Storms of the Heart

 Fall

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

 

 

TANGO THREE
—Joyce Odam
After The Great Dancer, 1926, by Hans Arp

The whale dances with the amoeba, which dances
with
the jellyfish, which dances with the man in the
tuxedo
and the woman in the white stockings.

Together
they demonstrate the life they share with the music
that is different to each.

They are so tolerant of each other—with the
motion
to guide them—and no end to reach.
They are perfectly secure in each other’s embrace.

The whale comes up for air and to see the sky.
The amoeba follows the curiosity, and the jellyfish
changes shape with every motion of the others.

The tuxedoed-man and the white-stockinged
woman
continue to be oblivious to all but the passion of
the dance as they move to the virtual shape of the
music.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/24/18) 

 

 

 

Daytime

 

THE LADY WHO COLLECTS ELEPHANTS
—Joyce Odam

The lady of the elephant collection
is alive again this morning.

She awakes to hear
singing from the whales
in the coffee pot.

Her next life swims in the sea
which is nearby to serve her.

All of her glasses gleam,
she has been busy since
darkest morning.

On the brick mantle top
her first elephant weeps
offering a silver transparent tear
for her camera which fails so often.

All day she floats through her rooms
in many dresses and changing her hair
into different positions.

Her carpets are soft for her feet.
She lives alone
behind soft-curtained windows.
She does not talk to herself.
                                          

(prev. pub.in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/31/18) 

 

 

 

Morning

      

   
SPARROWS
—Robin Gale Odam

The journey to the edge of the water—
now the small boat, the churn of the river,

the pull of the current choking in the tangle
of roots—the choke of the river in the roots,
the rush of the sparrows—

wrap the blue sweater tightly—the fugue of
sorrow surrenders in the red mist of morning.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23) 

 

 

 Summer

 

CONCERNS
 —Joyce Odam

swimming into the mouth
          of locked water
                   a young whale

                            finding the
                                 shallow beach
                            at the end

                   and rocking itself
          to death
against our helplessness

                              
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1997; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/25/11; 6/22/21) 

 

 

 

Of Mind

 

flocks in shadowland
at the tick of memory
chatter of worry

 —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/1/23) 

 

 

 

Spring

 

THE BLUE SHIPS
—Joyce Odam

Ships are blue because they are blue,
creating their own distance, sailing
into horizons where everything
ends, even watching—
a diminishing blue on a dark ocean.

Ships are blue because
memory likes them that way :
little painted boats on little ponds,
happy as toys—
even little suffered ships in bottles,
the pride of clever boys.

Ships are blue because memory sails them
into blue calms and storms—
wondering about their destinations,
their passengers, their crews.

Sometimes tantrums drown them, careless
as storms of the heart, the angry power
in the moment. How they resist,
turning bluer and defiant—
buffeting upon the towering waves
that fight the lowering skies.

Home will always remind them
of love
with its
lighthouse,
its dutiful prayers,
its candled windows.

Ships are blue
because they are made of farewell
which is final—adrift in
the desolate mind of feeling and no feeling
—even the heart pumps blue to fill the ocean
of that strange longing.
                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/30/15) 

 

 

 

Sterling

 

for the faint of heart
now the garden gate is locked
silver to the troll

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020)

 

 

 

Before I Wake

 

HER FATHER IN A DREAM OF WAKING
—Joyce Odam

Her father, in a dream of waking
looks for his ghost-child
afloat on the edge of his memory.

He does not remember her
though he feels he should:
What was her name?

He tries to say it,
but she eludes him.
She says, Father, and he disappears.

                                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/11) 

 

 

 

 Nighttime

TINY BIRDS, MAYBE THREE
—Robin Gale Odam

The cries of wind
tempered by cold of starlight—
strange homeland.

I am a stranger even to myself.

I pull the cover around me,
listen for harmonics. Tiny birds,
maybe three.

                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/20/23) 

 

 

 

Winter

 

THE BREATH OF TIME
—Joyce Odam          

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.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LIGHTHOUSE
—Joyce Odam

If I were the sea
I would use you for a focal point :
your light for my darkness;

I would use you for a boundary
to gauge my edge against;
I would know where I could test
my calm and fury,
let my ships beware,
warn my whales,
and give your shore-gulls praise
for marking stormy skies
with their whiteness.

I would always know where you are
so I could ever surge toward you
with my lonely power.

                                                                    
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now (Sacramento), May 2009
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/29/12; 12/31/19)

_____________________

This week’s Seed of the Week was a quote from a PBS program, Soul of the Ocean: “In Nature there is darkness as well as light, and all shades in between.” The Odam Poets sank their teeth into the multiple meanings of that quote, with wonderful results, and we thank them for their fine work!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Horses”. Too much horsepower? Hold your horses! Too much horseplay. Quit horsin’ around—I gotta go see a man about a horse…  Those magnificent creatures have worked themselves into our language, that’s for sure. Tell us about horses, and 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.

 

The November issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Check it out for area poetry events (including the Bay Area), poetry, submissions, workshops and more!

______________________

—Medusa

Did you vote?

 

 

 The Great Dancer, 1926
—Hans Arp (oil on wood)

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!

 

 The passion of the dance…
shape of the music…