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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam
I DANCE WITH THE GHOST OF MY SISTER
—Joyce Odam
I dance with the ghost of my sister
she is me
I am one
it is summer
and childhood again
we play catch
we play hide and hide
in seeking twilights
we laugh together at secrets
we sleep together in dreams
when I am angry at her
she disappears
I cannot punish her
only I am punished
by my envy
by my only-childedness
by our tearful mother
who lives only for me
I twirl in the fates of my sister
who is featureless
and has no existence
except what I give her
I pull her after me
in homesick years
in worlds where I am a stranger
and she has outgrown me
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/29/16; 7/23/19;
7/2/24)
—Joyce Odam
I dance with the ghost of my sister
she is me
I am one
it is summer
and childhood again
we play catch
we play hide and hide
in seeking twilights
we laugh together at secrets
we sleep together in dreams
when I am angry at her
she disappears
I cannot punish her
only I am punished
by my envy
by my only-childedness
by our tearful mother
who lives only for me
I twirl in the fates of my sister
who is featureless
and has no existence
except what I give her
I pull her after me
in homesick years
in worlds where I am a stranger
and she has outgrown me
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/29/16; 7/23/19;
7/2/24)
From Whence The Illusion
TO MY IMAGINARY SISTER
—Joyce Odam
Sister, let us dream together in this long and sor-
rowful night. Lay your head down next to mine.
Close your eyes while I watch you close your eyes
to see if you are real. Then sleep, and I’ll watch
over you with my sleep. Then dream, and I’ll dream
with you.
Sister, wherever you are, do this for me. This long
night is growing even longer. I feel the disappear-
ance of time. Do not empty the mirror between us.
We were never twins. I was the first and only, but
you always came when I called, as I call you now.
Sister, I cannot sleep.
The night has grown restless with my insomnia. I
read the same old book of weariness and watch its
path of words go across my eyes—but it does not
tire me. Come read to me, Sister—let me hear your
voice inside my voice. I need you again, dear ghost.
Once again, I need you.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/19)
—Joyce Odam
Sister, let us dream together in this long and sor-
rowful night. Lay your head down next to mine.
Close your eyes while I watch you close your eyes
to see if you are real. Then sleep, and I’ll watch
over you with my sleep. Then dream, and I’ll dream
with you.
Sister, wherever you are, do this for me. This long
night is growing even longer. I feel the disappear-
ance of time. Do not empty the mirror between us.
We were never twins. I was the first and only, but
you always came when I called, as I call you now.
Sister, I cannot sleep.
The night has grown restless with my insomnia. I
read the same old book of weariness and watch its
path of words go across my eyes—but it does not
tire me. Come read to me, Sister—let me hear your
voice inside my voice. I need you again, dear ghost.
Once again, I need you.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/19)
.JPG)
His Own Self
NOW IS THE TIME FOR YOUR MUSIC
—Joyce Odam
(After Young Spanish Woman with Guitar by Renoir)
Long before
I would ever yearn to hear it
you have been chronicled in art
for me to decipher,
sure of your smoldering style,
the intensity
of your concentration—
oblivious of me,
your hands at work.
And I am only your poor listener
for what I would hear—
wild flamenco from your guitar.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/17; 1/1/19)
—Joyce Odam
(After Young Spanish Woman with Guitar by Renoir)
Long before
I would ever yearn to hear it
you have been chronicled in art
for me to decipher,
sure of your smoldering style,
the intensity
of your concentration—
oblivious of me,
your hands at work.
And I am only your poor listener
for what I would hear—
wild flamenco from your guitar.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9/17; 1/1/19)
.jpg)
In All These Places
NOW YOU TOUCH ME WITH POEMS
—Joyce Odam
Now you touch me with poems;
words scatter all over me
till I am drenched and heavy.
This was not what I meant . . .
Now you assault me with
words I am too slow to catch.
Shall I trust my mirror?
I look through my mask of
ruined sequins and finger-marks
to my anonymous reflection,
your magnetic words adhering
to the glass—who I was
shivering in salt-light—
a sound of sea-waves rushing up
behind me, one last seagull swooping
toward me with its cold, metallic cry.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/18)
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Night
THE VEIL OF NIGHT
—Robin Gale Odam
she got her lashes wet
one tear the cue
she closed her eyes and wept
the star the moon the darkened sky
the moon the star the far black sky
the veil of night the closing sky
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/12/23)
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Fear As Rumor
MIRROR AFTER MIDNIGHT
—Joyce Odam
It is easy enough to send praise into aftermath.
What we receive of light is the other side of dark.
Who shouts in the hollow becomes the echo—
a word I can use—dense with meaning.
We are at the service of our souls
which are at the mercy of our lives,
in the stone light
gray thought, manufactured as shadow.
Tears are the salt of grief, joy, and
humor.
Empty the womb for the lost child—
name it Sorrow.
Two who are unnamed
go toward love with fierce anticipation.
The hotels are empty now. They served
the lonely and the lost in their transitions.
It was the gulls—so starkly white in the
gray field—dark skies roiling inward.
Reading it all wrong—that word again—about to
break, like a face left in its mirror before it got old.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/9/14; 2/28/15;
12/27/16)
.jpg)
The Day Is Ending
MUSE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After “When I Met My Muse” by William Stafford)
She finds me now and then—she holds
my name and rocks me when I’m dead.
