Canvas of Light

  

Night Has A Need

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

 

 

HEDGEHOG POEM
—Joyce Odam

Brazenly based on Hedgehog in the Fog
(animated film, 1975, directed by Yuri Norstein,
written by Sergei Grigoryevich Kozlov)

When I was out walking in the fog one day, I met
a materializing old horse with sad brown eyes. He
was an old dim photograph of a horse. We sur-
prised each other, each having no destination—he
cautioned me about the semi-darknesses in life, I
concurred to his wisdom. He was such a beautiful
old brown and gray horse. “Kinda’ like us” I said,
and laughed. He snorted and stomped and stirred
the air into silver particles that whirled awhile then
settled, we were talking about the word ‘Beautiful’
and agreed that it was a beautiful word and should
be allowed—with that solved, we talked some more
about the fog, how thick and long-lasting it was.
“Like sadness” he said and I shivered and felt the
sadness of the fog and the beautiful leaves started
falling—falling silverly around us—like tears—
beautiful, old, silver tears from an invisible tree.
We empathized a bit longer, having taken each
other at face-value and appreciating this brief in-
timacy of strangers. An evening breeze came up—
scattering the leaves and the old horse stomped his
hooves, and I stomped my boots, and the fog did a
fog-dance around us and thickened even more.
And I felt a sad loss—such a sad loss.

                                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/16; 10/4/22) 

 

 

 

Away Is Not Far

 

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS
—Joyce Odam

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone, but their
pace is faster, yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged. The
sand grows heavy under your
slowness. The day will not
hurry. Your eyes are
playing tricks, scouring
the distance which wavers
and changes. There is no one—
no one to follow, only the two
shadows—shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven, living again, some
long ago betrayal, failure of proof, the distance—

ever-widening—the following as useless as the love.
                
                                                           
(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/4/20)

 

 

 

Mother Dreaming

 

FLAPPER
A Tease
—Joyce Odam

Long ago my mama danced the shimmy—
shook her shoulders under sweaty lights                              
that whirled and glittered, the music loud and tinny.

She shook her hips and shimmied away the nights;
her hip-beads would swing and click against her
skirt.
Her legs were pretty.  She even caused some
fights—

she couldn’t help it that she loved to flirt.
She drank and laughed until the years would spin—
as if to hold away all future hurt—

the tears to be—the way it all changed when
the carefree jazz was traded for bad news,
brought by some man she loved.  But until then,

she danced the shimmy-shimmy—not the blues
she’d later dance—in sadder dancing shoes.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s  Kitchen, 5/12/15)

_____________________

THE REBELLION OF ANGELS
—Robin Gale Odam

After Autumn in the Scottish Highlands,
—Photo by Sorin Rechitan

Then the serpent said to the woman,
Ye shall not die at all... Genesis 3:4
(1599 Geneva Bible)


Translated in the reflection of the house,
the rune offers mystery but gives no clue.

Fishes swim just outside the door,
drag old fishing lines through watercolors
and the watery songs of birds through the
muddy waver of the deep skyline.

Trace the surface of the evening to the
worry at the edge of the water—the house
awash in sunset, the hill behind on fire
with the slow color of rust.

 

 

 

The Cocoon

 

WEB OF SUNLIGHT
—Joyce Odam
 
"Your own shadow sits in silent study”
                          —Charles Simic
                       
You sit in your yellow shadow in brazen
sunlight, haunted by the darkening eyes  
of watching—you glow for me—almost
burn with shimmering blindness—how
can I turn away. I have yet to love you.
The light forms around you with such
fierceness. I penetrate the glare with
my possessive eyes—you emanate
and draw me in. I become a blaze
with you—the web of sunlight
holding us together, till I am
merely a vibration and you
are a stunning presence
waiting to absorb me.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/24/17;
8/4/20; 2/15/22)

 

 

 

No Compromise

 

THE CHILD ARTIST AT AN EASEL OF LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

This maelstrom of self—this painting on mirror—
this
discovery—will the child come true—continue
to be,

primitive, child of the fierce proud look. How much
discovery can glass hold; how much distance

can extend behind the positioned, reflective, self?
What does the child know beyond color and smear—

what does he grasp of perspective’s first freedom,
how much will the child retain of the old
connection

between hand, and mind, and eye—and this canvas
of light—this pigment of the sun’s dispersive glare?

