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* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
BENEATH THE FATAL CLOCK
—Joyce Odam
1. The daily trouble
bogs us down
in dullest woe.
The nuisance, Death,
is at the edge of everything,
pestering like a brat
at the mother-hem.
2. Songs begin at morning
but the singers lie
beneath the fatal clock
trying to be immortal lovers.
Birds persist in happiness
and leaves go joyfully forth
like resurrection.
3. Somebody who is old
comes knocking at the door:
Selling my life!
New rags for old?
Any broken mirrors
you can’t use?
4. Look what I bought,
I tell the one
who loves me for my bargaining;
look how its colors
dull the light…
look how it tarnishes the eyes…
look how it crumbles in the hand…
(prev. pub. in Prairie Schooner, 1972;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 04/24/18)
—Joyce Odam
1. The daily trouble
bogs us down
in dullest woe.
The nuisance, Death,
is at the edge of everything,
pestering like a brat
at the mother-hem.
2. Songs begin at morning
but the singers lie
beneath the fatal clock
trying to be immortal lovers.
Birds persist in happiness
and leaves go joyfully forth
like resurrection.
3. Somebody who is old
comes knocking at the door:
Selling my life!
New rags for old?
Any broken mirrors
you can’t use?
4. Look what I bought,
I tell the one
who loves me for my bargaining;
look how its colors
dull the light…
look how it tarnishes the eyes…
look how it crumbles in the hand…
(prev. pub. in Prairie Schooner, 1972;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 04/24/18)
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Afternoon
THE BIRDS ARE SINGING
—Joyce Odam
and on the landscape
the birds are singing
invisible in the trees
it is morning
and the sharp songs are everywhere
the sunlight cannot find them
though it looks and
quickens the shadows
of things that are growing
the singing of the birds
is like shouts of diamonds
celebrating their voices
the green leaves
answer with
swift protective flutterings
within which
the diamond birds are hiding
and in the center
of the landscape
a man in a pair of shorts
is sitting on a chair
that is growing from the earth
his body made golden by the sun
his soft hair lifting to the light
and he is sitting there
in all that sound
reading the newspaper
(prev. pub. in Jam Today, 1977;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/30/19; 4/30/24)
—Joyce Odam
and on the landscape
the birds are singing
invisible in the trees
it is morning
and the sharp songs are everywhere
the sunlight cannot find them
though it looks and
quickens the shadows
of things that are growing
the singing of the birds
is like shouts of diamonds
celebrating their voices
the green leaves
answer with
swift protective flutterings
within which
the diamond birds are hiding
and in the center
of the landscape
a man in a pair of shorts
is sitting on a chair
that is growing from the earth
his body made golden by the sun
his soft hair lifting to the light
and he is sitting there
in all that sound
reading the newspaper
(prev. pub. in Jam Today, 1977;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/30/19; 4/30/24)
.jpg)
DNA
ALL THE NEWS IS GOOD
—Joyce Odam
Mama, all the news is good.
You were right to be
an optimist.
I have filled the little cup
with life
and I am here
with all my blues
sewn to a morning dress.
I sit at the window
and watch the birds
who know me now.
Their shifting songs
wash over me in happiness.
I say to you,
I love those birds.
My dress of blues
fits me like words.
I think I know your secret now.
God bless.
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, January 1997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/12/15)
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No Echo
IN MY HANDS THIS GUITAR
—Joyce Odam
What! in my hands,
this guitar?
Not that I know the way of
music,
the way I would touch it real
if I could.
My hands just love the way
they feel upon this wood,
but they are shy
and move quietly
over the unsure combinations,
reaching here and there
for the simple chords
which, when they come,
so please my simple ear.
I do not fumble thus for
public groan or kinder silence.
I play alone
on this guitar.
I sing to it.
It likes the sound of that.
I sing to the night.
The night sings back.
—Joyce Odam
What! in my hands,
this guitar?
Not that I know the way of
music,
the way I would touch it real
if I could.
My hands just love the way
they feel upon this wood,
but they are shy
and move quietly
over the unsure combinations,
reaching here and there
for the simple chords
which, when they come,
so please my simple ear.
I do not fumble thus for
public groan or kinder silence.
I play alone
on this guitar.
I sing to it.
It likes the sound of that.
I sing to the night.
The night sings back.
.jpg)
Through The Night Hours
STREET BLUES
—Joyce Odam
The music that haunts the most
is always blue, the kind of blue
that merges into black and gray,
that comes from every ragged hurt
there is to share and what the
inarticulate will ever try to say;
some city-street-musician plays it
every day—wailing inward like a
winter soul, long-beaten down and
long-removed from hymn or lullaby,
though, here, the lost still try to
pray—too poor for more than what
they have become, scavenging at
emptiness with hungry hands, being
everything the street blues say.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/25/18)
—Joyce Odam
The music that haunts the most
is always blue, the kind of blue
that merges into black and gray,
that comes from every ragged hurt
there is to share and what the
inarticulate will ever try to say;
some city-street-musician plays it
every day—wailing inward like a
winter soul, long-beaten down and
long-removed from hymn or lullaby,
though, here, the lost still try to
pray—too poor for more than what
they have become, scavenging at
emptiness with hungry hands, being
everything the street blues say.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/25/18)
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The Sleeper
CHANGING MOODS
—Joyce Odam
What now,
after all this time-space
sprung darkly
from
events that slip somehow
beyond these words.
