Janice Lee Odom
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Janice Lee Odom is the General Manager for Parkway Publications, LLC, including FOCUS Magazine, Kentucky Festivals & Events, and Tennessee Festivals & Events. She is also Acquisitions Editor for Read Writers Publishing. Ms. Odom is Chair of the Kentucky Entrepreneurs’ Alliance. She was an honor student at the University of Indianapolis and two-time winner of the Leila Anderson Award for Exemplifying Christian Character. She won the Major John J. Dillon English Award and was inducted the International English Honor Society, Sigma Tau Delta, and the National Historical Honor Society, Phi Alpha Theta.
She is host of the radio show “Featuring the Arts” and co-host of the “Moore Country Countdown” on WSKV 104.9FM streaming at www.wskvfm.com. (The station owners are Mary and A.C. Moore). |
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Intro to the Poem, “True Transcendence”
On July 10, 1990, I gave birth to a beautiful child whom I called Danielle Leigh. Her 15-day struggle for her life ended on July 25, 1990. In a way that has taken me years to understand, my daughter gave birth to me. "True Transcendence" is but my poor attempt to explain this great mystery. True TranscendenceOnce I transcended
faint heartbeats and fearful minds into the unopened eyes of my newborn child. Fleeting, rhythmic, constant listening for that unsteady pattern as hope turns a sober moment mad. Flat lined, or so they said. But I heard a song... when spirit rose to greet my heart and touch me. When I knew she was eternal, I arose and soared to bond with otherness and embrace all that could not be contained in human arms. Sacrifice released a future unrealized and one that was enhanced... to have known her. My aching, caught up, swallowed by a perfect moment of a certain knowledge and kissed by the wind of her last breath. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
Intro to the Poem “The Ghost of Myself”
The poem has changed over years of life. I have learned many things about myself.
My college professor, Dr. Elizabeth Weber, told me never to change the introduction that I used back then, so it is here.
Many people don't want to talk in the open about child abuse. Well, I was an abused child. (Not by my adopted father, who is a wonderful man, lest people think otherwise.) I was abused by my biological father, who went to prison for his crimes. I know it is not polite to talk about it.
Some people have criticized me for writing about something so personal. But that is what writing is for me, a way to exercise my demons, as it were.
People ask me questions. "Aren't you ashamed?"
My answer is simply this, "My shame would be in my silence."
The poem has changed over years of life. I have learned many things about myself.
My college professor, Dr. Elizabeth Weber, told me never to change the introduction that I used back then, so it is here.
Many people don't want to talk in the open about child abuse. Well, I was an abused child. (Not by my adopted father, who is a wonderful man, lest people think otherwise.) I was abused by my biological father, who went to prison for his crimes. I know it is not polite to talk about it.
Some people have criticized me for writing about something so personal. But that is what writing is for me, a way to exercise my demons, as it were.
People ask me questions. "Aren't you ashamed?"
My answer is simply this, "My shame would be in my silence."
The Ghost of Myself
He locked my baby doll
in the closet
And broke me there upon
the bed.
The thing was torn
asunder that held in my childhood,
and was in that bent moment
lost.
I have stitched
and stitched a patchwork of lies
to cover that bed.
In the steady motion of my lips,
a storyline is created
which towers over truth.
A monster is created
by what people need to hear,
a freakish thing I do not know
and cannot be.
Cover your ears tightly
and you can hear
the beat of your heart
in your hands.
Shut your eyes tight
and red dances
in the black.
What you cannot see
or hear,
I must
feel
every day of my life.
When I hear a child cry
I wonder what it is like
to be young.
Did I ever skin my knees
on the pavement?
I must have
Because there are scars
on both knees.
Did I ever play hide and
seek?
Basements remind me of
spiders, uncovered lightbulbs,
dangling pullstrings,darkness.
Musky smells, dirth breath,
and sorrowful surrender.
The Bogeyman
lives in a world of light
unshackled by the burden
I carry
which, in my thoughts,
is about the size and shape
of a child.
My cheeks stream wet as
I struggle to carry
the child
to some mystery destination.
I climb steps which spiral and
dart and never seem
to go anywhere.
I have seen the doors
shut, some of them locked.
I always thought they were
empty, but now I suspect
I am in every room.
Hardwood floors need
polished often, and
wax builds up over time.
I am sure the curtains
in some rooms hang in tatters.
I waited for Ma Bea
to come and clean everything up
for me.
I dreamed she
would sew new
clothes for my child-burden, and
feed us both homemade chicken dumplings
and yeast rolls, and
we would laugh and
forget about the Bogeyman.
Ma Bea's spirit grew dim
with wrinkled time
and I know now she could
never fix this.
