My husband grows sunflowers. I write about them.
Sunflower or wheel of life?
Sunflower or large hypnotic eye?
Staring into the middle of the
Seed swirl pattern
You could be sucked to the center
Of the universe.
Sunflower or sun?
I like to eat, probably a little too much, and sometimes the wrong things. But some comfort foods are so…comforting. One even inspired a little poem.
Ode to a Grilled Cheese Sandwich
Comfort on a griddle
That’s what grilled cheese is
Golden toasted warmth
Full of the forbidden
Things that make you feel so good
Salt and butter and fat
But it’s solace that sticks
To your ribs, the next best
Thing to a hug from your grandmother
A grilled cheese sandwich is the
Stolid best friend of the food world
Securely there, always, unchanging
Sometimes this bare thought is enough
I could have a grilled cheese later
If I feel the need
I was thinking today about two of my favorite childhood picture books: “The Story of Ferdinand” by Munro Leaf, and “Harold and the Purple Crayon” by Crockett Johnson. I read both of these over and over. I see now how they’ve influenced me for life.
Here’s today’s poem, a tribute to these two books. It’s rough, but from the heart.
Two Great Teachers
Ferdinand, from you I learned
The value of sitting in the clover
Quietly being true to yourself.
You and Harold
Were my first great teachers.
Ferdinand, I’m so glad you came along
When I was young to show me
conquests and prizes pale
Next to the victory of retaining
Your integrity. From you I learned
Contemplation.
Harold, with his crayon, spurred my creativity,
Showed me I could travel anywhere
Be anything, have wondrous adventures,
No matter my circumstances,
Without depending on someone else,
Without a car or bike or money,
As long as I had imagination.
If you need to find me, I’ll be
Traveling this world and others
In my clover patch.
A library poem. I wrote this a few years ago.
741.5
A hard rain’s gonna fall
on the head of the next shelver
to work this section of the library
Superheroes overpower the bookends
break free of their confines
fly off the shelves
Snoopy, completely dog-eared
keeps getting unleashed
scampering to the floor
Beatle Bailey and his troop
lose formation
drift off to the wrong location
again
Calvin and Hobbes are out
having an unauthorized adventure
on the far side of Gary Larsen
Large floppy books with bad posture
slouch along the shelves
lean on each other for support
much like the teens who
camp here studying anime and manga
Someone needs to come along
and straighten them up
For my own private celebration of National Poetry Month, I’m attempting to write one poem each day. I won’t publish them all here, but today I feel moved. I will count this as the poem for April 2, even though I didn’t finish it until a couple of minutes past midnight.
Remember, I just finished this, so don’t be too harsh.
After-Evening
The after-evening time, when partnered with
Completed to dos or even postponed to dos,
Contains the most prized moments of my day.
The store of chores has closed shop for the night
And I have tucked in my precious duties
With hope they will sleep through until morning.
I take out my favorite diversions and dreams
From the suitcase in the back of my mind,
Slip into them. The fit is exquisite.
One day my son, who was around seven at the time, came into the kitchen where I was working. I’ve never heard more sincere effusiveness in a voice than when he expressed his excitement over what I was preparing for dinner. “That’s my favorite recipe out of everything you make!” he told me. I was opening cans of soup.
And he’s not the only youngster I’ve impressed with my cuisine. A friend of his spent the afternoon with us once and went home to tell his parents about what I had served for a snack. “She makes the best waffles!” he told them. “You cook them right in the toaster.” The kid’s mom is a friend of mine, so we were able to laugh when she related this to me later.
I’ve never been…enthusiastic, shall we say…about cooking. For me, it’s much more about the end result than the process. Frankly, I’d rather be writing. Which is why I don’t impress the adults quite so much.
The list of my culinary failures is long. When I was a young newlywed, my extremely large extended family held a reunion. One of my aunts put herself in charge of organizing the food. Which was probably smart and necessary, so we wouldn’t end up with fifty bowls of potato salad. But I think she made certain assumptions. Such as believing my two X chromosomes enabled deviled egg making abilities. Shortly before the reunion, I received a letter from my aunt listing what dish each family member should bring. And by each family member, I mean the adult females, even the ones who had married into the clan. Her own sons were responsible for nothing, but their wives were.
Next to my name, I saw the words “deviled eggs.” I had no idea how to make those. This was in the days before the internet, so I couldn’t have a recipe on my computer screen within five minutes. Oh, I suppose I could have cracked open a cookbook during one of my frequent trips to the public library. Or, you know, called my mom. But I decided I’d rather put my energies toward rants about the ingrained sexism in my family of origin.
