The Dark Edge of Winter

 We Talk Of Dark

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

—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

WINTER PAGES 

—Joyce Odam

I pull on another layer.
A cold morning.  Chill upon chill.
A cold wall behind my pillow.

I am so cold.
I put on socks.
Bunch a sweatshirt behind my head.

Try to read
Try to wrap my hands inside my sleeves
and still turn pages.
                                   

(prev. pub. in Chrysanthemum, Spring 2001) 

 

 

 

Urgency

 

 

CROWS COME IN LIKE WAR
—Joyce Odam

And now there are crows in the city,
cawing upon the telephone wires.
I can accept all birdsong
that comes trilling
to my morning windows,
easing nature into mind,
soft against the hard,
like sudden things I like to find
in strangeness.
I can accept all lilac-guise
in winter.

But crows come in like war,
startle of dark
that makes a ragged scratch
upon the clock,
that makes a frantic waking
into fright.
Crows break the flimsy cages
of the night,
half-lifting their black wings
against the thudding
of the heart.

                           
(prev. pub. in Imprints Quarterly, Summer 1968;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/14/22)

 

 

 

Turning To Gold

 

  

DARK SOLSTICE
—Robin Gale Odam

. . . after the night
out of the shortness of
days into the length of time . . .
                

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/27/22) 

 

 

 

To Wait For You

 

 
SHIFT OF MEMORY
—Joyce Odam

Past the dark edges of night,
which is made of memory,
I go in my own darkness,
which is secret—
past the moon-lit gardenias,
that glow,
and the night-blooming cereus,
which insinuates—
past all these shadows
that still reach out to me
as if they were human presences.

All I can see of this
is silenced
in a shift of memory
that wants to rhyme with itself,
wants to hear again its old laments—
long since forgotten,
or only silenced—
like leaf-fall,
or after-echo
that follows behind me
as I walk this dark place—
afraid, and unafraid.
It is only memory.

Why is no one there,
though I feel many presences?
Who am I looking for, yet dare not find,
as if finding might change me?
And how can I still envision gulls
out of this darkness—
black gulls
with black cries
that listen for my answer?
I answer and they disappear,
not sure what they mean.

I write this for a way through
the immeasurable years
that seem like tides
that bring back such gulls
through the darkness—theirs and mine,
which still connect with hauntings.

Who might I have been other than this self
with so many questions,
answers hiding where they always hide—
useless answers that change
as the questions change.

I let myself drift back,
through this place that is so familiar,
as if I want to be there again—
without
me.

Why is it filled
with such love—
such stubborn, lonely love—
someone I yearn for
who never was.
                                         

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

 

 

 

 Truth And Lies

 

three phantom songbirds
minor triad, evening light
three silver shadows

    —Robin Gale Odam 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/29/23)

 

 

 

When It Rained

 

THE WINTER LOVE
—Joyce Odam

That day there was a storm—a quarrel
of sky and sea—a division of force.

The clouds broke, the rain blew down,
churned under, and belonged to the sea.

The sea gathered and rose into the sky,
but there was no taming of either.

We walked along that shore to feel the
fury—answer our moods—our silence,

building now to the clash of power :
one fed the other, the whole winter of us,

daring—and uncaring of outcome.
This was a love to the finish.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 02/19/13;
11/26/13; 12/13/16)

 

 

 

What Now, Rain?

 

SHOULD I BELIEVE IN SPRING
—Joyce Odam

I heard the birds singing today
under my sadness
and I said,
Should I believe in spring?
Permit feeling?

And the birds were oblivious
to my thought
and they sang in the tree
by my house
where I hung clothes
under a cloudy sky
and I said,
Should I believe
in possibility?
This singing is so pleasurable.

And the birds
sang through my reluctance
to permit joy to enter my heart
and I said,
Should I permit my heart to
open to anything again?

And the birds
continued singing
in the tree by my house
and I said,
Should I linger at this chore
and enjoy the singing?
And the birds continued,
oh, continued, singing.

                          
(prev. pub. in Acorn, 1996; Senior Magazine, 2002;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/1/12; 3/25/14;
2/28/17; 9/26/23)

 

 

 

To Sing At Dawn

 

THROUGH THE TREES
—Robin Gale Odam

lacy nest of eggs
filled with fragile promises
bird of cliché blue
holding heaven in its beak
the sigh of wind—the dreaming girl
                       

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2018;
and Medusa’s Kitchen,  6/25/24)

 

 

 

 We Are Ours

 

THE METHODS OF EACH OTHER
—Joyce Odam

We are down to
our nitty gritty now
hands deep in the soil of decision
crumbling the earth
and saying it is
good soil
suitable for our avid weeds and
bitter radishes.

We work the stones
to where we want them :
I leave mine where they are
to conduct sun-warmth;
you throw yours in a path
to walk upon.

We are difficult farmers
ever at odds with
the methods of each other,
never in rhythm with the crop,
watering when it rains,
harrowing the cracks in drought.


(prev. pub. in Coffee and Chicory, 1994;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/31/16; 8/6/24)

 

 

 

Thoughts

 

 
SIGNS OF LIFE AT THE EDGE OF WINTER
—Joyce Odam

I wait for spring at this sad edge of winter—wait
like a leaf that has no metaphor but me—I am
the thought that made it real, it was never there.

I needed its symbolic presence saved from what I
knew was not enough—just some thought to chew
upon. This is the time of year such thoughts intrude.

Insomnia. Regret. All those reasons. I wait for birds
to sing at my dark window—wait for the light to
lengthen—wait for signs that all is well with me.

This is the stubborn edge of one more winter,
counted, hoped upon, and gotten through. And 

    spring
is what I want to transfer to, as if I, too, deserved

another crack at life’s old metaphor I have yet
to figure out. But still I watch for signs—first
swellings on the trees—first blossoms—first sigh

not a sigh of sadness, regrets to lay aside and not
sort through. I feel the slow year turn in my
direction—bud by bud—and clue by subtle clue.

                                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 1/26/16; 3/23/21)

 

 

 

Valse Des Fleurs

WHEN LIFE IS GOOD
—Joyce Odam

Lest I regress to some old meaning
less desired
old scriptures lost

burdens of cost
old blunders
redefined

poor rhyme not wanted here
slant or pure
all layers intertwined

but my heart and soul can overflow
at the sight of pink blossoms
in the moody month of spring

how the quickened feeling
of hope
can change the air—

but more like the close call
of some gentle creature
that got away from death

or the final unwinding of
the endless ball of tangled string
that life depends upon…

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/8/23; 3/12/24)

 

 

 

Unresolved

 

Today’s LittleNip:

POST SCRIPT
—Joyce Odam

When I am obsolete
I will remember all perfection
as an answer shattered
by a question.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2016;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/23)

___________________

Should we believe in Spring? The daffodils do, and the lilacs, and even the cynical crows. Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have written to us today about the dark edges of spring, soon to be peeled away for sun and early mornings and birds, birds, birds. Thanks to them for fine poetry and fine visuals!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Too Expensive”. 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

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Medusa











 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

Coming soon to a 

tree near you ~