In cooking there is a beginning, probably a middle, and an end. Consider, much of cooking begins offsite with the ripening of the seasonal. The cook then takes the season's largess and rearranges its color. Often on a white dish with a shallow rim. Sometimes using heat; sometimes not. But almost always, a knife is employed.
The poet is tethered to the seasonal in much the same way. Much of a poem is done before the writing of, happens. As in cooking, there can be (with writing) joy in the beginning and joy at the end in sharing. Time made happy and calibrated by a pen.
(H. cont.)
ReplyDeleteNo fear entered his heart at the time of writing
and so he continued, the quay still and full of heat
"I long for an armature and dissonance
something that reminds me of home"