Friday, December 30, 2011

Bowl. What does bowl have in common with a poem?

Neither full.
Neither empty.


Happy New Year! Celebrate with a bowl of deliciousness & may all your words be sweet & sassy.

Fold. What makes a poem fold?

Time and/or fingers if the poem be printed.
Do poems have folds? As many as memory, crevices. Think of this as an ear fold. Think of this as a poem hugs itself.

What food is folded? Eggrolls. Dumplings of all kinds & cultures. Tacos. And sometimes, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich crafted from one slice.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Pomegranates. How is the predicability of poem like a pomegranate?

Well, not much. Supposedly, a pomegranate contains 613 seeds. A poem contain as much space as it can contain. Perhaps, precisely as much as the poet can handle. Word count is not the issue.

Oh, the cook who is willing to stain hands to a pomegranate! Both meditation & outcome, two-fold reward. Next time, saute pomegranate (seeds, of course) with fresh rosemary. Add a bit of white wine. Continue until most of liquid evaporates. Add a handful of pecans. Heat for a few seconds. Serve with meat, fowl, fish, or serve on the side with cheese. Or all.

Persimmons. How do persimmons and poetry relate?

Persimmons are the perfect subject for a poem.
Poetry inspires the taking of persimmons.
Any other questions?

A statement: the valuable purpose of persimmons should never be questioned. I am speaking of the fuyu, of course.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Nothing. When is poetry nothing?

Or is the question, can poetry reach enlightenment? Never the poet; only the poem.

Enlightened food? Yes. All that is ripe and appreciated.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Palpable. How is the palpable measured in a poem?

Breath. Space. And all the ways one measures sound.

In food, the tongue is the instrument of measurement of the palpable. Also eyes. As well as dirt on roots.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Mirror. What does a poem mirror?

Whatever is in front of it. Above all, a poem is practical. And always open to interpretation.

Is fruit plural (as in what hangs from a tree, from a bush) because each mirrors the other. Sadness is mirrored by one apple hanging on a bare winter branch.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Sleeve. What is the closest approximation of a sleeve in poetry?

Perhaps, a dust jacket for a hard cover volume. Less & less frequent.
Or the line break; you wonder what will issue forth. Some finished. Some raggedy.

Sleeves in the good meal? Romaine sleeves stuffed with a vegetable pesto & cheese & nuts. Or chicken well spiced. I'll take under advisement with the haiku the cat. A great source of the non sequitur.

Tethered. What is a poem tethered to?

Words and the sounds they issue.

And of a meal? Memory. The same can be said of poetry, I guess. In both, the concrete and the elusive. Candles, of course, do neither harm.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Articulated. A poem is the sum of articulated words, right?

Yup. Plus articulated space and silence. There you have it.

Regarding food, the tongue articulates what is not seemingly seen. The nose also participates.

Idiosyncratic. What makes an idiosyncratic poem?

The one who writes the poem. The one who reads the poem. Of course, certain words lend themselves to an idiosyncratic texture. "Idiosyncratic" being an example.

Much the same is said of a cook. Also, the one who eats the meal. Of course, certain foods are both visually & tactically peculiar & personal. Close your eyes; visualize.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Twist. What is the latest twist of poetry?

3: tweets, mixed genre (aka hybrids) and visual poems. The digital media is poetry.

As the cook twists dough into a familiar holiday braid. Later, she will read the newest Rendell mystery. She may/she may not tweet about it.

Penny? If you had a penny for every poem you've written?

There would be weight not not much substance.

With those savings, buy the ripe fuyu persimmons. Much fun can be had -- eaten out of hand. Peeled/sliced and added to salads and/or rice. Sauteed makes long standing friends with green beans. Puree and add to the morning yogurt. Or my new favorite, roast them as you would pears. Never doubt the weight & power of the most petite currency.

Assortment. How is poetry like an assortment of candy?

Some you like. Some you don't. Some you (cleverly) put back with a bite taken out.

Poetry & sweets? I'm thinking a red wine sweetened sauce for poached pears. Topped with vanilla ice cream. Yup, that's what I'm tasting. I have no intention of putting any of it back.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Pluot. What does today's poetry have in common with a pluot?

Both are hybrids.

I dream in the color of pluots. My eyes hold their sweet, crisp, cold.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Rattle. When does a poem rattle?

When it wants attention?
When it receives too much attention?
When no one is reading it?

Yes, & more.

More can be said of food which rattles. But first consider the kettle and its rattling of water for tea. The matriarch of sound.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Ledge. How is a collection of poems like a ledge?

It enjoys the privilege of a shelf or precipice. My grandmother said she heard that collected poems have been observed scuba diving in a reef.

Suspect yet charming like certain foods. I'm thinking blood oranges. Pineapple mint.

Qualify. How does a poem qualify for a title?

Or does the title qualify for a poem?
And what of individual words?

Time to return to tea & question: leaves & water.

Unshakable. What is unshakable in a poem?

An unshakable faith in word and the space in-between. An unshakable exploration of both.

What is unshakable in a meal? The unshakable faith the ripe has in a bowl. Or the human hand to hold.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Malice. Does a poem wish words malice?

Or words, malice to a poem? Neither, I believe. (And what faith-system might that be?) And yet, there are wicked poems and poems wickedly written and deliciously spoken.

In cooking ingredients, cookware, knife, and recipe need to coexist and soar. Mindfulness with a tinge of heat & laughter. Remember, a tongue is the possibility of flame. I do believe, charred peppers (yellow, orange & red) are a delightful, spirited conversation.

Ritual. Is there a ritual to writing poetry?

Two (not mutual exclusive). (1) Whatever it takes for inspiration. (2) Whatever it takes to create a writing discipline. Candles, do no harm. Neither the cat. Neither a cafe. Nor a museum.

Hunger is a personal ritual to cooking. As is the desire to feed people. Cooking inspires poems; I know this personally.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Intersect. With what does a poem intersect?

A place in words. Thus, sound & memory.

Happy Thanksgiving. Instead of turkey, serve a poem.


All life begins
with a list:

wash windows
clean oven
oil table
prune flowers/change water
open refrig/take inventory

eat the spinach
milk expires in 3 days
fish in less

No stopping you

eat last serving
chicken soup
for breakfast

buy candles
plug in small space heater
cat demands petting
(your intention, anyway)

As you write, the unexpected

a book is a room
& words: sound

Out of somewhere
where you are
that Thanksgiving

& sled-less
& grandmother
some 50 years,

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Wet. What is wet poetry?

Wet, as in "behind the ears?"
Wet, as so fresh as the letters are not completely dry?
Wet, as in the subject matter. Rain, monsoon, drownings of all stripes.
Or soggy. Boggy.
Remember, the weight of water overwhelms paper & pen.

So logically we move to wet food. Soups both hot & cold. Mostly steaming & fragrant to the kitchen as flowers to a table. To chicken soup add curried cauliflower. Yes, no one is looking --enjoy it for breakfast. A savory start. Consider, soup as the idea form/format/inspiration for the next poem (as in the last).

