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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos & Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos & Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
IN THE HOUSE ARE MANY SOULS
—Joyce Odam
In the house are many souls
floating between rooms
lamenting through windows
balancing the rumors of their lives
with many versions
we hear them on stormy nights
and on dead-still days
how they regenerate and reminisce
as sure and safe with us
as if we knew them
(prev. pub. in Chaminade Literary Review, 1989;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/11; 8/13/19)
—Joyce Odam
In the house are many souls
floating between rooms
lamenting through windows
balancing the rumors of their lives
with many versions
we hear them on stormy nights
and on dead-still days
how they regenerate and reminisce
as sure and safe with us
as if we knew them
(prev. pub. in Chaminade Literary Review, 1989;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/11; 8/13/19)
.JPG)
In Mother's Roses
THE PRIVACY
—Joyce Odam
The imaginary man of this poem is reading
in a far blue room, one window
showing through another blue window.
It is a soundless poem, being written
for the truth of this lie,
the man all but lost
in the dimension of the house
which is sinking into the landscape
now that we are aware of him.
He feels our presence
but wants to
write us
out of
the poem,
though we are
connected now.
It is the way of us—
ever lonely for what we push away.
The scenery enlarges, making the house
smaller and the man indistinguishable now . . .
how did we end up here on this scribbling page
to discover these meanings?
The roof goes white against the sky.
The blue drenched windows create a private sea of
the same color, holding the house from the horizon.
The earth becomes so much wet sand, and the quiet
grows quieter now that the urgent poem is written.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/6/21)
—Joyce Odam
The imaginary man of this poem is reading
in a far blue room, one window
showing through another blue window.
It is a soundless poem, being written
for the truth of this lie,
the man all but lost
in the dimension of the house
which is sinking into the landscape
now that we are aware of him.
He feels our presence
but wants to
write us
out of
the poem,
though we are
connected now.
It is the way of us—
ever lonely for what we push away.
The scenery enlarges, making the house
smaller and the man indistinguishable now . . .
how did we end up here on this scribbling page
to discover these meanings?
The roof goes white against the sky.
The blue drenched windows create a private sea of
the same color, holding the house from the horizon.
The earth becomes so much wet sand, and the quiet
grows quieter now that the urgent poem is written.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/6/21)
%20(2).JPG)
The Memory
I am sure
—surely I am
sure about this memory,
or sentimental creation
of mind—
uneasy now
because these moments
pass
and I
let them go
directionless in my
meanderings,
paths
closing up behind me,
shadows folding back
into distances
I have taken
looking for . . .
looking for . . .
this moment—
another light making
—another path before me.
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/6/24)
—surely I am
sure about this memory,
or sentimental creation
of mind—
uneasy now
because these moments
pass
and I
let them go
directionless in my
meanderings,
paths
closing up behind me,
shadows folding back
into distances
I have taken
looking for . . .
looking for . . .
this moment—
another light making
—another path before me.
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/6/24)
.jpg)
In The Mirror
MANY MOONS AND YON
—Robin Gale Odam
spatial memory—whatsoever
am i thinking, should i wonder
thoughts
roll up like waves
then away—like the rip current
the wind, as the crow flies—
at first the straight line but then
the will of the bird, the curve of
the landscape
the wailing, or holding on—
the waters from black of night,
no word to call them nor moon to
pull them back
the movie—something about
a life and living along someone’s
margins
what time has it come to be—
long ago and far
i saw the faint scribble at the
center of the tiny book—i touched it
curiously and it was only dust
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)
—Robin Gale Odam
spatial memory—whatsoever
am i thinking, should i wonder
thoughts
roll up like waves
then away—like the rip current
the wind, as the crow flies—
at first the straight line but then
the will of the bird, the curve of
the landscape
the wailing, or holding on—
the waters from black of night,
no word to call them nor moon to
pull them back
the movie—something about
a life and living along someone’s
margins
what time has it come to be—
long ago and far
i saw the faint scribble at the
center of the tiny book—i touched it
curiously and it was only dust
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/16/23)
.JPG)
Ever After
WASTING TIME
—Joyce Odam
What can be taken back
from time so poorly spent?
