The Tangible Flesh of Moonlight

 Autumn

 

* * *

 

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

 

 

THIS QUIET MORNING  
—Joyce Odam

—after the white dream—
the sun not yet filtering through the tree
outside the window—an unseen bird

is brightly singing—somewhere in
the morning—repeated now
for emphasis on the bluish gray sky

and as I record this, the bird
stops, as though arrested
by my thought, and a hum in the air

that may be the wind or the far
day sound—beginning—sounding
like ocean against shore

I can smell the salt—I can hear
the sea gulls—lonely as ever, circling
and crying—above the traffic now

and the clock says 6:00
though I know it is really 5:00
and the unseen bird is singing again

soon the sun will fill the dark leaves of
the tree with gold fluttering light
and I will close this poem.

     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/11/12; 

5/14/24)

 

 

 

Aminal

 

 
THE BLUE MIST
—Joyce Odam
After Paradise in Blue by Saud Al Attar, 2002

The mirage holds what I desire, not need.
I follow the promise in the shimmer.
    
Blue animals wait quietly
in the shade of small shade trees.

Story-tellers tend the blue animals
and wait for the words of my story.

I am at peace with my travel, though the detail
blurs and the stillness bewilders me.

All has not moved, though I have hurried
and not wavered from my course.

I want to arrive before the shimmering
turns into an unreality.

What stretches between
is not time or distance, but only what it is—

the blue moment lengthening into eternity
—that old, tired word.

The story-tellers wait.
I am the one who arrives. There is no meaning. 

 

 

 

 Stacked Away

 

THE IMPERATIVE TO STASH
—Robin Gale Odam

tucked away in shadow
the oath or merely the promise

not for primary color
as confession but in the nuance
of refinement or even suspicion

the inhale or the slightest catch
of human love for love of the soul
for the love of words

for poetry to collect
and to hold it all

_____________________

MUSICS OVER TIME
 
still play
and the air holds them
and carries them in its currents,

blending them with echoes
and dark planes of silences—
magnifying

all the
distortions
and restorings

that come again into memories
that feel the recognition—
time-saved,

and interchanged,
musics and the voices
with all the cursings and cryings

and even the brooding thoughts
that join the vast releasings
that are borne into each other

that change the air
that we breathe
and the trees that filter and absorb.


—Joyce Odam

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/2/17;
3/31/20; 6/1/21)

 

 

 

Seeing

 

NUANCES
—Joyce Odam

We who have been close and separate
now face the mutual mirror of regard
and look hard at the memory :

What has gone between us is a river,
deep and deeper
with the changes.

What a strange metaphor . . .
one of us always drowning here and there,
in the difficulties . . . in the confusion . . .

The river is always behind us
and before us,
hypnotic with motion and energy.

No stillness here—no turning back,
though we do—grasping at all these
beginnings, caught in the currents.

                                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/11/22)

 

 

 

Observation

 

GHOSTS
—Robin Gale Odam

urn with faint layer of dust
tiny crystal ball
small tray of old marbles

scottie dog gamepiece
dream catcher
herkimer diamond

photo with curled edges
we were young
twilight memory 

 

 

 

 Philosophizing

 

THE BURNISHED NIGHTS OF SUMMER
—Joyce Odam

what does it mean to preen upon silken
sheets at night under a city moon
at an open window
with your thoughts turning into sacrament . . .

what does it mean to hold yourself sacred
in the midst of such perilous yearning,
what does the soul want when it leaves your

body—crying its loss when you dare touch
the tangible flesh of moonlight—streaming
around you—into you—like love—or its refusal . . .

how does your sorrow learn not to be—not even
an increment away from the rain-filled moment
when you are sitting at some lonely microphone

on a poetry chair—filled with such wisdom  
you cannot hold it all—so you let it go—
into the drowning world, before it wakens
under the sleeping moonlight, without you . . .

                                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/12/18)

 

 

 

Once Gathered

 

OLD TRUTHS
—Joyce Odam

Is this the source of relevance,
this neutral place of somewhere
never been,
but want to stay
in its formality of difference—
as though we might relate to this—
the way beginnings can begin?

Is this how we give reason
for our chosen
anonymity—
so precious to our commitment
with guilt—with its forsaking?

How does one stay secret in
a new place any different
than in the old?

Oh, Place—that is the reason for
our failing courage : how to love
outside of love, and take it for our own
—oh purely love as never before
and never again—we swear.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/6/21)

 

 

 

Oh The Sea

 

 

THE SHORELINE AT DUSK
—Joyce Odam

This haunted shore, at dusk,
everything turning blue,

that old spectre here again
in thinning light that shines

through his body—
but I no longer go through ghosts

that appear, and disappear—
the sea behind them,

churning the years away,
sad as time that holds back

some old distance, some recall—
I would walk alone here,

my shore—my hour—
to be alone on this old beach—

all the promises turning to sand,
seaweed catching at my feet.

                             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/13/12;
8/6/19; 5/5/20; 8/16/22)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE SHORT STORY
—Robin Gale Odam

Pile of paving bricks—mortar
dried in the bucket. Tall weeds and
their stickers.

Makeshift chair leaning over the path.
Lace of torn webs.
                              

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)

_____________________

This week’s Seed of the Week is “The Imperative to Stash”; about this, the Odam Poets wrote: “We tackled the imperative to stash, as in, be it human love, or love of the soul, or for the love of words—of poetry to collect and hold it all.” Our thanks to these fine poets for their post today.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Brazen”. 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

 

 

 

Paradise in Blue by Saud Al Attar, 2002

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Patricia Caspers and Molly Fisk
will read in Modesto tonight, 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!