Poems of Explanation

 About Poetry

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

 

 

EXPLANATIONS
—Joyce Odam

This is a poem of explanations.  Easy to know.
Nothing to forgive.  Nothing profound for you
to ponder.  Nothing obscure so you have to think.

This is a poem,   this is a poem,    unlovely . . .
it travels time to its own distance, which is here.
Now let us consider the page—upon which

these words—upon which these meanings,
do not mean, and do not say. I have lied to you,
true—but you deserve the lie—you who are so

deserving. Whenever you greet me in sorrow,
sorrow is what you get in return.      I am fair.
I mirror you, you with your vain look.

I am here without you.
I am writing a poem for you, which you will
correct and correct.  I am your flaw.

Now I am at a riverbank.  It is winter.
Swans drift up, hungry perhaps, or curious.
A gray wind ripples the day and

the swans move away, discouraged.
I regret myself, my small arriving
to so lovely a place. I know I must walk back,

but first I must walk out to the end
of that small pier and stand on the texture
of that solid water. I have juxtaposed

backwards—you do not yet exist for me,
still I talk to you about this moment,
which is captured like an impression of

a wet leaf in a book.  You insist
on bringing me back—I leave it all suddenly :
the dear white swans with their glossy eyes,

forgetting me and the page that is struggling,
that you insist on being part of.
I cannot please you.  I will please myself.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/25/15; 3/13/18)

The Garden

 

 

BRUSHWOOD
—Joyce Odam

Mothers, here is your son whom you would save
from life—the life he has entered
with a certain failure—

that he feels doomed—and betrayed, though he
is worthy, and whom you love and would
sharpen his tones for existence.

Now he has entered the thickets, to sort
among them for what he has lost
or cannot discover—

something that he needs, but cannot name
because it is not there—only
his wanting of it.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17)

 

 

 

About Love

FOR ALL YOUR FAILURES
—Joyce Odam

Who is going to love you now,
you old fool, out there in the
rain, pulling off your clothes
and cursing at yourself for
all your failures?

Who is going to drag you in
and hold you to a weather-beaten heart,
be strong as an old tree full of dry music
to make you warm again
and never blame you for your pain?

Who is going to love you
when you grow quiet as a stone
and no longer exclaim
that there is nothing left
of you now to save—

that you are in a floating room
inside yourself
where you complain
that after all the rain and weeping
there is only drought?
                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/13; 5/3/16; 5/17/22) 

 

 

 

 When

FROM OUT OF MY DARK HEART
—Robin Gale Odam

If you would dance with me and keep me from
dying, I promise to keep you from yesterday’s
treason—from out of my dark heart, from all of the
grieving of yesterday’s forecast I promise to save
you—if you would but hold me from going. 

 

 

 

 The Everness

                                                   

IN TRANSIENCE: c.1936
—Joyce Odam

The woman of sad experience is tearing up her
letters. They are turning into ashes. A matchstick
hangs like a scar from the art of her fingers. Her
suitcase is open on the bed. Her child watches.

She is dyeing her hair before the mirror. The dyed
water runs down her face when she raises her head
to recognize herself. She has locked the door. Now
she must answer or not answer to the knock. She
must ask who or be silent. Out in the night, the
New Life risks her entrance, opening the way for
her, lending her its staircase.

                 *               *               *

In the bus depot, she waits for the voice of the
loudspeaker. Her child is asleep on her lap. The
timetable is folded in her purse.

Now she is rising into the smoke and the smell
of the terminal, standing in line with the strangers
she does not want to sit beside. She takes the third
seat on the right and watches the others push past,
bumping their suitcases and mumbling sorry. The
bus driver climbs through the doorway and checks
down the aisle of passengers. Their faces gather
momentum for their separate journeys. Their
bodies rock to a common rhythm. Her child dreams
of all her promises. She leans her head against the
window.

                  *               *               *

No goldfish or canary shall miss their presence. The
cat down the hall will resume its superior identity,
licking its paws in the sunshine. No clues will be
left to the landlady with her yellow broom and keys.

Lives are lived and let go of. They are tragic enter-
tainment for the performers. They are comedies to
be enjoyed. They are ill-performed love stories.
                                                          

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/14/14; 5/8/18; 1/25/22)

 

 

 

 Day Or Night

SLEEPING WITH STRANGERS

on the bus . . . the long night droning by
on its wheels . . .    on its sleep . . .
the passengers sagging into each other
        ~~~
a baby crying . . .    
crying . . .    crying  . . . the young mother
blurting out her frustration
        ~~~
a man sneaks a feel on the woman
next to him who wakes . . . and does,
and does not know . . . he has touched her
        ~~~
across the aisle from one another an old
couple   holding hands   stare down the aisle
at the darkness rolling out ahead of them


—Joyce Odam
                                                                

(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/25/22)

 

 

 

 Then Is Never

NOSTALGIA IS A BITTER JOY
—Joyce Odam

Nostalgia is
a bitter joy.

Returning
is a price to pay.

O then!  O then!  O then!
we reminisce

and poke around
the entered mood

for
souvenirs.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11; 4/17/18) 

 

 

 

For Listening

Only in the hollows now,

the old echoes muffle
and expire
with no light
and no sound waves
to carry them forever,
where memory
is only made
of failure to remember,
created out of all
our eloquence
and exuberance;
the stillness of this place
is heavy with gravity.
It settles and spreads
and only says listen
in a fading voice . . .
and true to our loneliness
we have learned to listen
to the silences,
as if they were the love.


—Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 In Time

YOUR NINTH STEP
 —Robin Gale Odam

You were carefully
counting your steps.
I was swimming
through quicksand.
My lips formed words.
My heart revealed secrets.
You glanced thoughtfully
over your shoulder
and, seeing I could swim,
leaned into your
ninth step.

 

 

 

 If Ever

THESE MISSING DAYS
—Joyce Odam

January 2nd is missing, or did you
lose—too soon—all your resolve?

Are you secret, or out of volition?
I kept faith with your resolution,

but you have become private—
choosing not to let me in on your

calendar of days as you spend
them.  And I, who was ready to

accompany you, am left stranded
in a glitch of my life—my thumb

extended—on a long empty road.
It is dusk.  And cold.  And I didn’t

bring a page to fill—or a pencil
to fill it with—let alone a thought.

And I wonder if tomorrow you
might yet drive by and rescue me,

or if ever I should believe in anyone
again who voices their persuasive

intentions.  I expected the full
365 days—not—this soon—gaps.

                                 
(prev. pub. in Sakana, 2005; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/16/11; 3/27/12)

 

 

 

 The Red Flowers

SUNDAY’S CHILD
—Robin Gale Odam

I cried about my birth—the acid of
breath, the clumsy bulk of my blankie,
the line of space one push from the
quaver of the heartbeat, from the
dark of space, from heaven—

I lay on my tummy,
on the cliff . . . overlooking the world.

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

Today’s LittleNip:

JUST NOW I RECOGNIZE GRIEF

as tangible—a brooding figure
settled down beside me
on a cold bench in winter
waiting for a bus or time to
pass while figures haunt by
with their own sorrows—we
are but shapes of sorrow and the
one at my side wants me to listen
while it spiels and spiels and spiels.

—Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/25/22; 2/13/24)

___________________

There is nothing frustrating about work from Joyce and Robin Gale Odam; we are so glad to have plenty of that today with our Seed of the Week, Frustration.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Anxious For Daffodils”. Those early-bloomers are like little trumpets heralding spring, aren’t they? Enough of this winter business—where are the daffodils?!? 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.

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

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 A Lullaby

—Photo by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!