Physics. Does poetry adhere to the laws of physics?

Yup. Matter. Bodies of letters falling. Palpable energy.

A good cook understands (perhaps, without verbalizing) the byways of physics. Energy rearranged on a plate for a grateful mouth. For that matter, conversation also.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Glass. Is the surface of a poem like glass?

Definitely. Except when it is as stone and/or crater. Or crinkled paper.

In a meal, the glass surface usually is a container. Except when we are speaking of ice and deliciously and tremendously chilled. As in a martini. Of course, it being also contained by glass.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Eerie. Are poems eerie?

Sometimes, eerie as the word eerie.

Though not as otherworldly eerie as Buddha's hand. Or the odoriferous durian?

Friday, November 11, 2011

Prey. What does a poem prey upon?

Silence. And is well fed.

A meal cannot be created in total silence. A cook should mediate upon incomplete silence while she turns up the heat. Perhaps, too, a poet captures the beveled edge of things.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Bartender. How is a poet like a bartender?

The bartender tends the bar. Keeps conversation & liquids in a fine balance. The poet (a wordtender) tends to the shape & sound of letters, until a receptive ear arrives.

So, is cooktender (cook-tender?) instruction in a recipe? Or an Old English word for the one who tends the meal? Perhaps, we should ask Gertrude.

Shimmer. What makes a poem shimmer?

Two things. Pen on paper. Light.

The sheen on soup can shimmer and rival any accompaniment of words. Especially chicken.

Honey. How do you tell if there is honey in a poem?

The ear is the grand marshall of taste.

Honey in tea is grand. Honey on particular cheeses is divine. The language of honey rivals the word-gestures of wine.

Olives. How are poems like olives?

No, this is no more a riddle than a meal. Olives come with and without pits. Poems come with and without narrative. Logic is simple as a dominant hand.

Olives can be the center of a meal (pits or pitted). Simply add to the olives of your choice: feta cheese, tomatoes,fuyu persimmons, cooked green beans, fresh parsley, a twist of pepper. The color alone is worth the mouth's wait.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Harvest. Is a poem a harvest of words?

Exclusive? Prose, also?
Perhaps, you were saying, harvest of sound.

& the taste in the mouth equates to the harvest of a meal. And its color. Quite orange. A healthy orange.

Friday, October 28, 2011

Concrete. By nature is poetry concrete?

Every bit as much as stillness.

As in the stillness just before the first bite of the anticipated meal.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Boundaries. What are the natural boundaries of a poem?

There are 3:
digital space
& punctuation.

And of a meal? Plate. Or bowl. Or both. What punctuates a meal? Pepper.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Overlook. How does a poem personifiy the word overlook?

The usual way, by definition:
look down upon
rise above

Contradictions abound.

If a poem were food (which it is), we would say -- As the cook's hands overlook the meal.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Reverse. What happens when a poem is put in reverse?

Goes backwards.
To inspiration.

My grandmother said, don't worry about putting the child's meal in reverse....let her enjoy your ice cream first.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Smitten. What is a poem smitten with?

Foremost, preposition? Perhaps, not. The obvious -- words. I'd fine tune it to the silence that words sculpt.

Appetites smitten a meal. Eyes, also. Simple: avocado, heirloom tomatoes, cilantro, a bit of fresh parsley and more of fresh cilantro, Bulgarian feta, pumpkin seeds, black pepper, olive oil.
Pita pocket. Plate on a plate, full of color & the ripe.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Decision. Is a poem predicated on decision?

Rarely singular. Plural as in the community of ears. Remember, a line break is a decision as readily as the choice of "a" verses the choice of "the."

Of course, "of" is always deliberate as only a decision can.

Regarding breakfast (which is no less a decision to break fast), food carries a decisiveness to mouth, eye & nose. Although rarely discussed, a poem (with its myriad of subtext decisions) can lead to what to eat next. Meals often are inspired by the form-decisions of poetry: banquets like odes. Picnics, very haiku. The a rant akin to fast food?

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Egg. Is the poem kin to the egg?

Yes, and this isn't about which came first. About inception. And, of course, who doesn't hear yolk in yoke.

The egg is miraculous in its myriad of formats. And consistency. Sometimes obvious.
Sometimes blended to mere invisibility. But present. Now, consider hybrid writing.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Threads. Is there always at least one thread in a poem?

Of course, how else can the button be realized.

Since it's close to Halloween, we probably should mention spiders, too. Threads and webs. Words caught in the sentence. Silence snagged by a line break.

And that's exactly the feeling a carrot has for the knife. Or the field greens for a colander.

Tinted. What happens when a poem is tinted?

Is it read differently? Shades & shadows.
Does the poem see itself a tad more dark?
Is it a siren to the Paparazzi?

Speaking to the mechanics, how is a poem tinted? By perspective?

And of food, which might be considered tinted. Eggplant. Small deep,deep purple ovals remind me of sunglasses. (I digress, wouldn't you think sunglasses would siren the sun and not wish to repel).

Language itself is a tinted & beveled being. Much the same can be said of a deliciously ripe salad.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Buttons. How many buttons does a poem require?

Yes, I'm thinking words are so like buttons. They fasten one thing to another and when not, miraculously all is revealed.

Button mushrooms. I fancy a full range of fungi. A full range of arranged words, too.

Persuasive. Does a poem want to be persuasive?

Or the ear persuaded?

Just as the tongue is persuaded by the perfect apple which is persuaded to be even
grander with just the proper wedge of cheese.

Persimmons. Soon the poem will take on persimmons.

A poem is about what is seasonal and/or out of.
Often, more than two seasons.

There are two major types of persimmons. I prefer fuyu. The word itself is meal.
Is poem. And ripe is hard. Is crunchy.

Porcupine. What is porcupine like about a poem?

& bristled.

a porcupine.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Truly? What makes a poem soar?

Thermodynamics and currents?
Timber of the speaker's voice? Receptivity of the listeners' ears?

As individual, taste in food as in words. Skill & adventure.

Stolen. What is stolen about a poem?

A moment?
A turn of phrase?
The echo of a remembered voice?

Recipes are handed-down. Ripped out of magazines. Cut/pasted/copied from the digital.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Heirloom. Is a poem inherently an heirloom?

Perhaps, a poem is informed (benefits from?) the tradition of the heirloom. Something considered important, familial, and passed down as a treasured, physical object. Heirloom thoughts? A poem most becomes a physical object when it is spoken. When its words & spaces, heard. When it is passed around in space & time. And its taste? Varied as the tongue receiving; as the ear listening.

Heirloom food? Well, tomatoes, of course. Their names are poems in-and-of their brave & satisfying colors. Black Plum, Brandywine, Sungold Cherry, Cherokee Purple, Green Zebra, Amish Paste, Pineapple. Put down the pen; put down the paper. Get out the olive oil, basil, & black pepper. Perhaps, sea salt. Yes, bread.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Isosceles. Is a poem comprised of 2 equal sides?

