Do poets favor a particular emotional register?

serene, bucolic
angry, angst-full
personal, intimate
cheerful, bouncy
distant, withdrawn
sad, melancholic
sentimental, romantic
hot, fiery



What corresponds with food? Take, for instance, chili peppers. Is it in the mouth of the beholder? Or those who have the stomach for it.

Can a poem be devoid of story?

Narrative aside, sound is the universal story.


Which sounds of a meal does the mouth treasure? Oh! the stories behind those meals.

If you put off writing for an hour, how is the poem affected?

Time & word. Weight & shadow.

Words articulated approximate the weight of feather. Those unspoken carry the heft of brick.



Timing is everything with food, and always the weight of the cook's hand, evident.

Why is the poem easiest to memorize not the one you re-read?

Rhyme
Reputation

Oh stumble and be happy.



Why, some restaurants turned up high. Some immobilized on ice.

Is a poet happiest when she is writing a poem or when she reads that poem?

Process & product.
Chicken & egg.



Speaking of eggs, hard-boil a few. Add sardines, parsley, twist of pepper, tomatoes, drizzle with olive oil. Augment with bright sun & sand. Improvise on a loaf of bread. Now, write that.

Is the length of poem affected by Equinox and Solstice?

Does the lengthening day require a long poem or short poem with long lines?

In winter is a poem's long lines to warm? Or are they minimal to mimic and sear the cold?


Of course, food is seasonal. Season being somewhere all the time. Winter requires soup, stew, and potatoes. Although Salad Nicoise makes keen use of spuds in any season.

When you call what you write poetry and the audience hears it as prose, which is it?

Is poetry ever devoid of prose?

Is prose rid of poetry?

Is one a subset of the other?

Are both a function of form?




Consider cereal. If you're an adult you no longer call it only a breakfast food.

Why is this poem different from every other poem

you've written on the same subject?


Consider, salmon prepared the same way (roasted w/mango, tomato and cilantro salsa) shared with the same friends tastes different each time. Tongue & ear fit for the part; performance by nature is rather fluid.

Can poetry keep you from becoming a grammar outlaw?

It’s not only prose which adheres (to)
logic & conventional grammar. Grammar, after all, is traffic sign & road marker. Which is to reference the craft of a map-maker with a fine ear. Perhaps, with a dollop of play.



A dollop of pesto upon which sits rounds of roasted eggplant stuffed with ground chicken. Subtle, yet rich & precise. Not a morsel of ambiguity….well. In the end, how it all breaks.

At its core, is a poem the most practical little beastie?

A nest of need.

Saying what needs to be said.
Saying what you never knew needing saying.
Hearing what you never expected you needed.


Food is the edible form of poetry. Of course.

What do you pair with a pear poem?

A pair of eyeglasses and a glass bowl.


Do you pare pears? I don’t. Prefer the pair of textures –slightly grainy and smooth. While you're whittling or not whittling the pear, pick up Robert Kelly's pear poem.

How do you respond to a reader-friend when they say, "I just don't get poetry?"

What's to get?
The same you get from fiction. Well, somewhat. Sometimes. Both visual & auditory rewards.


Regarding food, I don't get cream. Except with ice. And of course, with Stevens' "The Emperor of Ice Cream."

When is poetry out of season?

The same is said of weather as it was most recently an uncommonly hot San Francisco weekend.

Leads me to ponder the unseasonably hot poem with a chilled beverage.


Of course, on the meditation of seasons, food has much to offer.

Can a poem be too well crafted or too grand?

Think of a garden, tended but not overly manicured. Tolerance for a weed or two.


Or food not too fussy, not too precious. The mouth/the eye relish nourishment and the pleasantly unexpected.

How is a poem like a cat?

Does not come when summoned.
Sees shadows.
Keep life simple.
Knows the full measure of play. Of naps.
And, oh so mysterious.

About food, my cat is insistent & particular.

When is a poem truly abandoned?

When the poet doesn't show up, the work isn't done.

When the cook decides not to; abandonment being so different than marinade.

So, what's cooking with you, poetry-wise?