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.

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.

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.

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 -- http://www.hesscollection.com/art/maler.html




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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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
parenthesis.

Not. How is poetry not anything

but itself? Especially, when ripe.


Stone fruit, also.

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.