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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
MY MOTHER’S GARNETS
—Joyce Odam
My mother’s garnets adorn somebody’s neck
now, perhaps unknowing of their theft,
(coming home
to front door open—drawer pulled out
and dumped on the floor…)
I think she stole them herself once when she was
a hotel maid, I seem to remember such a story,
(perhaps not—she just came in one
breathless time—something stuffed
between the towels…)
Perhaps some woman wears them now on proud
occasions when unaccustomed elegance is desired,
(I always wanted them—I loved their
soft archaic word—their quaint
design—their quiet color…)
Whoever wears them now must wear my own
forgiveness of covet, and lose my right
to relinquishment.
(She gave them to me before she died—
I loved them with guilt and such sad
tenderness. I never deserved them.)
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1998/99)
—Joyce Odam
My mother’s garnets adorn somebody’s neck
now, perhaps unknowing of their theft,
(coming home
to front door open—drawer pulled out
and dumped on the floor…)
I think she stole them herself once when she was
a hotel maid, I seem to remember such a story,
(perhaps not—she just came in one
breathless time—something stuffed
between the towels…)
Perhaps some woman wears them now on proud
occasions when unaccustomed elegance is desired,
(I always wanted them—I loved their
soft archaic word—their quaint
design—their quiet color…)
Whoever wears them now must wear my own
forgiveness of covet, and lose my right
to relinquishment.
(She gave them to me before she died—
I loved them with guilt and such sad
tenderness. I never deserved them.)
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1998/99)
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Before Tomorrow
at the mansion gate
in the scribing of my death
I will turn and weep
riven by the ghost of shade
light cascading to my feet
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/4/24)
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Sanctity
“I’ll just let the angels take me.”
(...for my mother, who said this…)
—Joyce Odam
Mother, the angels are here.
Shall I let them in?
Mother, they say your name
and they watch you sleeping.
Mother, shall we let go together—
though I am miles and miles away?
Mother, the angels are singing
and you are smiling.
Mother, I see them take you
in their many arms.
Shall I let go my holding?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2011;
11/20/12; 7/22/14)
(...for my mother, who said this…)
—Joyce Odam
Mother, the angels are here.
Shall I let them in?
Mother, they say your name
and they watch you sleeping.
Mother, shall we let go together—
though I am miles and miles away?
Mother, the angels are singing
and you are smiling.
Mother, I see them take you
in their many arms.
Shall I let go my holding?
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2011;
11/20/12; 7/22/14)
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Dream Dreaming Back
MISSING PERSON
(Sacramento, circa 1972)
-- Joyce Odam
where is that old lady
with the
heavy shopping bags
scraping the sidewalk
up and down the curbs
all over town
i meant
to speak to her
i used to see her
everywhere
in my neighborhood
downtown
in all the
shopping centers
not looking in
store windows
walking fast
for someone so old
her arms pulled
long as an ape’s
wearing that long dark dress
and the coat in summer
and the hat that hid
her face
(prev. pub. in Poem, Huntsville Literary Association,
1972; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/22/15)
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As Late As Time
In the certain vanity of oblique time,
sent forth to claim you from your
errant mind on its false journeys—
back and forth from real
to conjured acts of your reality—
how do you count the fraying hours
that are night—
or wasted ones
of days that pull you forward
into repetitious, common grays?
Monotonies. Oh, you are right
to not stay in the pull of moments
that persuade you deeper into
their design—which is to take you
deeper into that abyss
of disappearance.
Picture them as servants of despair
whose only work is that
of guiding you
into the dreaded emptiness you know
is there. They were as you :
timeless, ageless,
immortal to the core.
Now look at them—transparent
and bereaved—with but one mission more.
—Joyce Odam
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/16/18; 3/31/20)
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Idiom
exhale at the looking glass
resolution of gravity
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/24)
resolution of gravity
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/23/24)
.JPG)
Strange Night
PAUL
—Joyce Odam
You lay on the couch.
Asleep.
I drew you.
I traveled each line,
filled in each contour,
and you never knew.
I will be
an artist, I said
to my beginning self.
Your name was Paul.
Once you
watched me sleep.
I awoke and found you
looking at me.
Strange that I remember
your name—
that much of you.
You were helpless,
asleep.
I drew you:
asleep, helpless, vulnerable;
I stole you,
never gave you back,
never kept the drawing—
no proof
for the poem
I would later write.
—Joyce Odam
You lay on the couch.
Asleep.
I drew you.
I traveled each line,
filled in each contour,
and you never knew.
I will be
an artist, I said
to my beginning self.
Your name was Paul.
Once you
watched me sleep.
