Bowl. What does bowl have in common with a poem?

Neither full.
Neither empty.

Just.


Happy New Year! Celebrate with a bowl of deliciousness & may all your words be sweet & sassy.

Fold. What makes a poem fold?

Time and/or fingers if the poem be printed.
Do poems have folds? As many as memory, crevices. Think of this as an ear fold. Think of this as a poem hugs itself.


What food is folded? Eggrolls. Dumplings of all kinds & cultures. Tacos. And sometimes, a peanut butter & jelly sandwich crafted from one slice.

Pomegranates. How is the predicability of poem like a pomegranate?

Well, not much. Supposedly, a pomegranate contains 613 seeds. A poem contain as much space as it can contain. Perhaps, precisely as much as the poet can handle. Word count is not the issue.


Oh, the cook who is willing to stain hands to a pomegranate! Both meditation & outcome, two-fold reward. Next time, saute pomegranate (seeds, of course) with fresh rosemary. Add a bit of white wine. Continue until most of liquid evaporates. Add a handful of pecans. Heat for a few seconds. Serve with meat, fowl, fish, or serve on the side with cheese. Or all.

Persimmons. How do persimmons and poetry relate?

Persimmons are the perfect subject for a poem.
Poetry inspires the taking of persimmons.
Any other questions?


A statement: the valuable purpose of persimmons should never be questioned. I am speaking of the fuyu, of course.

Nothing. When is poetry nothing?

Or is the question, can poetry reach enlightenment? Never the poet; only the poem.


Enlightened food? Yes. All that is ripe and appreciated.

Palpable. How is the palpable measured in a poem?

Breath. Space. And all the ways one measures sound.



In food, the tongue is the instrument of measurement of the palpable. Also eyes. As well as dirt on roots.

Mirror. What does a poem mirror?

Whatever is in front of it. Above all, a poem is practical. And always open to interpretation.




Is fruit plural (as in what hangs from a tree, from a bush) because each mirrors the other. Sadness is mirrored by one apple hanging on a bare winter branch.

Sleeve. What is the closest approximation of a sleeve in poetry?

Perhaps, a dust jacket for a hard cover volume. Less & less frequent.
Or the line break; you wonder what will issue forth. Some finished. Some raggedy.


Sleeves in the good meal? Romaine sleeves stuffed with a vegetable pesto & cheese & nuts. Or chicken well spiced. I'll take under advisement with the haiku the cat. A great source of the non sequitur.

Tethered. What is a poem tethered to?

Words and the sounds they issue.


And of a meal? Memory. The same can be said of poetry, I guess. In both, the concrete and the elusive. Candles, of course, do neither harm.

Articulated. A poem is the sum of articulated words, right?

Yup. Plus articulated space and silence. There you have it.


Regarding food, the tongue articulates what is not seemingly seen. The nose also participates.

Idiosyncratic. What makes an idiosyncratic poem?

The one who writes the poem. The one who reads the poem. Of course, certain words lend themselves to an idiosyncratic texture. "Idiosyncratic" being an example.


Much the same is said of a cook. Also, the one who eats the meal. Of course, certain foods are both visually & tactically peculiar & personal. Close your eyes; visualize.

Twist. What is the latest twist of poetry?

3: tweets, mixed genre (aka hybrids) and visual poems. The digital media is poetry.



As the cook twists dough into a familiar holiday braid. Later, she will read the newest Rendell mystery. She may/she may not tweet about it.

Penny? If you had a penny for every poem you've written?

There would be weight not not much substance.

With those savings, buy the ripe fuyu persimmons. Much fun can be had -- eaten out of hand. Peeled/sliced and added to salads and/or rice. Sauteed makes long standing friends with green beans. Puree and add to the morning yogurt. Or my new favorite, roast them as you would pears. Never doubt the weight & power of the most petite currency.

Assortment. How is poetry like an assortment of candy?

Some you like. Some you don't. Some you (cleverly) put back with a bite taken out.



Poetry & sweets? I'm thinking a red wine sweetened sauce for poached pears. Topped with vanilla ice cream. Yup, that's what I'm tasting. I have no intention of putting any of it back.

Pluot. What does today's poetry have in common with a pluot?

Both are hybrids.



I dream in the color of pluots. My eyes hold their sweet, crisp, cold.

Rattle. When does a poem rattle?

When it wants attention?
When it receives too much attention?
When no one is reading it?

Yes, & more.


More can be said of food which rattles. But first consider the kettle and its rattling of water for tea. The matriarch of sound.