If a poem were a geometric form, would it most likely be a triangle and an isosceles one at that? By the way, what are the 2 sides of poem? Perhaps, title & text. Or words and silence? Of course,
no doubt there are poems on the subject of being isosceles. That, for another month.

Moving on to the meal, food and dish (as in plating) equal pleasure. You're welcomed to think of this as title & text. Or crunch & silence.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Roasted. How does roasted poetry taste?

Well if by roasted you mean celebrated, then it's sweet to the ears. If you mean cooked, I haven't a clue.

I've heard that a fine poem is similar to roasted vegetable --especially onions,carrots and parsnips,sliced yams in foil, garlic, & eggplant. Separate or together as in an anthology. As most lists, the roasted veggie one expands as needed. And all, revered & celebrated.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Blouse. If poetry were a garment would it be a blouse?

Historically, women weren't the only ones to wear a blouse -- children, workman, peasants, and artist. A blouse -- the outer garment gathered at the waist (so there is not waste), calling for us to pay attention to the inner. A poem is like this -- outer/inner, cinched in some way to the page or the listener's ear. Necessary, practical, perhaps beautiful. Mysterious.

Of all the food, I think the tomato (in all its heirloom varieties) is most blouse-like. Your thoughts?

Monday, September 26, 2011

Silhouette. What determines the silhouette of a poem?

Line breaks?
Repetition and/or call and response?

Is a silhouette how a poem appears on the page? How a poem sounds in the ear? Or how the poem tastes in the mouth? Perhaps, when the constellations align -- all these.

Of the food taken tonight. The lacquer bowl held jasmine rice steeped in green tea, steamed skinny green beans, and wild salmon marinated with soy/wasabi & fresh ginger and then pan fried.
And when the lid removed from the lacquer bowl, silhouettes aplenty and non in opposition.

Same could be said of the tastes herein.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Scant. Is poetry skimpy?

Not in a meager sort of way. And sparse is always a blessing.

Simple & fresh always a beauteous paring on the plate.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Thyme. What herb best scents a poem?

I'm thinking thyme.

Off the page, in the kitchen, I'm thinking lemon thyme never disappoints. With eggs, with mushrooms. Basil in not the only herb for tomatoes. Or potatoes.

Time enough to consider.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Inconvenience. Is poetry ever an inconvenience?

Ask a constellation.

What's inconvenient about food? Too far to the market? Not enough -- yes, that surely.
Too much, that, too, painfully.

Balance & ripe. Seesaw & stars.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Chamber. How many chambers does the typical poem have?

As many as it needs to keep sound circulating.
As many as it needs to keep a few spare words when the power goes out.

How many chambers does a kitchen have?

As many as it needs to keep taste circulating.
As many as it needs to keep some tasty leftovers and a selection of olive oils.

And of the chambered nautilus? I believe, 80.

Friday, September 16, 2011

List. Does a poem list?

As in tilt? Or is it ramrod straight? Another thing to consider, are most poems word-lists.

Recipes are lists to be followed, manipulated, or ignored. A good meal lists into good words. Call it conversation.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Jester. Is poetry a jester?

Only on Tuesdays. Late mornings at that.

Is a pancake, bread?
Can a saucepan double as a fry pan?

What is jester; what is gibberish?

Monday, September 12, 2011

Articulated. Is the articulated or the unarticulated most present in a poem?

It matters: the weight of breath.

Some say the freshest ingredient make the finest meal. I'd include the kindest of breath.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Fractal. Is poetry fractal?

Yes. Is peace? Yes. Are poetry and peace related? Yes.

The peaceful kitchen is fractal in abundant, happy pieces.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Bamboo. Do poems exhibit bamboo qualities?

First, let's look at bamboo qualities. Quick growth. Flexibility. Comes in several colors. A system of rhizomes can crowd the stage in quick order. Poems overtake a page in a way that prose doesn't. Besides, I've always said poems have rhizomes.

Bamboo is catching on in the kitchen -- plates, bowls, platters, table runners. Even silverware. Floors. Of course, steamers. Oh those rhizomes.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Book. Does every poem belong in a book?

Is every book filled with poetry?
Is every poem written, a poem?

Why aren't books published with a few blank pages in the midst of all those words. Not the end pages.

Is every meal, a meal? And memorable?

Today, the sun is in full-force; here an unlikely event. The meal, shared, will be good and the words, if not a poem, at least will down-to-earth and savory.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Coda? Do most poems incorporate a coda?

Is closure possible in a poem? Perhaps and probable as a line invites the necessary journey.

With in meal (and life) codas are plates taken to the sink. Smiles & happy bellies from food & conversation. Which is not to say, one can't enjoy a solo exquisite meal. Often should.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Landscape. Does landscape equate to a poem's physicality?

If landscape is how a poem looks to the eye, is sound-scape how the ear interprets the poem? Perhaps, the nose is also involved, subtly.

What's sound-scape in cooking? Ear and nose, of course. The eye wants to be attracted to a plated landscape, don't you think?

Monday, August 29, 2011

Feral. Is a particular school of poetry more feral than another?

Narrative? Lyric? Confessional? Hybrid? Does a poetic form invite the untamed? It's been said that formal structure liberates a poem.

Like a recipe followed, or not quite.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Insatiable. Is poetry insatiable about words?

Of course. Or if you prefer a one word answer: yup. Words are protein. Are words the most basic protein?

With cooking it comes to the ripe. And comfort.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Innocence. Where does innocence dwell in a poem?

The silence following the poet setting down/setting forth her experience. Also, after a reader is sated.

Some food is innocent. Some, menacing. Some, weapons of mass.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Palpable. What is palpable about poetry?

Cadence? Form? How it palpably rearranges heart & mind -- sometimes slightly. Sometimes seismically?

Food is as palpable as words, formed into bread or poetry. Ask any tongue.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Fiber. What is the fiber of a poem?

Perhaps, it's DNA? Does it differ depending upon the type of poem, i.e., language, narrative, lyric? And what of hybrid and/or visual poetry? Much to think about (but not shout). Or does it take the lead from nutrition?

The cook who laughs brings a healthy fiber to each meal.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Figs. Why do poems remind me of figs?

Makes the mouth happy
Engages many senses
Plenty of seeds (which are not bothersome to eat)
Fine subject matter for a poem
The very word is a mini poem, making a sound that is both definitive and playful

And versatile as in cooking -- fresh or dried. Yup, figs.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Forget. What is the poem trying to forget?

What is the matter of a poem's dream? (Not "with.") Therein, lies.

Of course, a cook dreams of the ripe. Forgets or forgives, rot.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Sandwich. How is a poem like a sandwich?

Convenient, on-the-go, filling food. Can be nutritious. Extremely versatile. Conducive to the ripe. Able to push and bend boundaries. A true mouthful.

