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—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam
THE FABRICATED MUSE
(Poet and his muse, Omar Khayyam)
—Joyce Odam
Never mind, Old Poet, your dream
still lives,
perfect and unsullied
as any desire
while
tenacious vine
climbs up your musing window
where you lean on your elbow
and sigh
and close your eyes
and sniff the air
and your conjured Muse
still hovers near
like a tiny hummingbird,
but your pen won’t move
and your thoughts won’t clear
though she strokes your dreaming ear
and whispers, write me . . . write me . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/21)
(Poet and his muse, Omar Khayyam)
—Joyce Odam
Never mind, Old Poet, your dream
still lives,
perfect and unsullied
as any desire
while
tenacious vine
climbs up your musing window
where you lean on your elbow
and sigh
and close your eyes
and sniff the air
and your conjured Muse
still hovers near
like a tiny hummingbird,
but your pen won’t move
and your thoughts won’t clear
though she strokes your dreaming ear
and whispers, write me . . . write me . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/21)
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Rosewater
THE ROSE-EATERS
—Joyce Odam
tonight
we will tear a rose
and devour it
for we are hungry
for certain tastes
and urgencies
we have been
away so long
from
sweet tongues
of the flowers
our lips
will be
pink with flavor
as we smile
through the half darkness
at each other
(prev. pub. in ARX, Sept. l969;
in The Rose Eaters Mini-Chap, 1972
by Joyce Odam (The Pleiad);
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/25/10; 12/1/15;
11/30/21)
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Gathering
FOR ROSES
—Joyce Odam
Thorned, and petaled soft,
the marvel of their scent—
their wonder is enough.
For science and intention,
for all that intervention,
all is moot—
that something of the mind
can alter what is there,
will alter what is truth.
Thorned, and petaled soft—
with lack of scent—how can
the sacrifice of roses be enough.
Thorned, and petaled soft,
the marvel of their scent—
their wonder is enough.
For science and intention,
for all that intervention,
all is moot—
that something of the mind
can alter what is there,
will alter what is truth.
Thorned, and petaled soft—
with lack of scent—how can
the sacrifice of roses be enough.
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Blue As In Blues
IN THE ALLEY
After Ted Kooser's "In the Alley"
—Robin Gale Odam
within the turning of a day
I saw them sorting through a trash
no matter of their countenance
by each of them a prize was found
a fragrance drifting from the heap—
the wilting spray of handsome rose
and now with no apology
I write them here, a prize secured
that tender turning of a day—
a sweet bouquet of hidden verse
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Rose Garden, Full Sun
THE MEMORY-SCENT OF DRIED
ROSE PETALS
—Joyce Odam
What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this—
expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.
Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.
Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,
trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/19/19; 6/28/22;
10/1/24)
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Night Blooming
WILTING ROSES
—Robin Gale Odam
Twenty synonyms lingering,
every day another woe . . .
Once the scent becomes a sorrow,
a memory, that one phrase of a song,
a fading and featureless image only
in the night . . .
What has become of life, of love . . .
Piano keys, viola strings, the music
score harboring notes of darkness . . .
—Robin Gale Odam
Twenty synonyms lingering,
every day another woe . . .
Once the scent becomes a sorrow,
a memory, that one phrase of a song,
a fading and featureless image only
in the night . . .
What has become of life, of love . . .
Piano keys, viola strings, the music
score harboring notes of darkness . . .
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Sunbird
In broken roses now
we lie among thorns
caress the long stems
and twine among the petals
sweet
sweet smelling
and clinging
they fall like rain from our arms
as we fall
from each other
like
the
roses
so many flounderings
against the
love
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/924)
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Wild Flowers, No Breeze
WHITE FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
She rose into the dark morning
and gave her candle its flame.
She placed it behind the stained glass
hummingbird of lavender
with green wing feathers
and a soft yellow sky.
She dropped a lemon peel
and three ice cubes
into a glass of water.
She dusted her body
with the scent of white flowers
and put on her tiny diamonds
set in white gold.
She sipped the bitter lemon
and stared at the translucent bird
in its yellow sky.
It looked as beautiful as a sunrise.
She knew the day would steal her away.
She would cook oatmeal with raisins
and count lunch money
and remind them all to please hang up their wet
—Robin Gale Odam
She rose into the dark morning
and gave her candle its flame.
She placed it behind the stained glass
hummingbird of lavender
with green wing feathers
and a soft yellow sky.
She dropped a lemon peel
and three ice cubes
into a glass of water.
