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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Figs. Why do poems remind me of figs?

Portable
Edible
Nutritious
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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