Of food, the sandwich is ubiquitous and no longer square.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Egg. What eggs on a poem?

The poet? The reader?

For the cook, it's the eater. And the bounty of season. Can you eat a poem. Most certainly.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Everything. Is everything personal included in a poem?

Even the most minimal and objective? (Narrative aside.)

And if this were a meal offered at its most minimal, would each ingredient be stridently defined and cognizant of boundary? Make a soup from leftovers. And contemplate. Boundaries waffle into everything.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Brittle. Is poetry brittle?

To some ears, yes. To some eyes, yes. No others not in the aggregate.

What's askew about the brittle? A well-earned facade of age. The break (as in line) is not un-welcomed.

And what of poetry in the digital age -- visual-poems, etal? Where the fissures?

Brittle food? Candied apples haven't crossed my mind (or tongue) in decades. Won't in the near future, either.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Perhaps. Perhaps, the poem started out as a to-do list?

Words inform and siren. Comfort as only a list can. Complete the task and a strike a line through the word. Editing, I suppose. The earlier version, visible.

List poems, of course.

Perhaps, a late lunch with a savory list of ingredients. Something unexpected. Peach pizza, perhaps.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Eggplant. Can a word so strange (in its parts) spawn a poem?

In the non-aggregate, not so strange, rather common & comfy. Egg & plant. In the aggregate, what would come to something so purple. '

The essence of a poem, I'd say.

Roasted eggplant -- nothing finer. Then again, an egg, boiled is a mansion.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Threads. What are threads in a poem?

The invisible mechanism to fasten words to a page. Or to a screen. Or is it more akin to the successive meanings in an email and/or CP (cell phone) conversation. Or the lack of meaning, thereof.

What is thready food? Celery. Of course, I've not come upon a cookbook which celebrates celery.
For that matter, doesn't seem that celery is too often highlighted in poetry. Is that your experience?

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Crisp. What makes a poem crisp?

The line? Image? Voice? Seasonal ripeness?

About food, it's the ripe. Same with cook. May she be mixing/blending the ripest of poems. May she be smiling.

Felt. Is there a quality of felt in a poem in which we return & return

Friday, July 29, 2011

Felt. What is felt by the poem?

The response of the listener. Collectively, an audience. (By the way, are there felt poems in contrast to linen, cotton, polyester, or wool poems?)

Consider how a meal is felt by those engaged in dinner conversation. Their mouths satisfied in gradations of pleasure.

Sandwich. How is a poem like a sandwich?

Handcrafted. Personal. Somewhat organic. Decidedly, open-faced.

About the tangible sandwich: always (well, almost always) something green and nothing borrowed.

Stolen. What is stolen from a poem?

The moment.

About food, it's what can't be stolen. Memory.

OK, same with a poem. We're at a crossroads; let's have lunch.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hues. Are a poem's hues seasonal?

Like food, it's about ripeness. Think tomatoes. They come green and red and sometimes the green are ripe just as they are. Sometimes, not. OK, yellow, too.

Perhaps, it's also about emotion and attraction.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Seriously. What is poetry, seriously?

Word/sound play & construction as cooking is color/taste play & construction. The simply, seriously.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Admit. What does poetry admit to?

The sound of its words including the silence and/rattle of space.

With cooking, food admits to the engery of it's ingredients and always steps up to the plate with color.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Linen. If poetry were linen, what properties would it display?

Qualities of crispness. Travails of the rumpled.

The world is right when the meal is set with linen napkins. Faux-linen, OK, too.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Signposts. What are the signposts in a poem?

Punctuation & space. Words meeting precipice.

In cooking? Color & contour.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Gestate? How long does the average poem gestate?

First, there's no average in poetry.
Second, it's the poet and not the poem who is conceived and developed.

Now, how long does a peach gestate? Depends upon whether it's the fruit or tree under observation.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Simple. By nature can a poem ever be truly simple?

Letters are straightforward and reliable. Words aren't especially in the aggregate.

Of food, the potato is simple. Vichyssoise is eloquently complex.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Astrophysics. Why do some consider poetry on a par with astrophysics?

Or it is nuclear medicine?

For the same reason some consider cooking, brain surgery. Artichokes, in particular.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Mayhem. Which kind of poetry fosters syntactical mayhem?

Or it is the poet rattling word & space.

Mayhem in the kitchen? Simply tally the number of dishes to be washed.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Pebbles. Are small poems like pebbles?

If so are odes and epics, boulders?

I think small poems (micro poems?) are grains of rice. All kinds of rice -- white, brown, red, green/tea, forbidden.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Artificial. What's artificial in a poem?

The poet's signature -- sometimes imbedded, sometimes skimming the surface.

Same with a meal made with two or more ingredients.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Intrinsic. What's intrinsic about a poem?

Construction of word(s). Designated space. Where windows will (be) and the unarticulated parentheses.

What follows next are a few examples of the intrinsic in food. Carrots: sweetness. Chili : fire. Jicama: crunch. All of the above might (also) be intrinsic in a poem (noun as well as attribute).

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Blowtorch. What ensues when you take a blowtorch to a poem?

Incendiary words. Then ash. Then nothing.

By comparison, when you blowtorch creme brulee, you create the signature crust. People applaud.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Undiscovered. What is undiscovered in a poem?

Conversation between poet and reader, unheard? Misinterpreted? Weak translation? Out-of-synch energy?

The undiscovered with food? Unfamiliar? Exotic? Seaweed salad for some. Salted & brined. Mac & cheese.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Empty. When is a poem empty?

After a poem reaches a fullness, it begins to empty. Nothing. Nothing is (static about a poem). Neither the writing nor the reading of.

Cooking, too, is about change -- empty to full. A plate begins without food and ends without (much if any). Fruit and vegetables ripen. Empty, full, and empty into harvest which a bounty of words describe.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Cracks. Honestly, what are the cracks in a poem?

Crevices. Fissures. Line breaks. Signature -- pen & dream. Frost & breath.

Honest cracks in food? Eggs & crackers, of course. Crackers of all stripes -- plain, seeded, herbed, wasabi.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Typewriter. Were poems different in the heyday of the typewriter?

What was writing like before cutting/pasting? Multiple versions. No online journals; visual poems were fewer and hand-crafted. No hypertext --

Which brings us to the equipment of cooking. Wood spoon, spatula, peeler, knife. Blender or food processor. Gas or electric one. Seesaw of meditation and ease/speed. Every decision influences & informs the outcome.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Rain. How is the probability of rain today like a poem?

Full-sun with a zero percent chance of rain here and still like a poem, the belief in the non-constant, i.e, knowing the improbable is plausible and in time, will occur. Even the briefest poem is a picture window to change. Readers can attest.

Food is ripe with examples. In winter the mind is reluctant to believe peaches; the mouth never losses faith. Lunch -- a peach salad with shiso and feta and almonds. If there be a constant it is olive oil. And olives.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Dull. What makes poetry dull?

