Come With Me~

 

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

 

 

GO WITH ME TO THE MOUNTAINS 

—Robin Gale Odam

I will paint them here, at dusk.
At bleed of sunset I will dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

I will sweep the trail with ashen grasses,
dry from the parch of arid devotion.

We were young—you said we would go—
you said you loved me—now I am old.

Now I paint them here at dusk—
here at the fracture above the foothills.
I lick the brush and paint with saliva—
the rock is thirsty. The slate is black.

I am old and the summit is silver.
Come to the mountains. I paint with starlight.
At bleed of sunset, I dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

The summit is silver. I paint with starlight
and I am old—come to the mountains.

 

 

 

 I Call Him Horse

                                  

THE HORSE IN THE FIELD   
—Joyce Odam   

the polka dot horse in the field
the black and white
only polka dot horse in the world
(at least in this field)

his name is not known to me
so I call him Horse
and say to him
Horse, you are so beautiful

and he does not lift his head from the ground
for he is
shy
and he does not know me

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Sunrust, Spring-Summer 1989; 

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/20/21) 

 

 

 

Blue Horse

ON MY BLUE HORSE
—Joyce Odam

I come from time
on my blue horse.
See me ride on the horizon—
all distance and compression.

I take forever.
There is no hurry or despair.
I am riding to meet my mother,
who is that slow light in the east.

I am bringing her
stars for her lack of stars
to put in her blue vase
on the windowsill of morning.

I am returning
from the journey
I began when we were children.
I was a child with her.

We played
in the little box of sand.
I was her doll.  She lived for me;
she said so.

Now I can’t wait to tell her
of my journey,
how night
is a land between us,

and my blue horse
is one I am bringing back to her.
She will touch its sides
with her hands

and look at me and smile;
and I will get off,
and she will get on, and ride off,
back the way I came.

                               
(prev. pub. in The Power of the Moment chapbook,
Red Cedar Press [of Colorado] Poetry Series #1, 1998;
Mini-Chap, 1998; plus self-published, illustrated by
Charlotte Vincent; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)

___________________

AWAY FROM CHILDHOOD
A Fantasy, 1925
—Joyce Odam

After Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin (1876--1939)
The Russian Museum, Leningrad

In the red horse dream, there is no fear;
they fly—over the small village
that holds them away from the sky.

In the dream, the red horse
is afire with muscled energy and light,
with the love of flying,

and the man looks backward—
backward—to where
the night is too slow to stop them.

In the dream, the boy is the man,
gripping his knees to the horse
and locking one hand into its mane;

the horse has no wings, but they fly
into another waking and whatever
follows is too slow . . .  they escape . . .

 

 

 

 Carousel

MERRY-GO-ROUND
—Joyce Odam

The dark horse whirls. The lovers cling.
    Forever is a game they play.
        The other horses blur in tune.
             The children seem to disappear.
                  The lovers grow too old to care—
                       they’re drawn too quick to be aware
                          of all but holding on to time—
                           in rhythmic pull the horses lift
                           and try to win the fastened race.
                         The platform strains against itself.
                    The colors fade to black and white.
             The time is day. The time is night.
          The horses creak, and rear, and bring
     the circles back to where they were.
The dark horse whirls. The lovers cling.
 

                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/16/16;
4/6/16; 8/3/21) 

 

 

 

Out of the Dream

A HUMID NIGHT—

—Joyce Odam

I go with this,
just what I need:
a thought
to proceed on.

(A red horse named Fear
that flies you to safety.)

A humid night—
dark with heat,
the room shrinking inward,
breezes searching the room.

(You are too far under them
the fan keeps them to itself.)

A humid night—
however you mean this,
there is no relief.
The red horse is made of blood.

(Pounding with your blood
as you enter the dream of escape.)

A humid night—
you are awake under the dream.
One is the other.
You make yourself drift.

(Inward—outward—
seeking another dimension.)

The horse is real.
You grip your knees.
You cling to the whip of its mane
as it carries you into a poem of its own.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/9/13) 

 

 

 

 Bridled

THE HORSE SHOW WINNER
—Joyce Odam

The horse jumps the red gate poles
with ease, and being proud,
holds himself there
while the cameras take his picture;

and the rider, high and weightless
in the stirrups,
feels the held moment
and balances with the horse;

and the white flag holds its flutter
in the breeze, and the halted shadow
on the ground waits to reconnect
when the hooves come down.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/20/2021)

 

 

 

 Amity

THE CONNECTION
—Joyce Odam

After Cover Image: “Pegasus” by Dick Schmidt,
photographed on Kanai after Hurricane Iniki, 1992

 

The horse races along with a white bird
as companion.

They follow the urge of the free spirit
that flows between them.

The green trees
blur past.

The brown horse stretches out his lean length
into the rhythm.

They are in a race for existence,
they do not care who wins.

The free spirit urges them on—
the trees blur—and the horse reaches—

and the white bird is wing-close—
they share the same distance.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019)

 

 

 

 Watching

THE BROWN HORSES
—Joyce Odam

The horses come to drink in the quiet hour—
all sound hushed to fill the long moment
as the horses bend to the water—
beautiful to watch.
I am here with my midnight pen and paper
imagining them, though I don’t know
how many they are—if they are
only two. I settle on two.
The horses are brown and glossy
in the low summer light.
I make the shadows long
and the woods behind them deep.
I watch the water after they have
finished drinking, how undisturbed.
I watch a white butterfly insert itself
upon the scene, becoming translucent
and pure with its briefness. I hold my breath
as it drifts into a white moment that sparkles
like the light upon the water. But the butterfly
has startled the horses and they snort and quiver
and work their way across the field toward a fence.  
I think I see a figure there...   but no...
I choose not to.  I will leave them alone now.
I yawn and close my eyes. I am out of paper.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/28/11;
6/7/16; 9/28/21) 

 

 

 

 The Starkness of Dark

THE LAST HORSES
—Joyce Odam

The last horses
are caught up in the mountains
by the last stream.

They are looking at themselves
in the thin water.

Their hooves
shine in the sunlight
as do their backs
when they shift position.

They are becoming photographs…
they are becoming murals…
they are becoming thread
on vast embroidered panels…

Now they are fading out to shadows.
The trees are closing around them
like pieces of camouflage

until we no longer see the horses.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/7/16) 

 

 

 

 Aaron’s Wooden Horse

HOOFPRINT
—Robin Gale Odam

Black ribbon-clouds
cut the sky

Trails of heartbreak
twine through mountains

Ice crystals before sunrise,
memory at low hills

Through tangles of branches,
the tailwind of a storm
          

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen , 3/5/24)

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE FIERY SUNSET
—Joyce Odam

a horse on fire, streaking across
the horizon, its red mane whipping
behind it, and the dark sand burning
like a mirror under the igniting hooves


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Jan. 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/24/10; 9/24/13; 8/8/23)
 
_________________

Joyce and Robin Gale gloriously illustrated our Seed of the Week, Horses, in poetry and photos about the lovely beasts, and we thank them for that. Nobody’s on their high horse here; they’ve sent us horses of a different color. (I think we’ve covered most of the horse clichés in the last week. Got any more?)

Our new Seed of the Week is “Coquette”. 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 challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Flirtatious Moment
—Hushcha Studio

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
John Shoptaw & Murray Silverstein
will be reading 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
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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!

 

 Coquette