To what far-self does the child begin to compare
with his rapt intensity. See how he is private—

lost in his art—how he holds his brush—its body
braced, sure of itself?  See how his eyes insist on

his just-discovered right to perfection, how he fills
the glass surface and beyond, how he paints on

through the dimension of mirror, paints the ground
beneath, paints the frame’s restrictive, bordering
air,

how he paints the blue and dazzling sky behind
him;
how he paints the lowering sun, how he paints
himself?

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Tule Review, Summer 2000; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/14/15; 2/15/22) 

 

 

 

The Intentions of Dreams

 

sword of flames for light
in remembered fantasies
riding upon fire

through an olden tale of dreams
with the old imaginings

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

An Old Temptation

  

                        
FAME
—Joyce Odam

I didn't know him, standing in winter, standing
among trees, his face smiling cold, his shirt open
to his heart, standing like a young man, awkward
and alive, brazen with power, hands on his hips,
having shouted someone's name and waiting for
their answer. Branches and sky fought the air
above him. He gave them no attention. What he
was doing now was being seen for the man he was,
a poet, a wild man of dreams, and all his songs
were in his heart, beating, he was the wealth of ex-
istence, having written his one book of sorrow and
truth; how he believed in himself. It was in his face,
expectant and open, shining from the darkness that
was descending from the awesome suddenness of
wilderness. There was no home here, why did he
stay, to mock the question and the answer. Why
did the one he called not hear?

___________________

THE FRUSTRATED POET
—Joyce Odam

After “Shall I compare Thee”
by T. Alan Broughton, Southern Review, 2001
(“According to early Icelandic law, it was a serious
offense to address a love poem to a woman, even
an unmarried one.” )

How will I hide this, and you not know, not fear
my ardor, (suspected or not) not know by my
glance, or certain silences (filled with pending).
How can I not offend you with my love poem
made of guarded words, or made of outpourings,
I must speak—must overwhelm you—with my
longing. How else can I disobey the old taboos :
will love kill me? cause rumor and shame? must
I write this on silence—hoping you’ll find it and
lower your eyes in my direction and make some
sign? O Lady, dare I risk this poem for you?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/6/16)

 

 

 

Shaping the Moon

 

THE LONELY RAIN
—Joyce Odam

What a lonely rain. What a strange night for a
lonely rain to fall. What a sad shame that the
lonely night has to end under such a lonely rain.

What a cold sight to see two leaning people under
a struggling umbrella—leaning into and away
from the cold sad rain—pressing hurriedly to-
gether as they cross the rain-dimensioned street
and disappear into a flattened doorway where the
white moon casts an image that reflects and then
shreds back against the night.

What a slow-moving night : the rainy window, the
cold room, the remnants of beauty still on their
faces as they lie together—almost in love—listening
to the rain.

    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/25/18; 9/24/19)

 

 

 

The Silence

 

EXHALE
—Robin Gale Odam

At the fire on my day
my breath will burn away—

my written words and promises
to vapor in the embers.

And works not done are born again
and breathing in the fire—

my breath will draw itself once more
and the muse will draw another.
                              
__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ALBINO NIGHTINGALE
—Joyce Odam
After “No Swan So Fine” by Marianne Moore

Made of pure light, sent from imagina-
tion’s land, straight out of childhood’s
fairy tales—a nightingale of course, in
a silver cage, with an open door to test
its loyalty—mind’s albino nightingale
that preens,  and sings,  and struts for
the emperor whose ownership proves
    vulnerable with mind-sweet trill.  
          I hear it still—all the way
                 from then to here.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/3/15;
12/15/20; 5/17/22)

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Brazen”, but there is nothing brazen about the Odam Poets—fine as their work is, it needs to be seen, and our thanks go to them for today’s sparkling presentation!

Our new Seed of the Week is “It’s That Time Again”. What time are we talking about? Winter? Holidays? School starting? Daylight Savings (Nov. 3 out West here)? Dentist appointment? 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.

For more about the Russian classic, Hedgehog in the Fog, go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedgehog_in_the_Fog/, or see YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKDeMBzXnpg/.

 

And yes, "Flapper" is a Sonnet, and a sassy one, indeed! Joyce frequently contributes form poems to Tuesday, but I usually snatch them up and move them to our form day (Friday). I did scoop up her Abracadabra for Friday of this week, but Flapper was so perfect for our Brazen SOW that I left it here. Enjoy!—and check in for Friday's poem, too.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Autumn in the Scottish Highlands
—Photography by Sorin Rechitan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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
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Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
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send poetry and/or photos and artwork
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