Iteration. In poetry what is the one sound that needs to be iterated?

silence

In the enjoyment of a meal, there are 3 such sounds?

laughter
the word "yes"
snores from the big, beautiful cat

Curling. When to indent and when not?

That is the conundrum. When is a line too long? When cannot the ear hear & take out from the top shelf its sharp scissors. Know this, a line can never be too short.

As the best meal is the length of memory and it curls the tongue, deliciously.

Glossolalia. Does each poem sport a bit of babble?

Speaking of (& in) more than one tongue as an audience hears with multiple ears we come to question, "What exactly is nonsense?"


Nonsensical food? Junk of course. Hesitantly, I whisper, "mayo."

Polysemous. When does ambiguity make meaning in a poem?

Words too close to a precipice?
The memory of what the mirror saw?
Snapshot left in a drawer for two decades. No names, no dates on back-of. What to make of?

When the story needs to be told, to be written.


Small dishes with irregularly-cut savories placed in hand's-reach of the hungry. A trace of salt; no trace of ambiguity.

Cacemphaton. To what good end are vulgarities in poetry?

Should poetry reflect the times? Will the cattle prod replace the pen? Is texting akin to street-speech? Are no words, no subjects off-limits? And who still holds open the door for an old word?


Heat & fire. Chile pepper flakes. Wasahi. Fresh ginger. Garlic-breath.

Hypotiposis. Do poems catalog reality?

Are they vehicles to transport the real? Specifically, the reality of objects. What is truer,words on or the page blank? How is reality best set-upon? Best expressed? How many views does the apple have of the poem? Of the poet?


How real is the chef's knife when unseen in the drawer? Yet, visually experienced by everything in that drawer. Does the chef's memory create the knife?

Equivocation. Do poems mean to mislead?

Or is it inherent in each poet to mislead and/or is the poet inherently an ambivalent creature?
Words aren't neutral, and I don't subscribe to neutral colors. Weigh in on this, please.


In culinary matters, I've heard it said that tofu is a major cause of equivocation. Tofu turkey, tofu chicken, tofu beef. Come to think of it, haven't encountered tofu oysters. Have you? No doubt, a good thing.

Cant. Is contemporary poetry devoid of clap-trap?

With the addition of the modest apostrophe, I can honestly say that I can't abide cant. Poetry has many small, modest, and handy tools in its belt to empty even the mirkiest traps of debris.


Speaking of tools, the cook is a certifiable construction worker. At the ready with her knives (chef, bread, and serrated for tomatoes), scissors, spatula, wooden spoon, and plastic jar opener.

Interactive. Isn't all poetry interactive?

Interactive between poet & reader. The poet and the audience. The poet or the reader who misreads a word. Happy accidents and stellar mistakes. A roadmap to editing.


May improv and happy accidents (causing no harm) abound in the kitchen. A memory of the first time I added cilantro to a dish, thinking it Italian parsley. Now, part of the repertoire.

Homophonic rhyme. Is the eye of the poem I?

Indeed, the eye knows itself as the first personal singular in each poem it crafts. And that is precisely why every poet sees the sea differently.


About herbs, thyme (especially lemon) always delights.

Chronographia. Is all poetry an exploration of time?

Imbedded, implied, or specifically calibrated.


The making of a dish demands that chronographia be observed. Recipes are timepieces. I imagine much the same could be a said of the plating of a poem.

Keening. Is there a mournful wail at the heart of poetry?

Or in the sensibility of the poet? In the necessities of the audience? And what of joy? The union of opposites makes the whole. Poet & audience; page & performance; paper & the digital.


Sauteing onions and garlic in olive oil is undeniably a form of keening. Other examples abound. Open the cupboard, a culinary dictionary.

Fustian. Can the ordinary be gilded by a powerful performance?

Oh, the old-age dialectic of page and performance. Voice gilding the mediocre and what repercussions to the audience ears?


Mediocre food including the not-ripe or overripe cannot be salvaged by culinary architectural prowess. Keep fustian cooking out of the kitchen. And off the stage which, by the way, is another kind of kitchen table.

Euphony. Can a truly pleasant sounding poem be of import?

In these times, is a throughly pleasant sounding poem all fluff, lace, and an overstuffed chair?
Or is it a mirror to the poet's sound-scape & the audience's ear and, therefore, fair game.
How pleasant is grit?


Although very conversant with grains, I must admit I am no fan of grits. And I don't believe
deserts (breakfast ones included) are any more pleasant that farro soup with onions, garlic, tomatoes, garbanzo beans, fresh basil, pepper, grated hard cheese, and a lacing of olive oil. I admit, that was this morning's breakfast. Leftovers -- a true and pleasant tasting word.

Metonymy. Does a poet establish a personal metonymy?

And to what end? As if returning home to or with a basket of phrases. Do personal archetypes exist? What can be individualized from the collective of words?


Clearly, it's time for supper. A first -- sauteed oysters. Perhaps, a new metonymy. But signifying what? Or who?

Convention. Does each poem hold itself to a convention?

Does the poem create a convention in the same way as a poet might hold herself to an intention? Is every convention situational to the gestures on the page (or screen)?


Cooking is rife with conventions and intentions. And that, folks, is why poetry and cooking intersect so willingly. Why it's not pleasurable to eat and run; it is so to eat and write.