Today a weathervane of tin, with hair of
clouds and voice of wind—she calls me
to the empty sky, for scraps of day to try,
for writing on the night when it should fall.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2017;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23; 8/20/24)
.JPG)
Dreams Me Again
WORLD-WEARY
—Joyce Odam
The old poet of the beautiful sadness
locks himself in his dreams
and writes letters to his melancholy.
He broods over balconies
and haunts himself with music
from the darkened room behind him.
Even the mellowing light of his eyes
turns a desperate blue as he
stretches back into the embracing shadows.
Once in a while he loves . . . but mostly
he only remembers the old loves
that depend upon his remembering . . .
mostly the old loves fail him once again.
Dawn finds him broken and drunk on
his own sadness. Who will rescue him then.
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/30/24)
—Joyce Odam
The old poet of the beautiful sadness
locks himself in his dreams
and writes letters to his melancholy.
He broods over balconies
and haunts himself with music
from the darkened room behind him.
Even the mellowing light of his eyes
turns a desperate blue as he
stretches back into the embracing shadows.
Once in a while he loves . . . but mostly
he only remembers the old loves
that depend upon his remembering . . .
mostly the old loves fail him once again.
Dawn finds him broken and drunk on
his own sadness. Who will rescue him then.
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/30/24)
.jpg)
As A Vision
WHERE LIGHT GIVES NOTHING BACK
—Joyce Odam
(After Melancholia by Edvard Munch)
Having become all shadow
she is at the mercy of
the two windows
where she has pressed herself
like a leaf between
the flattening pages of blank thought
where she is losing herself in the glare
of crossed window-light
which shudders at the coldness
of her face
the hollows of her eyes,
where it dies out.
(prev. pub. in “CQ’, California State Poetry Quarterly,
Julian Palley Issue, 1998)
.jpg)
From Another Time
NOIR LOVE
—Joyce Odam
—Joyce Odam
(After La Nebuleuse by Raoul Ubac, 1939)
She materializes in tears
—only weeping knows her.
He can count on grief to love her.
She writhes in his mind.
He tries to hold her:
she is smoke . . . she is air . . .
she is not there,
but he sees her.
Her eyes do not contain him,
her arms do not reach,
though he makes her dance
—a contortion
in the shining dark
of his possessive grief.
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009)
She materializes in tears
—only weeping knows her.
He can count on grief to love her.
She writhes in his mind.
He tries to hold her:
she is smoke . . . she is air . . .
she is not there,
but he sees her.
Her eyes do not contain him,
her arms do not reach,
though he makes her dance
—a contortion
in the shining dark
of his possessive grief.
(prev. pub. in NOIR LOVE, Rattlesnake LittleBook #2,
2009)
.JPG)
The World's Path
WIDOW
—Joyce Odam
Memories contain us for themselves.
Life is full of ghosts.
We talk to their mirrors.
I was a mirror once :
life and its house,
its clock, its season.
I know how the mind
will select, distort,
forget.
I know how mystery unfolds itself
into different endings.
I know where I fit.
The walls of my life are hung with
faded photographs. I ask again
who they really are.
They answer what I think
and change expression.
I stare at them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/16/21)
—Joyce Odam
Memories contain us for themselves.
Life is full of ghosts.
We talk to their mirrors.
I was a mirror once :
life and its house,
its clock, its season.
I know how the mind
will select, distort,
forget.
I know how mystery unfolds itself
into different endings.
I know where I fit.
The walls of my life are hung with
faded photographs. I ask again
who they really are.
They answer what I think
and change expression.
I stare at them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/16/21)
.JPG)
The Imagined
Today’s LittleNip:
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, 6/20/23)
___________________
No foolin’ on this April Fools’ Day, with fine poetry from the Odams (Joyce and Robin Gale), and fine visuals, too, from Joyce. (Life is full of ghosts!) The Seed of the Week was "Empty", and, as usual, the Odams were anything but empty on the subject.
Today is the beginning of National Poetry Month 2025; check out https://poets.org/national-poetry-month with its 30 Ways to Celebrate, and of course local celebrations on Sacramento Poetry Center’s website at www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org/events/.
Our new Seed of the Week is for National Poetry Month: “Sheer Poetry”. Put your own spin on it; not all poetry is words. The hummingbird at my feeder outside, gorging himself after the rain... 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, though Poetry Month and beyond.
___________________
—Medusa
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, 6/20/23)
___________________
No foolin’ on this April Fools’ Day, with fine poetry from the Odams (Joyce and Robin Gale), and fine visuals, too, from Joyce. (Life is full of ghosts!) The Seed of the Week was "Empty", and, as usual, the Odams were anything but empty on the subject.
Today is the beginning of National Poetry Month 2025; check out https://poets.org/national-poetry-month with its 30 Ways to Celebrate, and of course local celebrations on Sacramento Poetry Center’s website at www.sacramentopoetrycenter.org/events/.
Our new Seed of the Week is for National Poetry Month: “Sheer Poetry”. Put your own spin on it; not all poetry is words. The hummingbird at my feeder outside, gorging himself after the rain... 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, though Poetry Month and beyond.
___________________
—Medusa
American Academy of Poets
National Poetry Month Poster, 2025
Order it at
A reminder that
Susie Kaufman and Joe Walsh
will be reading in Cameron Park
today, 5:30pm.
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.
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!
