Wednesday, November 29, 2017

haiku today & tomorrow & lucky 13

Tomorrow, it's purely celebratory.  haiku was adopted on 11/30/04.

Ah, haiku's jade-green eyes.

Sometimes it's the thin stream of blue ink

which keeps you afloat.  And where does it comes from?  Somedays from the sky into a watery depth.  Sometimes from the unconscious, upward.  And sometimes, it's pure horizon.  A body at rest.

Meals are like this, too.  And while we're on slippery subjects, aren't reflections liquid pools of tar?Others might suggest, ink of squid.  I'm fine with either.

Your guess as good as mine

But isn't she fetching?  Force for the good.  Pele?  Demeter?  Grab a pomegranate or a bunch of beets.    Fix them for sharing.  While the beets roast and just after washing your hands of pomegranate  paint, put down words on a page.  See what happens.  And in the waiting...?

Autumn looking forward and back

The orange season.  Pumpkins, squash, orange-red leaves.  At its core, persimmons are the building blocks of an autumn kitchen.  And to poetry, imagine that.  Every third poem has a wink to persimmons.  Every six, pomegranates.  Just do the math.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Sometimes an abstract is all the landscape I need

The poinsettia returns as an abstract across an abstracted landscape.  The heart of it really.  Like the properly-weighted verb in a sentence.  Like a twist of pepper -- not too much, not too scant -- in the soup.  How carrots allow themselves to become part of the abstracted landscape of a soup or stew.  Clouds are the perfect model for such thinking.

Is this a toy

or a very specific and practical tool?  Perhaps you never see but if it wasn't invented the simple would not function?  Ball bearings?  Makes me think of writing.  Without a pencil and its progeny, which  words would have gone unwritten.  Without a mirror, which masks, silent.  Think of the kitchen as a laboratory of invention.  Spoons, spatulas, strainers, saucepans.  Moving away from the beguiling "s" sounds -- can openers, mandolins, rice cooker, knives.  You get the point  No pun intended.

Look deeply

look closely, you might see the star-center of a persimmon.  Or you might see the abundant body of a pomegranate.  Or both.  When you read a poem, can you see the shadow of revisions.  Can you hear all the out-takes?  And in soup, can you identify the mysterious ingredient or what the cook left out?  And if she did so on purpose, why?