Wednesday, November 29, 2017
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.
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...?
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
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.
Monday, November 27, 2017
into or out of. So liquid, perhaps our fingerprints are unreliable witnesses. Feels like a train station ready for an unexpected journey. The packed spoons, pens & notebooks are not those which will be used on this journey. Implements & instruments -- anew.
Ah that poinsettia won't let go of memory. It circles & encircles. It wreaths memory. Like needle does thread. Like pen finishing off an "I." Like spoon in and out of split pea soup. Here memory has the hopeful tinge of pomegranate, don't you think? Sheer abundance.
I wonder about the state of a plant's memory. For instance yesterday's poinsettia. Is its memory firm/grounded as its roots? Perhaps, pervasive? Or liquid as time & properties of water? Is it dissolving to sleep or rising? The same can be asked of a poem. The same can be said of a meal -- does it rise from the plate or is it resting before the eater's expectations?
In the Mission District of San Francisco -- poinsettia. Stop walking and listen to the story. The man who is painting a small pink canvas in his driveway tells me the poinsettia was formerly the root above and migrated to a trunk next to to the original. He's lived there for 29 years and it flowers every year about this time. Walking is a banquet for the eyes and posies for the page. Keep walking. Keep looking down. Keep looking up. Keep a blank page & pen nearby.
Monday, October 30, 2017
especially when the dream requests a glass of water. Especially, when the meal is served with liquid nectar such as water. Especially when the dream invites otherworld succulents. For what is a dream if not otherworldly clarity. Sounds like a meal coming together. Sounds like a poem being offered cool water.
simple nor what is expected. By the way, which is more crevice like -- a split in concrete or a vein? How does water hold together as a circle: self-contained & perfect? How many line breaks in this image and what influence does it exert upon the next meal? Combining the dry with the wet is an art form -- culinary & in watercolor.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
This is widely known: birds are sentinels. But what do we know about Winter squash? Here's a tidbit rarely shared: Winter squash always show up in force for a carnival and consider themselves a self-contained casserole. Consider that. Consider, placing your next 23 poems inside a hallowed-out squash which you have just prepared for baking. Oh my. How those words will taste.
and squashes for days. Because these are the days of Winter squash and no discontentment. Carrots, too, aplenty. And essays to feed the soul; in particular Mary Ruefle's "Madness, Rack and Honey." Go for it and never apologize for being sentimental again. Thanks, Beverly, for the top photo.
Clearly, gone to the turkeys. Or, gone with the turkeys. So much depends on a preposition. Much like a twist of pepper. A line break. Ah, when to use (judiciously) the semicolon. And then, there's those fallen leaves. What are they?
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
Sunday, October 15, 2017
is pure comfort food. Winter squash for sure. Rooted and sturdy with insides that surprise & beguile made sweet by roasting. Which is what certain words dish up, too, as poems. I'm thinking editing a poem tries to get to the inherent savory and/or sweetness. A kind of roasting, I'd say.
|Top left: Blue Ballet Squash -- new to me. Yummy!|
Friday, October 13, 2017
and yet the seasonal has a way of addressing absence & its ensuing lament. Pomegranates. The word itself is a poem. Even without the thrill of its 613 seeds, the pomegranate is a joy to behold. Fecund and juicy. Fall is spilling. These beauties picked by Bev from her brother's tree. Wow!
Saturday, September 30, 2017
& about his 14th
haiku has this to say:
no funny hats
no age-related jokes
above all don't write/read me a poem
just bring ahi-grade tuna & don't stay for dinner
Friday, September 29, 2017
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Friday, September 22, 2017
feed a hunger, too.
The windows here
tell a tell a different story
than the windows of San Francisco.
What shows up is worthy to see.
The same is true of which words
appear on the page. Or which
tasty morsels find their way
on toasted pita this morning.
A bit of cheese is a given.
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
in its folding & unfolding.
Just what a satisfying meal does. That ping of pepper,
a bite of lemon, the saltiness & brine of an olive.
Just like a poem with just the right amount
of twist & turn. The hinge of poem is a line break, of course.
Of course. L'Shana Tova.
Monday, September 18, 2017
The language of succulents is a graphic one. A roadmap to the luminous written upon their bodies with black-tipped pens issuing white ink. Some of the finest writing happens on plants. And on stones, too. In the kitchen, the simple squeeze bottle writes in the language of pesto across a platter of heirloom tomatoes. Or potatoes. Mozzarella included. Or not. There are several haikus occurring the photo above. And below.
Saturday, September 16, 2017
Friday, September 15, 2017
What's the message here, folks? Definitely, some force wants our attention. Grabbing onto our eyes with fervor. I think it's patience for the process. The unfolding. The unseen & unseen. How did this sky-display influence breakfast? Or the writing of the poem? If I were a novelist, I would lean into suspense. I'm not; I'll stay rooted to the non sequitur.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
A rose is both meditation and magic. Sometimes you need to get close. Really close. Close enough that you become what and who you are looking at. So close that you become the hue. So close you step into magic. Why is yellow so inviting? Roses, scrambled eggs, sun and goldfinches. And my favorite: yellow No 2 pencils.
takes a yellow pencil to pen a poem about a yellow rose
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
The mountain behind. What do I have in common with a deer and a birdbath? That same mountain in front of me. What do poets writing in English have in common? 26 letters to create a heaping sack of syllables. What do cooks have in common? The principle of knife, spoon, hand & eye. And often a plate which is the foundation for a mountain of arugula.
Monday, September 11, 2017
makes me crave the respite-shadows that scrub oaks create. Or a morning of deep cloud
that might lift. Or might not. My grandmother always said, "Pay attention to what you can't see."
So, here's a quartet of the unseen -- the table upon which is a cup of tea & a journal & a pen. And on this auspicious day was written
dating the page
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Notice the red dot to the south west of the feather. I wonder how many ladybugs reside within one mile of this patch of grass? And while we're on the subject of questions, whose feather is this? Have you ever thought that fallen feathers by nature are nonreturnable? Do words adhere to gravity? Are fallen syllables nonreturnable? What of a crestfallen soufflé? I'd say, edible.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Basil, of course. All type of basil to all type of tomato. Go ahead, eavesdrop. Don't stop there -- listen-in on the whole garden. For what is a garden if not a linguistic wonder.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Roasted for an hour at 425 degrees these eggplants are shrived & charred to the world. Inside, a creamy & sublime wonder. Simply add cropped garlic & fresh red onion. Nothing else. Nothing more.
If we could see the insides of our alphabet (all 26 letters) what poem would be written? How would our speech differ? Would I still love the word "perhaps?"
Ah, when nightshade speaks, pay attention!