She dusted her body
with the scent of white flowers
and put on her tiny diamonds
set in white gold.
She sipped the bitter lemon
and stared at the translucent bird
in its yellow sky.
It looked as beautiful as a sunrise.
She knew the day would steal her away.
She would cook oatmeal with raisins
and count lunch money
and remind them all to please hang up their wet
towels.
She would navigate traffic
and wait for every red light
and her secret would be
that her music was turned up full blast.
She would cling with all her life
to the heavy sound of the drums and the bass
and her heart would pour itself out again.
She would be nine minutes late.
She would accept every task
and turn every way
and do many things at once
and eat crackers for lunch
and forget to breathe
and not stop once until the end.
She would fall through a dream
of traffic and red lights
and a stop at the store
for something she would not remember
and children in the schoolyard
and the five steps to her front door.
She would say she loves them
and remind them to please
pick up their shoes and socks.
She would slide into her old soft gown
and place her diamonds into the red silk box.
She would lean into her feather pillow
and close her eyes for just a moment.
Her sons would blow Pachelbel’s Canon
through their flutes.
Her daughter would draw her a picture
of a wolf with long eyelashes
wearing a saddle and bracelets.
She would not be able to open her eyes.
She would smell the faint scent
of white flowers.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 12/20/22; 9/3/24)
She would navigate traffic
and wait for every red light
and her secret would be
that her music was turned up full blast.
She would cling with all her life
to the heavy sound of the drums and the bass
and her heart would pour itself out again.
She would be nine minutes late.
She would accept every task
and turn every way
and do many things at once
and eat crackers for lunch
and forget to breathe
and not stop once until the end.
She would fall through a dream
of traffic and red lights
and a stop at the store
for something she would not remember
and children in the schoolyard
and the five steps to her front door.
She would say she loves them
and remind them to please
pick up their shoes and socks.
She would slide into her old soft gown
and place her diamonds into the red silk box.
She would lean into her feather pillow
and close her eyes for just a moment.
Her sons would blow Pachelbel’s Canon
through their flutes.
Her daughter would draw her a picture
of a wolf with long eyelashes
wearing a saddle and bracelets.
She would not be able to open her eyes.
She would smell the faint scent
of white flowers.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 12/20/22; 9/3/24)
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Sunny Field
VERILY, VERILY…
—Joyce Odam
1.
The bride sweeps through the petals
strewn by the girls in pink. The sky
is a gentle blue and later there is a waltz.
2.
The ballroom grows dizzy—
circling and circling within the music,
turning the clinging—lingering waltzers.
3.
There will be dreamy music this night.
It will last until sleep,
like an exhausted lullaby.
4.
But, oh, waltzers—oh, music, dance on.
This adoration will not last.
Something will happen to the perfection.
.jpg)
Time As Timeless
CHARADE
—Joyce Odam
If a perfect rose is not enough beautifica-
tion for your shoulder what must you lose
of love with its wanting—your long look
down your arm toward the floor, your eyes
so terrible with loss and waiting for the
background to overtake you—what use
memory that saddens and holds—what
use this worrisome glitch of time with its
cutting symbol of mockery. The rose is
beautiful—will wilt. He’s gone.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/21)
—Joyce Odam
If a perfect rose is not enough beautifica-
tion for your shoulder what must you lose
of love with its wanting—your long look
down your arm toward the floor, your eyes
so terrible with loss and waiting for the
background to overtake you—what use
memory that saddens and holds—what
use this worrisome glitch of time with its
cutting symbol of mockery. The rose is
beautiful—will wilt. He’s gone.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/21)
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Hybrid
SINGLE ROSE IN BUD VASE
—Joyce Odam
Rose, and echoed rose, single-hued
in mirror-facing windows, where
the twi-lit glass mirrors her rare
garden roses—publicly viewed.
Her Silk Rose now takes all her care.
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Winter 2008)
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Healing Incense
Today’s LittleNip:
SYMPATHIES
—Joyce Odam
Meager though the tokens are
I hoard them now.
A paper clip will fit them all :
One letter, and one formal card,
one small note from a shop bouquet.
(prev. pub in
The Muse of Fire, August l997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/19/19)
___________________
Our two resident rose-buds, Joyce and Robin Gale Odam, have sent us poems about roses today as we celebrate our Seed of the Week, The Lingering Scent of Roses. Thank you, Joyce and Robin! And thanks to Joyce for all these visuals.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Shadows on Our Lives”. 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
"Sweet bouquets of hidden verse..."
—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!
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!