What is the root, the cause of? The poet? Reader? The age? Combination? Alignment of constellations? Dense fog? Is there a school of dull poetry? To an individual's ears does a particular arrangement of words always register insufficient light; lack luster?

To my mouth, a few of the American classics are dull -- mac and cheese, mashed potatoes. Saw a restaurant recently who was fashioning-up mac & cheese. Truffle oil and the like. Chic-chic dull, to me.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Crow. What do poems have to crow about?

The smaller question -- are poems at all connected to birds, tar, and caw?

The simple answer: yes. The more complex: probably, and at times in particular configurations.

The same can be said of food, well served. Enjoy and at every instance crow about all which is ripe. Stone fruit in particular.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Gestate. Do all poems gestate?

In the body? In the mind? Is "immaculate conception" or something similar, possible in poetry-making? I've heard poets speak poems on-the-spot, immediate verbal writing to awaiting ears.

A meal needs ingredients. Therefore, all meals gestate. The time varies.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Resistance. What is resistance in a poem?

How the end of a line is tensile strength. How long can a human speak without taking a breath. An untrue line. Timid words. Words and form out of synch?

What do seasonal fruit resist? Gravity. Rot.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Question. Is poetry impossible without a question at least implied?

The known (as harbor and/or terra firma) and the unknown (sea and/or inquiry) are tangled. Perhaps a poem? For sure, Kelp comes to mind. Many uses. Sometimes discarded: a nuisance.

I have learned to love seaweed salads -- cold crush. Unexpected. Hint of brine; slant of question, "Where from?" "Where to?"

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Lacquer. How is a poem like lacquer?

Is in the patient process, applying layer upon layer perhaps 50 coats. Which coat is most visibly felt? Are poems fine accommodators of the unseen but deeply felt? Does the comparison fall apart as lacquer is impermeable to liquid?

Of food, so many shown to great advantage in an eloquent lacquer bowl -- from Miso soup to raw English peas.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Flock. Is it poets who flock or....

poems which flock?

Is a bevy of blueberries? A gaggle of artichoke? A flock of mangoes? And of olives? Perhaps, a brace of. Now, think sonnets & sestinas.

Saturdays are meant for reading, cooking & the wandering in-between. Don't you agree? Also, being grateful. Yesterday, my writer friend, Rich, offered me the finest of meals, word/sound counsel, and two wondrous blank notebooks. Life is ripe.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Frock. Do certain poems wear a particular frock?

The physicality of a poem speaks volumes, in-and-out of fashion. But, tell me, can these garments we easily removed?

Consider the outer garments of food. Think egg rolls, wraps, sushi, potstickers, and stuffed cabbage. Consumed more than shed.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Signature. Is the poet's signature in the poem?

Is the poem? Back up, does each poet have a signature? Is this called voice?

A cook has (a) signature dish(es). Certain spices punctuate; particular herbs stand as

Monday, June 6, 2011

Not. How is poetry not anything

but itself? Especially, when ripe.

Stone fruit, also.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Stirred. What is stirred about poetry?

Up and into. Emotion, issues, personal fragments.

Don't we wish it to shaken? Eloquent, proper & so crisp as if exquisite edge, almost heat. Yes, and those lemon peels. A semblance of sun never disappoints.

Of food -- the shaken taken to the extreme is blending. Think chilled soup: fruit and/or vegetable. Garnish as signature. Stirred into. Much conversation about paring wine & food. Add poetry to the equation. Yes.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Amuse. At some level does a poem amuse?

A sense? Memory? Does this take away from the serious?

Take, for instance, the toasted cheese sandwich w/tomato --- amuses and is deeply serious.

Dialect of light & dark. Perhaps, it's the poet who amuses.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Spiritual. In some way, is each poem spiritual?

Depends upon your definition of spiritual. Of poetry. Of what feeds.


Saturday, May 28, 2011

Patience. Does a poem require patience?

From and for itself. Admirable is patience.

The ripe (whether language or food) requires (yes, patience) know-how, and luck. Inspiration doesn't grow corn or peaches or poems. Although a dollop of inspiration of the top of the other three, does no harm.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Stopwatch. Does every poem have a stopwatch as part of its internal anatomy?

The larger question being -- does language know when to stop and watch? Yes.

Fruit needs the harvester, the hungry mouth to say it's enough. Birds do nicely, too.

A tried-and-true recipe for poets at open mics.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Glimpse. What does poetry offer a glimpse into?

Into itself. Words are landscape & inquiry. Food, too.

Don't skimp on fresh vegetables (English peas and fava beans while you can), wildflowers, and questions.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Maybe. What's the connection between "maybe" & poetry?

Perhaps, what you hear is a poem? Perhaps, what you are hearing is not. Where is the song in the word? Ira Gershwin lyrics -- no maybes about that.

Each of us has a doubt, a maybe about a particular food. You learn plenty from a person's likes/dislikes when brought to the table.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Photorealism. Is poetry the matriarch of photorealism?

Does poetry offer a lens into photorealism? Crystal sharp image of mystery. Of awe. Now think of enjambment chiseling sound? Sound-realism?

I love razor-sharp photos of fruit & vegetables. Isn't easy capturing taste & sound in a single snap. I embrace snap peas. And you.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Habit. Is poetry a habit?

With a particular body part in mind? i.e. heart, lungs, legs, mind? The levering of elbow, stretch of fingers so as to write. Flexing of chords to vocalize.

Similarities with cooking abound. Dexterity of muscle prepares food. The flexing of lips, flicking of tongue -- taste, season, and taste again.

Both healthy ones: this habit of poetry; necessity of a good meal. Both shared.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Trajectory. What is the trajectory of a poem?

The reader's mind? A reader's heart? Both?

The curve of a poet's voice?

Can a poem be devoid of trajectory?

And of food? How a cook tosses a salad?

Perhaps it's direction of a question.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Halleluiah. Is there always a smidgeon of halleluiah in every poem?

Halleluiah being personal and not necessarily over-the-top. Perhaps more like awe.

Birthday cakes & gooey confections result in jubilant (almost auditory-messy) halleluiahs. A plate of roasted eggplant w/fresh basil, tomatoes, goat cheese, marinated olives, and roasted onions garners a savory (almost low-key) halleluiah. Customized-awe.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Snail. Is poetry a snail art?

Actually, I want to talk about the snail community I witness at the bus stop. At the garbage bin adjacent to the bus stop there are snails fully outside their shells seeking leaf. Also, on fennel plants. Is this what a line of poetry aspires (to). To seek and be fed.

To which, of course, references escargot. Guilty pleasures. Food out of shell.

(FYI: I'm not a fan of snail mail poetry submissions -- another topic.)

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Underpinnings. What are the underpinnings of a poem?

A human hand. Heart. And feet.
A particular palette and its expression.

About food? See above.
"Feet" are essential to do the marketing and to accommodate the distance between kitchen and table.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Dialect. Does a poem have its own dialect?