The lovingness
(I like that word)
its likeness,
this quietness,
its weightfulness—
for all this among
the wordiness—
or sorryness—
before it
has no word to say
or eyes that ask for the
love—all of it, for a while.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)
—Joyce Odam
What now,
after all this time-space
sprung darkly
from
events that slip somehow
beyond these words.
The lovingness
(I like that word)
its likeness,
this quietness,
its weightfulness—
for all this among
the wordiness—
or sorryness—
before it
has no word to say
or eyes that ask for the
love—all of it, for a while.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)
.JPG)
The Fact Of Midnight
DARKNESS
—Robin Gale Odam
She kept secrets . . .
a sweet ride
parked in the shadow
of a dream,
a fishing line
made of pure
desire,
more words
than she would
ever speak,
a soft heart,
a droplet of
cool venom,
and darkness to match
his own.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, April 2014;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)
—Robin Gale Odam
She kept secrets . . .
a sweet ride
parked in the shadow
of a dream,
a fishing line
made of pure
desire,
more words
than she would
ever speak,
a soft heart,
a droplet of
cool venom,
and darkness to match
his own.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, April 2014;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)
.JPG)
Thinking Back
THE MUSE, MUSING AROUND IN MY HEAD
—Joyce Odam
She was younger than I expected, kinda sad,
if you know what I mean, as if I actually
knew her, though she was
here—
in my head—
like a dream
and she was comforting me,
comforting me.
But why?
I felt no need of her,
no joyful or painful recognition,
no words pressing me to hurry.
And I could not hurry.
I was at the beginning of a scream.
I felt it,
building,
and I was paralyzed,
paralyzed in the dream,
the muse
wavering
brokenly around me
like something forgotten,
and old now,
and withering, like fire-smoke, or fog,
shot through with headlights
in the middle of an ocean—one I could not
swallow with my throat so full of scream,
and my muse
was distantly humming, something familiar,
and I had words,
I had the words, and we were writing . . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/20; 8/20/24)
—Joyce Odam
She was younger than I expected, kinda sad,
if you know what I mean, as if I actually
knew her, though she was
here—
in my head—
like a dream
and she was comforting me,
comforting me.
But why?
I felt no need of her,
no joyful or painful recognition,
no words pressing me to hurry.
And I could not hurry.
I was at the beginning of a scream.
I felt it,
building,
and I was paralyzed,
paralyzed in the dream,
the muse
wavering
brokenly around me
like something forgotten,
and old now,
and withering, like fire-smoke, or fog,
shot through with headlights
in the middle of an ocean—one I could not
swallow with my throat so full of scream,
and my muse
was distantly humming, something familiar,
and I had words,
I had the words, and we were writing . . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/20; 8/20/24)
.JPG)
An Illusion
ALL OF THE ANGLES,
AND THOSE SHADOWS
—Robin Gale Odam
labyrinth . . . the two of them
destined to be as one, despite the
complexity that seeps in—curve by
twisting curve . . .
decades arrive and depart and the
children grow wiser . . .
the husband is gone—the children
are older than childhood now . . .
the journal is open on the table,
the window half-opened for the winds
born out of the curves of happenstance
pouring in from the complex of path-
ways created by the woods and the
vines . . .
stalwart, the widow looks inward—
memorizing all of the angles,
and those shadows . . .
.JPG)
The Vessel
SHAWL
—Joyce Odam
I see her poised
to a brimming moment,
lighting an opaque distance
with the flame of her, spilling
tomorrow over
with the indelible glow
her wants have fired.
And I,
where pulsing hours
thicken a shadowy season
and turn the long day
under
like soil prepared for seed, I
wrap my shoulders around
with thin advice
and watch her go.
(prev. pub. in From My Stranger Hands, Chapbook
by Joyce Odam, 1967; and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/23)
.jpg)
Of Belief
DESIRE
—Joyce Odam
What of this blind faith of love,
with its discontent and its failed reach;
that it always knows
what is real, and what is desired
is real? Only hunger equates—
that hunger that is always there,
beyond food.
Hunger is all one has against need,
need that is always there,
like a moan that is uttered in silence.
Never mind impossibility.
Impossibility is only the beginning.
—Joyce Odam
What of this blind faith of love,
with its discontent and its failed reach;
that it always knows
what is real, and what is desired
is real? Only hunger equates—
that hunger that is always there,
beyond food.
Hunger is all one has against need,
need that is always there,
like a moan that is uttered in silence.
Never mind impossibility.
Impossibility is only the beginning.
.JPG)
Solitary
Today’s LittleNip:
SILENCE ECHOES BACK
—Robin Gale Odam
on a formal date
all dressed up for the occasion
on their first real date
sitting across the table
on cell phones with each other
___________________
Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam are poet-birds of a feather—and fine ones indeed! Our thanks to them for today’s responses to our Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather.
Our new Seed of the Week is “High Hopes”. 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
SILENCE ECHOES BACK
—Robin Gale Odam
on a formal date
all dressed up for the occasion
on their first real date
sitting across the table
on cell phones with each other
___________________
Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam are poet-birds of a feather—and fine ones indeed! Our thanks to them for today’s responses to our Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather.
Our new Seed of the Week is “High Hopes”. 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
‘I have filled the little cup with life . . .”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, CA
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!
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!