The same guest that took
her spirit
breathed life into mine.
I am the human sacrifice
that silence makes of
our children.
I know of gashes, and knocks,
and bruises, and curses.
I know of the desperate need
of a child to be tucked in tight.
Somehow I will free the child.
My stubborn words upon the page
will breathe life into the dead.
My limp burden will
arise, and
we will hug one another
and weep.
But the tears we will share
will not be mourning things,
not grieving things.
Having been rewritten,
our tears
will be tears
of triumph.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in the closet
And broke me there upon
the bed.
The thing was torn
asunder that held in my childhood,
and was in that bent moment
lost.
I have stitched
and stitched a patchwork of lies
to cover that bed.
In the steady motion of my lips,
a storyline is created
which towers over truth.
A monster is created
by what people need to hear,
a freakish thing I do not know
and cannot be.
Cover your ears tightly
and you can hear
the beat of your heart
in your hands.
Shut your eyes tight
and red dances
in the black.
What you cannot see
or hear,
I must
feel
every day of my life.
When I hear a child cry
I wonder what it is like
to be young.
Did I ever skin my knees
on the pavement?
I must have
Because there are scars
on both knees.
Did I ever play hide and
seek?
Basements remind me of
spiders, uncovered lightbulbs,
dangling pullstrings,darkness.
Musky smells, dirth breath,
and sorrowful surrender.
The Bogeyman
lives in a world of light
unshackled by the burden
I carry
which, in my thoughts,
is about the size and shape
of a child.
My cheeks stream wet as
I struggle to carry
the child
to some mystery destination.
I climb steps which spiral and
dart and never seem
to go anywhere.
I have seen the doors
shut, some of them locked.
I always thought they were
empty, but now I suspect
I am in every room.
Hardwood floors need
polished often, and
wax builds up over time.
I am sure the curtains
in some rooms hang in tatters.
I waited for Ma Bea
to come and clean everything up
for me.
I dreamed she
would sew new
clothes for my child-burden, and
feed us both homemade chicken dumplings
and yeast rolls, and
we would laugh and
forget about the Bogeyman.
Ma Bea's spirit grew dim
with wrinkled time
and I know now she could
never fix this.
The same guest that took
her spirit
breathed life into mine.
I am the human sacrifice
that silence makes of
our children.
I know of gashes, and knocks,
and bruises, and curses.
I know of the desperate need
of a child to be tucked in tight.
Somehow I will free the child.
My stubborn words upon the page
will breathe life into the dead.
My limp burden will
arise, and
we will hug one another
and weep.
But the tears we will share
will not be mourning things,
not grieving things.
Having been rewritten,
our tears
will be tears
of triumph.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Intro to Grandfather’s People
Many who know me know that I am Lakota Indian. I use the word “archaic” in the poem, which could have a negative connotation to some. But I believe many “archaic” ways are better ways. The damage that has been done to our land by modern conveniences is irreparable. Because of the crimes my own biological father committed against me, there was a time when I rejected his heritage altogether. But who I was as a Native American seemed to scream at me from my very blood like a cellular memory. So, I wrote about my experiences. This is one of the many attempts to describe my feelings.
Many who know me know that I am Lakota Indian. I use the word “archaic” in the poem, which could have a negative connotation to some. But I believe many “archaic” ways are better ways. The damage that has been done to our land by modern conveniences is irreparable. Because of the crimes my own biological father committed against me, there was a time when I rejected his heritage altogether. But who I was as a Native American seemed to scream at me from my very blood like a cellular memory. So, I wrote about my experiences. This is one of the many attempts to describe my feelings.
Grandfather’s People
I hear the voice of my mother
repeating an
urgent message.
I know that I will
walk away
with excuses.
I remember the archaic
ways which lead to
twisted trees.
The smell of earth
composted with waste
is renewing the damage
of my father.
The beat of the drums,
the sound of corn grinding
and the wailing of the song
which calls me...
Red earth lines
my eye sockets.
I hear the rattling, and
the thud of leather soles
hitting the ground.
My sister's knife
blade touches my palm.
"Mourn for yourself,"
she says.
I lift my defiant eyes
to see a multitude
of grieving survivors.
They are somehow
caught by the wind
and scattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
repeating an
urgent message.
I know that I will
walk away
with excuses.
I remember the archaic
ways which lead to
twisted trees.
The smell of earth
composted with waste
is renewing the damage
of my father.
The beat of the drums,
the sound of corn grinding
and the wailing of the song
which calls me...
Red earth lines
my eye sockets.
I hear the rattling, and
the thud of leather soles
hitting the ground.
My sister's knife
blade touches my palm.
"Mourn for yourself,"
she says.
I lift my defiant eyes
to see a multitude
of grieving survivors.