“This is exactly why I hate cooking!” I’d say to my long-suffering husband. “Because women are just *expected* to do it.” Oh, I was happy to move away from my conservative old-fashioned upbringing, in which women were judged by cooking abilities. Meanwhile, I had a family reunion to attend, at which I appeared bearing a dozen hard-boiled eggs with devil faces drawn on the shells. Clever of me, wasn’t it?
In the more current meantime, I have friends and relatives all along the conservative-liberal spectrum. And I find many of the liberal friends are all about what and how people cook. Is it organic? Did you buy local? I like slow food. You’re not wasting packaging by buying pre-made foods are you? Where can I go that I’m not expected to cook??????
It’s not that I want to shirk the food prep altogether. I have learned to cook a few things along the way. I’m not bad at non-canned soups when I have time – you cut things up and throw them in a pan together. We even have a garden every year. Okay, mostly my husband has a garden every year. But I weed sometimes and I do use the food in our meals. I’ve gone as far as to make my own salsa.
About three years ago, I decided I would change my attitude. I would embrace cooking. I would enjoy the process, being in present for the experience, totally in the moment. I really threw myself into it, and I came to…eh, not hate the chore as much as I once did. I’ve come to realize cooking is necessary, and can even be enjoyable. But, while I no longer detest it, I also know it will never be The Thing That Fulfills Me. I will never find myself thinking “If only I had half an hour to myself to go into the kitchen and whip something up” in the same way that I long for a half an hour to write.
I did write a poem about my lack of domesticity, though:
Next to us the neighbor grows
Peppers, chives, tomatoes, lettuce
Brings a gift of produce freshly
Picked to welcome us as we settle
Sisters, friends and cousins knit
Scarves and blankets, bake and sew
Cookies, quilts or crochet afghans
Always they are ready with
An Offering for any major
Life event – a baby, death
Or illness, they appear in front halls
Bringing sustenance, warmth and comfort
My dilemma – how to pay
In kind when I am overdone
In cooking, brown of thumb, too large
Of stitch, and plain old undomestic
What reaction would I see
If I showed up, a sheaf of papers
In my hand, a look of welcome/
Sympathy / congratulations
On my face and said to them
Have some poems freshly penned
*This poem originally appeared in Well Versed.
Remember the Bronx Zoo Cobra. I almost didn’t until I was looking through one of my notebooks and found a poem I wrote about it at the time. I figured I’d better go ahead and share before nobody can remember what I’m talking about.
Bronx Zoo Cobra
Snake on the lam
America’s most wanted animal
The hooded Houdini of hiss
Slithered its way out of sight
And into mind
Who would have guessed
A poor humble immigrant serpent
Would become an asp of such ascendance
Climbing to heights of fame
Undreamt since the days
Of Cleopatra
Now it occurs to me this is the second snake-themed poem I’ve put on my blog. I don’t know if it means anything.
I was sorting through some of my poems, and came across this one I wrote in 2006.
To Do Lists
To be done before vacation:
Catch up all laundry
Make sure the grass is cut
And the bills are paid
Clean out the van
Upon returning:
Write a novel
Land a book contract
Transform my chronically messy house
into an aesthetically inviting
gathering place for the group of very hip
writers of which I will be a central figure
But first:
Clean out the van
Do the laundry
Pay the bills
And mow the yard
**
I’m still working my way through the line items. But I can check mark “write a novel.” And I’m making efforts at some of the others. Some photo evidence from the past year:
I still have a distance to go, however. One step at a time.
I say obligatory because so many poets write about cats. My family’s cat, Dude, really was a cat in a million, and I loved him unreasonably.
So far, I’ve managed to write a poem every day this April. This is one of them.
Dude
Hang around cat
Amber eyes surrounded by
Orange on orange
All attached to a companionable
Nonchalance
Not a lap cat
Not a fighting cat
Not a recluse cat
But a hang around cat
If you’d been human, you’d always
Have had a light for the buddy’s
Cigarette and a six pack of beer to share
But no advice
Only a thereness for everyone
To come to depend upon
As the humans in your household did
With your catness
Some part of your thereness is still here
Even if you aren’t
The dead of winter doesn’t really seem like a great time for making a fresh start. I think spring, about two weeks in, is more appropriate. So in that spirit, I’ve written a poem containing my April Fool’s resolutions.
April Fool’s Resolutions
Starting today
I resolve to play more tricks
on my family and my friends,
to begin each day practicing
a silly walk,
to lose the weight of serious
introspection.
I will quit all smoking that does
not involve smoke bombs and all drinking
that does not involve a dribble glass.
I will save money
by crafting my own pranks at home;
Handmade is best.
I’ll study hard to learn new jokes.
Reorganize things, though I won’t say
whose. I’ll seize each opportunity
to get a laugh
But most important of all, I resolve
to watch my back.
Nomadic Noesis 