Today’s wounds were bloodless,
mostly all the small vexations :
things left undone,
half-hearted undertakings,
indecisions—nothing big enough
to mention, just the usual
waste of time, with time so dear.
What holds life so relentlessly?
The circles one goes round in
when the mind is plagued
with fret and worries,
let alone the hurries that jam up,
slow down,
refuse to make good use of time;
the wrong directions made;
the morning energies all wasted;
the usual naps in the afternoon
when effort slows and you realize
that tomorrow will be filled
with today’s procrastinations.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/28/17)
.JPG)
In Every Light
SPOTLIGHT
—Joyce Odam
You sit in the floor-light
of the lamp and talk to me,
saying how madness claims you.
The doorway outlines you
to a graven performer—
I cannot recede into mind-darkness,
you have it all
at the gesturing end
of your fingers that twist so
in your agitation . . .
while I am the one
in bent and inconsolable sadness,
curving inward to a deafness
while you articulate
and perform
your charming pain for me.
(prev. pub. in Coffee and Chicory, 1996;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/7/12)
—Joyce Odam
You sit in the floor-light
of the lamp and talk to me,
saying how madness claims you.
The doorway outlines you
to a graven performer—
I cannot recede into mind-darkness,
you have it all
at the gesturing end
of your fingers that twist so
in your agitation . . .
while I am the one
in bent and inconsolable sadness,
curving inward to a deafness
while you articulate
and perform
your charming pain for me.
(prev. pub. in Coffee and Chicory, 1996;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/7/12)
.JPG)
The Garden
QUESTIONING THE SILENCE
—Joyce Odam
If I could take words into my silence,
I might call you love, I might call you
ragged witch of heaven.
But words are hard to hear. We never
speak. Great vowels of pain take form
and we are lost again in one another.
Once there were two of us, spitting and
snarling like cold water on hot stones.
It was a wilderness. We were the beasts.
Even the cities ignored our strange ways
of walking with shadows at night,
and dreading the lack of them by day.
What’s in a silence
that must be given form—
that must be taken apart to be solved?
There is a loon cry—I have never
heard one—and an owl cry I think I heard
once. That comes closest to what I mean.
I am one lonely town. You are another.
How come we stayed, or left
and returned?
All is
confusion now.
Even the walls have stopped listening.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/15/16; 9/27/18)
—Joyce Odam
If I could take words into my silence,
I might call you love, I might call you
ragged witch of heaven.
But words are hard to hear. We never
speak. Great vowels of pain take form
and we are lost again in one another.
Once there were two of us, spitting and
snarling like cold water on hot stones.
It was a wilderness. We were the beasts.
Even the cities ignored our strange ways
of walking with shadows at night,
and dreading the lack of them by day.
What’s in a silence
that must be given form—
that must be taken apart to be solved?
There is a loon cry—I have never
heard one—and an owl cry I think I heard
once. That comes closest to what I mean.
I am one lonely town. You are another.
How come we stayed, or left
and returned?
All is
confusion now.
Even the walls have stopped listening.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/15/16; 9/27/18)
.jpg)
The Secrecy
ANOMALY
—Robin Gale Odam
like an essay or a confession,
the introduction and a conclusion.
and in between, the paragraphs of
sentences with deviations trickling
through . . .
sometimes the wound, or the salve to
secure the outcome—the ponderous
weight of contention, the reduction to
whispers and the range of words born of
breath—so much to know about love.
—Robin Gale Odam
like an essay or a confession,
the introduction and a conclusion.
and in between, the paragraphs of
sentences with deviations trickling
through . . .
sometimes the wound, or the salve to
secure the outcome—the ponderous
weight of contention, the reduction to
whispers and the range of words born of
breath—so much to know about love.
.JPG)
The Endless Prayers
OLD WOMAN OF SORROWS
—Joyce Odam
I am the old woman
of sorrows.