Of place, of mouth. Indeed, personal.

Why does one gravitate to mushrooms; while another scorns? In the roots, I guess.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Rehearse. Is editing a way to rehearse a poem?

Or did I mean redress? No matter; voice is a grand editor. As well as feet, walking.

Is reading recipes/looking at culinary photos a way to rehearse a meal? Moving onto little taster plates; writing one line a day.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Commotion. Why does poetry cause commotion?

Once common as a right hand, the oral tradition. Not something special or artsy. Now, probably difficult to understand. Will there be a test?

Julia Child demystified French cooking (for some). Lots of eggs and cream and cheese and good bread put to yummy, common sense use. Taste, not waste. Poetry mirrors that.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Comma. Are poems without a single comma bereft?

Bereft of what? A tad longer pause; slight contribution to silence?
Is punctuation a gestural roadmap to reading?

What is the equivalent to a comma in cooking? The pause before and after a slurp of oyster? Or soup?

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Malleable. Which is more malleable...

the poet or the poem?
Open/closed to interpretation. Or reading.

The same can be asked of cook & ingredients.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Tentmaker. Are poets tentmakers?

The materials used? Words & space. Mind & heart taut between pegs.
And way?
What is being kept dry?

A banana peel is an imperfect tent. Imagine that!

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Clematis. How does clematis inspire poetry?

Two-fold. By its showy visual nature. By it's alternate names:
traveler's joy
virgin's bower
old man's beard
leather flower
vase vine.

Now consider the alternate names for potatoes. Their myriad of use.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Gravity. Does poetry submit to the gravitational force of seriousness?

Nope. Not necessarily. Just look outside -- too much sunshine, too many wildflowers. And the eucalyptus swaying to shake up all the finches.

Whether in your step or in the air, spring is serious and deeply affects the walker.

Of course, poetry is serious play, seriously affecting the walker, also.

The cook is always affected, especially lost in things of the serious, as in seasonal ripeness. And the juicy.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Enormous. What constitutes the enormous in a poem?

How large does large need to be? To become? Does a poem have a constitution? Behavior and bylaws?

Like a single candle, a squeeze of fresh lemon (or lime) is an enormous culinary gesture. Also, a mango seed is hefty, relative to flesh. These are considerations for today's walk.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Bleak. What is bleak poetry?

Meager poetry? At the hand of a bleak poet?
With lush Spring (petunias and iris, particularly bearded) it's a stretch to the bleak.

The same with food. Verdant green asparagus and blood oranges still at the market. Strawberries which fulfill a mouth's expectation. Yes, today, buy more.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Empty. When they call a poem empty, what do they mean?

Lacking craft, content, inspiration? A too meager subject? Don't confuse minimal with empty.

Empty food lacks nutritional value; is beefy on calories. I'd add monochromatic.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Vertical. What's the correlation between a slim vertical poem and the poet's state of mind?

Be reminded, the mind as well as hand is as economical & practical as a pencil. Genes, while predictable, another matter.

I'm thinking steamed asparagus -- pencil-thin. The ripe is economical, lush and slim. Finger food.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Horizontal. Do poems recline

on the horizontal?
Are they meant to be up-right creatures?

And of poets?

And of string beans and strawberries. On a salad of field greens. Roasted walnuts. Appropriate olive oil.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Litany. Are poems petitions?

If so, to what? To whom?

An open window.

In food, a white plate.


Friday, April 15, 2011

Journey. Do poems journey as far the poet's feet?

Distance to/from & covered

The intentional silence -- single/plural. And always parsed.

How far does the ripe (fruit and/or vegetable) travel to get to your mouth? Still, you haven't discovered raw garbanzo beans? Continue to distrust durian.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Crave. Is a poem prescient and knows which words it craves?

Or is it each word which is prescient and craves a specific community of sound. Thus, the poem. About poets, I guess it's less about being prescient and more about cravings (generic and specific).

Do beets crave rosemary and walnuts? Does rosemary experience a pre-knowing & similar urge?

Friday, April 8, 2011

Necessity. Is poetry a necessity?

Silence, also.

Of meals? Yesterday's Portuguese restaurant. Silence of settling back after a great shared conversation.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Migrate. Are poems subjected to migration?

Is this the seasonal in poetry? Influence of light/dark. Of ripe? Of not yet ripe? The effects of editing? A poet's signature?

In food I migrate toward fresh fig, fava beans, persimmons. Always pears. Signature & seal.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Magpie. If poetry has a mascot, is it the magpie?

By nature magpies are intelligent, shamanic, and minimalists. Leaving us with the overall impression of black ink striking paper.

And you ask, how does this relate to food? Magpies, like poets, need to eat. And poets feed poetry.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Koi. How is poetry a coy mistress?

Answer lies (or is lays) in time. Think of it as April Fool's. Think of it as the first day of National Poetry Month. Revel and be coy.

Never would I consider eating koi. Though colorful food beguiles.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Familiar. What makes as poem familiar?

Connection to the oral tradition.
Satisfied expectation.

A pen which smooth in the hand & kind.
The paring with paper. Tactile.

Of food, carrots & string beans. Corn & tomatoes. Basil, of course. Pepper, always.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Rosemary. What is the connection between a poem & remembrance?

I read or I heard (perhaps, overheard) rosemary signifies remembrance. Do poems in which rosemary appear signify remembrance? It is specific to the one writing? Or the one hearing? Is rosemary in poetry a universal metaphor for remembrance? Are universal metaphors possible?

Besides rosemary, which foods signify remembrance? Holiday foods -- scents of remembering.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Unsettled. Do poems cause a reader to become unsettled?

As in unsettle to be settled. Tipped over and righted again. Imbalance follows balance follows imbalance. Breathing. Walking. Consider, walking a poem this afternoon -- rain or no rain. Avoid contact with placid poetry.

What's the equivalent in cooking? Whole onion (balance), cutting up the same (imbalance),roasting the pieces results in balanced joy. By the way, why is joy rarely singular?

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Rot. Is rot the opposite of ripe in a poem?

How does rot set in? Once set, is it eye-noticeable? Can you smell rot (or ripe) in a poem? Is this a verbal placeholder (like many poems) to discuss "fecund." Let me be clear, I'm not talking about rotten poetry.

One final question (for the moment): Is rot bacterial or viral in poetry?

The New Yorker wrote (somewhat recently) about "rotten" food -- a delicacy, a trend. I'm not buying; I'm not serving it as I pour myself a glass of wine and contemplate the 22 out of 26 days of rain the ground is enduring.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Ripe. Can you tell by looking at a poem if it is ripe?

Does this imply that the best poetry is seasonal? Should poetry be eaten at its ripest? Is it cultural -- some like fruit hard with a bit of crunch. Others, sweet. With fruit, it is sometimes difficult to select the ripest by visuals alone. It is only in the dissecting (knife or teeth to flesh).

