universe
of mind, and heart, and soul,
to where the promised love is.
                                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/12; 9/3/13; 

7/15/14; 7/12/22)

_______________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Alone in the Woods”, and The Odam Poets have tackled it with their usual verve and glory. Many thanks to them on this third day of Autumn.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Nosy Neighbors”. 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 Reader in the Forest
—Robert Henri, 1918

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai presents
Kate Wells, Geoff Neill, & Jean Biegun
in Sacramento tonight, 6pm.
Reservations recommended!
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
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Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
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