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.

Boundaries. What are the natural boundaries of a poem?

There are 3:
page
digital space
& punctuation.


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

Overlook. How does a poem personifiy the word overlook?

The usual way, by definition:
inspect
look down upon
rise above
miss
oversee.

Contradictions abound.

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

Shape.
Hard-edged
& bristled.


Perhaps,
one
once
roasted
a porcupine.

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.

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.