I'm anticipating peaches and stone fruit of all kind. Prune plums have made their first appearance. Patience for these as I roast another pan of pears and observe the shape of the poem before me.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Mimic. Which bird does poetry mimic?

Plural? Each sound, a place for. Each letter, a feather for. Why do most questions mimic themselves and are inherently reversible?

Which foods mimic others? Which are substitutes for each other? Is food reversible?

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Gnarled. Does too much editing cause a poem to become gnarled?

Or too little? Is this more of a poem's personality than a physical attribute?

Gnarled food? Olive trees. And a small plate of their fruit with Gnarly Head Zin.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Raven. How do differences between raven and crow shed light on poetry and prose?

All ravens are crows.
Not all crows are ravens.
Note size.
Distinguish shape of tail feathers.
Listen for their calls.

Now, apply the above to poetry & prose. Noting that beauty unifies.

Raining harshly this morning; it appears ravens & crows have self-grounded. Exploration of differences on temporary hold. Thus, haiku (the cat) sleeps.

About food. Huge difference between tuna (recognizable as fish) and tuna (contained in can). Both are tuna (I think).

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Craggy? What's the source of craggy in poetry?

Difficult to ascend (or comprehend)? Particular subject(s)? Shape of poem? Shape of poet’s face?

Craggy food? Those with spikes and many a crag, Artichokes, Nettles. Durian. A chef with a particular visage.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Abalone. Is poetry as treacherous to harvest as abalone?

An activity for the fit. For the adventuresome. Mediating over the eating of. Not over the wrenching from rock. How do you harvest your poems – land or sea? Air?

Back to meal. Pound abalone thin. Quick sauté. Less is more.

FYI: yesterday was Bev’s birthday.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Gasoline. What fuels poetry?

Does a poem run most smoothly on its own steam? Momentum? Once on the page, does the reader supply the heat source?

Cooking with gas accommodates so much. Food served room-temperature (does the room matter?) often improves the cooked meal. Rice salads. Marinated figs left on the counter cooling. Left for the taking. When is poetry best served room-temperature?

Friday, March 11, 2011

Malleable. Are poems less malleable than prose?

Waiting for the sentence to weigh-in on the subject, let’s consider the equivalent in food.

Tofu. Eggs. Supernovas of malleable food. The Malleable Cuisine – look for it 2012.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Fence. Are poems fence-sitters?

If they fall, do they crack never to be put back in a semblance of whole? Their edited seams inside-out and showing.

Or contraband?

Fence-sitting foods? Are these ones which straddle time. Soup and/or salad for breakfast. Pancakes and/or eggs for dinner. And of course, pizza always and especially breakfast. The latter quite contraband.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Shards. Are words the shards of a poem?

Portable. Discernible weight. Raised to light. Put in an envelope. Sealed. Or left in a drawer.

Does each word come with instructions? Guarantee? History.

Is any food without history. Or weightless. When garlic is minced, is the result shards of garlic. Do shards come in a myriad of shapes – diced, sliced, julienne. Truly, are shards more verb than noun? Partial to poetry than prose. (Another conversation)

Friday, March 4, 2011

Edge. Do all poems have an edge?

Is edge singular? Is a line break an edge? Do you count enjambment as an edge? Or a ledge?

Obviously, there are edges to food. Spice & heat. Ledges are ladles and soup spoons. Now, what of the empty bowl?

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Fragrance. Can a poem be fragrance free?

Much made of fragrance in public where I’m from. To be truly free of scent is to be sterile. (Death, of course, is the natural stink). Does a particular kind of poetry trigger an allergic reaction. Is there a list of words that sirens -- bee to honey.

Vanilla and the baking of bread have been lauded to improve the impression of a house. If there were no garlic, how much would not be savored – food & word.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Coda. Can a poem be devoid of conclusion?

Is conclusion the same as ending? Narrative? Experience: echo. Hand print. Is there a recyclable place for repetition?

Of food (always): garlic. Period.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Gesture. What gesture does poetry make?

Indentation? Mark? Rut?

Memory. Sound remembered.

Consider the memory of food. Who could be grateful (enough) for toasted cheese w/tomato. Or Mom’s spaghetti w/meatballs or the unexpected pancakes for super.

Make poems: eat: be grateful. Pop popcorn. Thank the friend who listens. Listen to the music that makes you cook. Open the bubbly. Share. This is for Terry & Sue.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Cryogenic. How does a poem behave at very low temperatures?

Recognizable as poetry? Sluggish? Frozen? Pristine?

And if the audience is cryogenic?

Now imagine a week without frozen food. Today defrost chicken soup for lunch. Serve with fresh-cooked jasmine rice. Place rice in a round white soup bowl with rim, add a layer of field greens and pour the steaming soup over. Over the top in taste. Fresh ground pepper, of course.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Palette. What's a poem's palette?

poet’s voice

A food analogy: think before bruschetta when only a small slice of toast. To which your imagination plays from classic (sliced tomatoes with garlic, basil, and pine funs) to improv (slice of blue cheese, roasted pears, roasted walnuts, and perhaps roasted onion). Or marinated petite black figs w/fennel seed added to the sliced tomato. Yes, serious play. Best pared with the best of company.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Why does a mention of poetry often cause a rise in an eyebrow?

If shoulders were involved, would it be a shrug?

Regarding food, eyebrows have never been a delicacy, I believe. Personally, corn dogs makes my eyebrows go kaflooey.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Iris. How does a poem accomplish its seeing?

Gratitude. Grit.

Last Friday I saw the first iris – small, white, delicate. (Have they withstood these last days of slashing rain/wind?) Harbinger of wildflowers. Next to me, one recorded them digitally. Pen, is my preferred vehicle of remembrance.

A cook sees; the meal ensues.

There’s that bond between poet and poem, too. And the audience with a myriad of lenses?

This post is for the poet, irisblue.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Eucalyptus. What's the poetic kinship with eucalyptus?

Flowers & buds -- a nod to nature
Fragrant (certain ones)
Sirens birds – crows to hummingbird. And koalas
Volatile. Combustible. Use caution

One word about cooking: don’t.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Bifocals. Is a poem best edited by one wearing bifocals?

How else does a poem guarantee close-up and distance clear-cut seeing? Details and the big picture.

Can the same be said of the cook? An onion close up is not the same as one slow-roasted. To which add cut Compari tomatoes. Perhaps a trace of cumin.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Parallel. Does a poem conform to the laws of parallel lines?

In theory, nothing meets. Or is a poem under the geometric sway of the horizon?

On any given day a restaurant serves the exact meal to many diners. Is each enjoying parallel tastes?

Are any writing a parallel poem?

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Cavernous. By nature is a poem cavernous?

Space (enormous) where a poet (or the reader of) is lost (temporarily?) in a personal geometry of word-line. Perhaps, found in the cavities of a few words.

On the to-do list (which tends to be enormous), cross everything out except: Read haiku.