They are somehow
caught by the wind
and scattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Luminaries Ceremony
My small town, Stanton, Kentucky, recently participated in The Relay for Life. I was delighted to see the purple ribbons go up on all the businesses.
There were signs that said "Paint the Town Purple." The big event was drawing near. There seemed to be an excitement in the air as the town prepared. The paper was plastered with Team Events, the local radio station was talking it up, and Relay for Life was a "buzz" word in the town.
Having been a cancer survivor myself, I had an even more vested interest in the activity, although I was not prepared for its impact on me.
There was so much going on. The Relay for Life Teams assembled in the town park. Each had booths decorated in different movie themes and they were selling various things, the proceeds of which went to the Relay for Life Cause.
There was a main stage with so much local talent that I was shocked. I didn't know our town was so talented. I was proud of the town, but there was also another sort of pride. It was a pride in myself. I was thinking how I was a survivor. I had a lanyard around my neck that proclaimed that very fact; 5 years cancer free from cervical cancer.
Now, anyone who has ever had chemotherapy or radiation therapy--chemos the worst--will probably tell you that they have definitely fought a good fight. And when a survivor has managed to do all of that and come out the other end alive there is a sense of pride. A sense that you are a stronger person. A sense that you have accomplished something that has built your character.
Having cancer is a life-changing event for everyone.
At one point during the evening, everyone was encouraged to find their children and go to the center of the park for the Luminaries ceremony. We were told this is a very solemn ceremony, and everyone drew to the center and a still, quietness descended over the crowd.
People were reading in the dark to find the Luminaire of their loved one. I just stopped, as I was alone. Some beautiful poems were read, and a story was told about "why we walk." Then the names were read.
I don't know how many luminaires were there. I don't know how many names were read. I only know that I was deeply moved.
Some names were read in honor. Some names were read in memory. There were many more names read in memory. It staggered me to realize that our town had suffered so much loss. By the time we starting walking, as a lone singer's voice sung "Amazing Grace" acapello, I had lost all semblance of dignity. I was sobbing like a child, my shoulders were shaking, my legs felt all wobbly.
I left the park as the ceremony concluded. I heard the fireworks exploding over the park. I was still a mess. I didn't want anyone to see me like that.
I came back to my office. I sat down, felt for the lanyard around my neck, and removed it. Call it survivor's guilt, but I didn't feel so proud of myself any more. I felt deeply humbled.
There is still so much to do. But thank God for small towns like ours.
There were signs that said "Paint the Town Purple." The big event was drawing near. There seemed to be an excitement in the air as the town prepared. The paper was plastered with Team Events, the local radio station was talking it up, and Relay for Life was a "buzz" word in the town.
Having been a cancer survivor myself, I had an even more vested interest in the activity, although I was not prepared for its impact on me.
There was so much going on. The Relay for Life Teams assembled in the town park. Each had booths decorated in different movie themes and they were selling various things, the proceeds of which went to the Relay for Life Cause.
There was a main stage with so much local talent that I was shocked. I didn't know our town was so talented. I was proud of the town, but there was also another sort of pride. It was a pride in myself. I was thinking how I was a survivor. I had a lanyard around my neck that proclaimed that very fact; 5 years cancer free from cervical cancer.
Now, anyone who has ever had chemotherapy or radiation therapy--chemos the worst--will probably tell you that they have definitely fought a good fight. And when a survivor has managed to do all of that and come out the other end alive there is a sense of pride. A sense that you are a stronger person. A sense that you have accomplished something that has built your character.
Having cancer is a life-changing event for everyone.
At one point during the evening, everyone was encouraged to find their children and go to the center of the park for the Luminaries ceremony. We were told this is a very solemn ceremony, and everyone drew to the center and a still, quietness descended over the crowd.
People were reading in the dark to find the Luminaire of their loved one. I just stopped, as I was alone. Some beautiful poems were read, and a story was told about "why we walk." Then the names were read.
I don't know how many luminaires were there. I don't know how many names were read. I only know that I was deeply moved.
Some names were read in honor. Some names were read in memory. There were many more names read in memory. It staggered me to realize that our town had suffered so much loss. By the time we starting walking, as a lone singer's voice sung "Amazing Grace" acapello, I had lost all semblance of dignity. I was sobbing like a child, my shoulders were shaking, my legs felt all wobbly.
I left the park as the ceremony concluded. I heard the fireworks exploding over the park. I was still a mess. I didn't want anyone to see me like that.
I came back to my office. I sat down, felt for the lanyard around my neck, and removed it. Call it survivor's guilt, but I didn't feel so proud of myself any more. I felt deeply humbled.
There is still so much to do. But thank God for small towns like ours.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