Come hear me sing
in my church of innocence.
I am the lost way
taken by others
who also have lost me.
I have waited too long
for reverence to find me
with hands full of praise.
Now I sing to the shadows
which dance so softly
to my music.
Now I wait for the days
to lengthen to fit me
where night is an old soul
into which I will move
in comfort and submission.
(prev. pub. in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, 1992;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/27/22)
—Joyce Odam
I am the old woman
of sorrows.
Come hear me sing
in my church of innocence.
I am the lost way
taken by others
who also have lost me.
I have waited too long
for reverence to find me
with hands full of praise.
Now I sing to the shadows
which dance so softly
to my music.
Now I wait for the days
to lengthen to fit me
where night is an old soul
into which I will move
in comfort and submission.
(prev. pub. in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, 1992;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/27/22)
.jpg)
The Flight
MOON
—Robin Gale Odam
night sky, swath of gray,
mother earth and her muse—
curve of dark under the first
pastel ray from the one horizon—
at the other, the dark of invitation,
an invocation, surreal levitation for
virtue of seasons—for the lift of wings
of flying creatures, and the sanctity
of wind moaning through hollows and
sighing at the path of the hour-hand,
above the-notebook-and-the-pen, over
what is there or gone or coming to be
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen. 4/30/24)
.JPG)
The Path
LANDSCAPES LIKE THIS
—Joyce Odam
The trees stand burning from the center
with a molten glow,
we arrive, time-frozen,
from roads that dwindle here.
The legend is that one has to approach
from myth or superstition—
everything is circular—even
the familiar singing of the fire-birds
that exist here.
We are not to enter, though enticement
is everywhere—the soft wavering—
the clouds that emulate—
as if to argue this, two white trees
stand at the entrance,
stripped of their leaves,
they are the sacrifice—
untouched by any knowing—
that must remain a question.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/21)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE WAY
—Joyce Odam
How may we go—slow
as mules—soft as sorrow,
singing our night songs
to each other?
*
How long must we travel
when the way is grief—
and I, your thief of happiness,
you, praising your emptiness?
*
I saw a flash of bird so rare . . .
and you disbelieved me.
Here is its song.
I have learned it for you.
___________________
Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam wrote that their desk was “overflowing” (our Seed of the Week) with poems which had been left behind from the sortings of previous weeks’ submissions. So this week’s SOW was met with all these fine poems!—too good to be left in the dust, for sure—and our thanks to the Odam Poets for this fine collection, and to Joyce for her visuals to go with them.
Our new Seed of the Week is “New Neighbors”. 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
—Joyce Odam
The trees stand burning from the center
with a molten glow,
we arrive, time-frozen,
from roads that dwindle here.
The legend is that one has to approach
from myth or superstition—
everything is circular—even
the familiar singing of the fire-birds
that exist here.
We are not to enter, though enticement
is everywhere—the soft wavering—
the clouds that emulate—
as if to argue this, two white trees
stand at the entrance,
stripped of their leaves,
they are the sacrifice—
untouched by any knowing—
that must remain a question.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/21)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE WAY
—Joyce Odam
How may we go—slow
as mules—soft as sorrow,
singing our night songs
to each other?
*
How long must we travel
when the way is grief—
and I, your thief of happiness,
you, praising your emptiness?
*
I saw a flash of bird so rare . . .
and you disbelieved me.
Here is its song.
I have learned it for you.
___________________
Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam wrote that their desk was “overflowing” (our Seed of the Week) with poems which had been left behind from the sortings of previous weeks’ submissions. So this week’s SOW was met with all these fine poems!—too good to be left in the dust, for sure—and our thanks to the Odam Poets for this fine collection, and to Joyce for her visuals to go with them.
Our new Seed of the Week is “New Neighbors”. 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
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that Twin Lotus Thai presents
Gene Berson, Marty Rayburn,
and Rick Rayburn
in Sacramento tonight, 6pm.
For more 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.
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!
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!