Regarding food. Soups & stews. A large pot simmering. Or olives resolute with cavernous taste. Pitted or not.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Fragmented. Does a poem siren the fragmented?

To what end?
To which beginning?

Is a poem a “solved” jigsaw puzzle?

Can the same be said of meal? Which fragment do you remember tasting last night?

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Observe. Are poems vehicles to observe?

If so, what do they see and who is doing the seeing? Is the way a poem embodies what it sees its gesture to the ear and to the page?

Thus, can we extrapolate -- does food observe both cook & eater? Does this observation begin the craft of taste?

Again, purple carrots. A knife completes the observation.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Solution. Does a poem offer one?

Or are words to be taken at face value like coins. Then again currency is quixotic & volatile. If any left, to what use put?

Ingredients, a meal’s solution. Leftovers being the supreme ones.

Leftover (Jasmine) Rice Salad #9

cooked Jasmine rice to which add:

cooked sliced asparagus
olive oil
lemon thyme
roasted almonds
diced purple (yes, purple) baby carrots
grind pepper to taste

Never eat alone! Share your words.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Basket. Is a poem a word basket?

Perhaps a glass bowl. Then ask, translucent or textured?

Much the same with a savory meal. Easily recognizable ingredients (ie, common foods) make the fine soup. To which spices (or herbs) add taste’s texture. Surprise. Perfection.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Ignites. Does a certain word ignite another in a line of poetry?

Such as light does green. Filtered through cypress. Wow. If you wish to wax philosophical – illuminated.

Smell does this to taste. Chicken soup simmering. Taste the smell & rhythm.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Said. Is a poem a declaration?

What is meaning? Personal? Weight of stone, potato, feather? Of mirror? Whispered conversation?

Garlic -- one of the most said-full foods. Thank goodness.

Monday, January 31, 2011

Clothesline. What occurs when words are stretched between two posts on a line?

Out to dry like a cormorant spreading wings? A rigidity that finds no apt skeleton? Is a poem more than laundry along a line?

You might recall your grandmother saying, “A good meal has a spine – supple with a relaxed properness. Never stuffy.” Everyone is paring wine with food. Don’t forget conversation.

Cardiac. Does a poem have a heart?

Can you tell the state of a poem’s heart by physical observation? What is revealed? Is less salt required? Increased exercise? Too languid? Need for the long walk and the stretch of muscle.

Remember, a meal that looked inviting. Perhaps, smelled so too, but in the taste bland. Disappointed. Needed a wallop of the savory. Of color.

Artichoke. Are some poems inherently thistle-like?

Prickly as the person who generated the words? Are some audiences/some readers also so.

The artichoke is eaten as a poem edited. Clip the points and still there is an edge to the taste. (FYI, baby artichokes are not the same as small ones). Slice baby artichokes, grill with lots of garlic, olive oil, lemon. Twist the pepper lavishly.

Odd. Is poetry inherently strange?

The reading of? The making of?

Of food there are a multitude of examples.

Architecture. How is a poem constructed?

Does each poem’s floor plan differ? Is what is seen from a window never repeated?

About food, meal & words. The same are used though results never repeated. Which is to say, let’s celebrate the carrot’s uniqueness.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

Pigeon. Like pigeons are poems inbred?

If so, in a poem are the results as fluid and beguiling -- colorful and unexpected? In poetry, are we speaking of schools? Not flocks? (Actually, a kit or a loft).

Inbred food? How much of what we eat is family-influenced/dictated? As eaters/as cooks(perhaps as poets), what do we reassemble? To beguile. To make colorful.

Yellow. What's the connection between pollen & a poem?

Invitation to create: extended. Optimism as defined as possibility: imagined and realized (perhaps, not in the same way as imagined).

A meal full with the ripe (which is nothing less than expectation hopefully realized). Grating of fresh pepper (which is nothing more/less) than gratitude. Gratitude being pollen at the most practical. Gratitude in the aggregate not necessarily yellow/not unnecessarily yellow. Split and seed yellow peppers. Roast. Stuff with cooked rice & cheese & leftovers (as in cooked chard/spinach, mushrooms, walnuts, -- you get the idea as in a made-up pizza). Play is always the
best chef.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Fractal. How many facets does a poem reveal?

The exact number of words to make the poem shine. To want to be experienced again (and again) (and again). Fractally-speaking.

How many ways to use olive oil to good advantage?

Thus. Is a poem a poem if it isn't written?

The spoken writes with a firm & welcoming hand.

Can a meal be imaginary? A favorite food anticipated (salmon, for instance)
readies the mouth. Thus.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Silk. What's corny poetry?

Or to put a positive spin, what words are used to construct a poem lined with silk?

Silk foods? My mouth tastes silken tofu with garlic and a touch of heat.

Penguin. What's the connection among penguins, poetry, and parsnips?

Some consider penguins cute.
Some say poetry is elusive or artsy.
Some count parsnips problematic.

Comes down to perspective and prejudice.

Cooking? Remember penguins are food to some. Same is true for poetry.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Nails. What affixes a poem?

A dance of fingers on a page, across a keyboard? A (proverbial) stake into? Paperclip?

Or is a poem truly never fixed, swaying like a prayer flag? Wandering like a walker?

Food. Swirling. A spoon stirs soup. Mostly mushrooms.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Tarnish. When has a poem lost its luster?

Who holds the gauge? Who reads the meter? Who has the inside track on fashion, on window treatments?

Taste is a subset of fashion. Though sheen never goes out of fashion, it is the first to depart the fresh. Think fish. Is scale akin to rhyme?

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Lean. Where is the final resting place for words which lean?

Is sway the active verb of lean, or fledgling?

Branding aside, why lean cuisine? Reduced-fat poetry -- no thank you. Yet, a sinewy poem bejewels the page. And ear.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Cello. Can you determine the sound of a poem from its page appearance?

Perhaps, it comes to word by word. Remember words surprise. A particular letter following another can alter sound. Ask yourself, can you hear the timbre by looking at a musical instrument? Definitely solar plexus, the cello.

Jell-O, I loved as a kid especially the red ones w/fruit cocktail. A mixing bowl full of. Spoon it out – rounded by not cubed. Marshmallows – no. Mayonnaise – never. Jell-O should not be made savory. Some things are meant to be sugary.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Martha. How does a word become a favorite?
Familiarity. Repetition. A siren for a narrative. By the way, is the opposite of proper noun, improper? Martha, by the way, has her own stories – 60 of them. Brief though they be and somewhat poetry-like.

About favorite foods. Carrots, of course. Versatile and highly-hued. Cut into a purple carrot, you become giddy. Why aren’t carrots on that favorite list?

Parboil cut carrots and then shock them. Add cut mushrooms, red/orange or yellow bell pepper slices, olive oil, lemon thyme, more fresh lemon, twist of black pepper. A splash of vinegar is possible. Feta cheese compliments. Place on a bed of fresh spinach. Happy New Year!