Calling all hybrids

cars, images, writing.  And also a poem.  

 

This is how a poem sees

 itself as always part of nature.  Nature, as in, its fullest spectrum of gestures & possibilities.  

A flower suitable to pen a poem upon

 and lots of light which is a way of saying hope.

The prismatic bird takes flight

Am I the only one seeing this? Doubtful. But possible. Makes me think of the probablity of a poem. And, of course, a poem's prismatic flight as I close-in on the probable breakfast which awaits.

I don't find monochromic wearisome.

For me black & white makes me think of print with its myriad of geometric configurations.  A taste for texture & shape.  Yea for Gutenberg.  Or ink etching letters into a poem.  There's a certain sublime coolness to the monochromic.  One might suggest, a kitchen at midnight.

Light is the constant ephemeral

Like salt dissolving in a dish.
Like a hyphenated word spicing a poem.  

Ready

and waiting.  To be picked.  To be enjoyed.  To celebrate the unexpected.  Petitle zucchini.  Slice paperthin and add to pizza with roasted eggplant, Parmesan, tomatoes, fresh herbs, black pepper.  And any other yummy morsels as in cooked sweet potato.  Yes.  And what about those squash blossoms.  Saute in a bit of olive oil, cherry tomatoes, sliced persimmons & cashews.  Enjoy and then get down to the business of writing.  Paper aplenty is ready.  Is waiting.  

Relax

haiku 

Let someone else do the laundry.  Let someone else worry about where the next non sequitur will come from.  Whether the next sack of persimmons will be sweet.  Whether the avocado will be firm or darkend and mushy.  Whether the words in a poem will coalesce as only the ripe can.

Whether weather will be fit for sleep.  

Sunbeam

In four days haiku, the gorgeous and precocious kitty, turns a lovely 11.  He is napping upon a sunbeam.  I am thinking of soup because cooking makes a poem happen.  And cooking, as walking, is a celebration.  Is a poem.

Late tomorrow when the celebratory meal is finished and the new year is realized, which poem will greet you?

The one-word answer:  "wait."
To each answer, a question.  Thus, the larger question -- does she know what a poem is?
Returning to a one-word answer, "dubious."
Though the meal will contain blue cheese of this she is not dubious.  

Lettrisme. When does nonsense make poetic sense?

Just like the French to laugh at words into non-words and the form so literary as to make you thirst for the reason of mussels & fries.

Dada in the kitchen? More than past & fancy. Mac & cheese. Frankly, mustard. Dogs & gods.

Does a poem write itself?

This blog did. Sipping Good Earth tea. Teabag says, “ You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.” -- John Adams 1735-1826.

Found poem. Found friend.



Found food? Leftovers (usually in the plural). Sauté cooked rice, garlic, cherry tomatoes, several thimbles of white wine, chopped spinach, of course, pepper. Add to something that has been leftover. What is the connection with editing? Outtakes & fragments.

Is personal experience mulch for a poem?

The past is always present. Mind churns it over.

The body, never far from hunger.



Breakfast is dawn arriving on a plate. Nutty cheese, sliced apple and bread. Dab of rough-cut marmalade. Small notebook/pen. Dream, fodder for…

How many poems can be forged from a finite number of words?

Some questions are riddles. Forged from no-matter.



So, what’s for dinner? Now there’s a question worthy of poetry, invitation, necessity. Limited to the contents of the larder. Like poetry, a matter for play, for interpretation.

To question is not to doubt a poem, right?

A poem never doubts itself, saves that for the poet.
Thus, a seesaw: poet & cook/poem & ingredients.



Put aside cultural difference/skeptical mouth. Pizza is without a doubt, unquestionable.

Which way does the question fall?

Wind blows. Seed taps into happenstance. Thus, a question is both root & leaf. Like a poem. Direction of the leaning evident by circumstance. By perspective.



Which food is evidence of renewal? Bulb & seed. I’m partial to fennel. Try this: roasted fennel, shallots, tomatoes. Go wild, add marinated figs dressed w/olive oil & (you guessed it) fennel seed. Which is to say, double fennel.

What inspires the question in a poem?

From the get go, assume every poem imbeds a question.
From which limb, which organ of the poet did the question spring?
A question (explicit or implicit) is sufficient. The answer is the umbrella you misplaced.


Which foods feed question-making? A split dish with a friend. Two glasses. Wine.

What are the 3Ps of a poetry reading?

poem
persona
patter

Are poems inherently personal? If so, where in those seemingly a-personal poems is the poet lurking?

At a public reading, how much influence does persona exert? Some poets don’t talk much between poems. Patter turned off, but not persona.

Some, ask that applause be held to the end. Delay is measured by distance.




No doubt, food stirs appetite. In a restaurant with an exposed kitchen you can watch, but you can’t cook. You see the flame, but can’t feel the fire.