I awoke and found you
looking at me.
Strange that I remember
your name—
that much of you.
You were helpless,
asleep.
I drew you:
asleep, helpless, vulnerable;
I stole you,
never gave you back,
never kept the drawing—
no proof
for the poem
I would later write.
.jpg)
About Love
THIS POEM ABOUT LOSS
—Joyce Odam
Now I feel distance settle between us.
I have won the drift. Birds enumerate,
their dark gold eyes struck by light.
Wires hold their shadows and extensions
of shadows that loom into evening.
The day’s length is over and night begins.
We have taken another path from each other.
The word I am after
still eludes me.
I cannot put it in this poem about loss.
Perhaps you are saying it to yourself.
Somehow we still receive light
from a flurry of birds
that take to the gray air from the high trees
and thrum over the house to dot the field
with their complexities—
enough diversion for us to leave our quarrel
and exclaim our marveling at this.
—Joyce Odam
Now I feel distance settle between us.
I have won the drift. Birds enumerate,
their dark gold eyes struck by light.
Wires hold their shadows and extensions
of shadows that loom into evening.
The day’s length is over and night begins.
We have taken another path from each other.
The word I am after
still eludes me.
I cannot put it in this poem about loss.
Perhaps you are saying it to yourself.
Somehow we still receive light
from a flurry of birds
that take to the gray air from the high trees
and thrum over the house to dot the field
with their complexities—
enough diversion for us to leave our quarrel
and exclaim our marveling at this.
.jpg)
Will There Be Tears?
SPELLS
—Joyce Odam
—Joyce Odam
Take my reluctant hand
with its seven slow lines
that go outward from the palm.
Trace my sad histories
with your discerning fingers;
hum a soft song.
Pull my eyes to your face
and there erase the seven sorrows
that I hide from myself.
Mention the tomorrows;
mention the seven lies that fit.
I will love you. I will leave
my hand in your hand while you
hypnotize my oldest terror.
I will follow you through
your language made of praise
while you gaze me deeper.
Soon I will float through your eyes
and there disguise myself with
seven veils. You will get lost
in them.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/13/12)
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/13/12)
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At The Shadow
PAPER FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
Small table, empty room,
rouge of sunset beyond the sea.
Contour of petals, thin as tissue,
twist of grief at the stems.
—Robin Gale Odam
Small table, empty room,
rouge of sunset beyond the sea.
Contour of petals, thin as tissue,
twist of grief at the stems.
.jpg)
Spectrum
POEM WITHOUT AN ENDING
—Joyce Odam
Let us begin a poem and never finish it—
Let us begin a poem and never finish it—
just let it dwindle off the page as if there
is more to be said, but when you turn the
page another one begins. And let us title
it “Poem Without an Ending” and give it
only that one page to struggle on, ending
there, maybe with the word and, or at least
no punctuation-mark in a punctuated poem.
And let it enjamb—and have too big a gap
of meaning—built up to, but not quite con-
veyed. And it will be intense rough draft—
the way first thought comes, so quick and
obscure we can only follow to see where it
leads. And it will lead us away from itself,
as if it resented our awakening—though it is
the one that came to us—tossing like stones
at our window, our faces frozen there against
the darkness, looking out to see—as if this is
the way life is—on its single page the long
quick scribbling—the—
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/29/19; 7/23/24)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
But for this moment
I am vain
to find
the measure
of all time
taken in trust
and thus attain
relief of conscience, sin, and pride—
Oh Mercy, let me now relinquish this.
—Joyce Odam
___________________
A thousand thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry and visuals! This was an ironic Seed of the Week, “Highway Robbery”, since I always feel like the beginning of Daylight Savings Time is Highway Robbery—an hour stolen—and some of that is woven into today’s poetry, about time stolen from our lives.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Overflowing”. Are we talking about the creek or your heart? 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
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/29/19; 7/23/24)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
But for this moment
I am vain
to find
the measure
of all time
taken in trust
and thus attain
relief of conscience, sin, and pride—
Oh Mercy, let me now relinquish this.
—Joyce Odam
___________________
A thousand thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry and visuals! This was an ironic Seed of the Week, “Highway Robbery”, since I always feel like the beginning of Daylight Savings Time is Highway Robbery—an hour stolen—and some of that is woven into today’s poetry, about time stolen from our lives.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Overflowing”. Are we talking about the creek or your heart? 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
Where did the hours go?
—Public Domain Photo
A reminder that
Bob Stanley and Dane Cervine
will read in Modesto tonight, 7pm.
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!
Bob Stanley and Dane Cervine
will read in Modesto tonight, 7pm.
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!
