House of poetry

 

only the sign remains.  Memories still standing especially for Nancy.  Both Keane and Wakeman.   

Twisted metal

Perhaps, from a fender of a red truck.  Twisted with intent.  Intentional & spontaneous as sculpture. Or a line of poetry that pops into your head as you lace up those stridently red shoes.  Then again, perhaps you were dreaming of beets.  

Reacquainted with pink

As a child, pink was of no interest and yet now, it swims gently toward your eyes.  I prefer pink radishes to red.  However, with poetry red always wins my favor especially if shoe, involved.  

Location

Looking toward downtown San Francisco from Fort Point

My Mom used the prase "location, location" as code that a house was lovely but where it was built, lacked.

Unlike to the right, where clouds are finely situated.  And the rocks, too.  As well situated as that particular word set in a poem.  As a persimmon in a salad.

Location is in the eye, in the ear, in the taste.

Sharing

I have a history of sharing fruit with the kids in my neighborhood.  When I was kid.  In Jersey.  Mostly bananas.  Mostly apples.  To this day I love sharing fruit.  I try not being too agressive about foisting fuyu persimmons on acquaintences.  Although I am always pleased to the core when someone takes and eats and says thanks.  And in my heart-of-heart, that one would accept another fuyu.

And this, exacly,  how I write a poem.  And why.

From

From dirt & the confluence of weather & hope comes what feeds us.  I don't know how I know this (perhaps mostly from feeling) that it is the combination of dirt, weather, hope, and our bodies which produce poems of the ripe.  As you might imagine, I'm eating a persimmon (fuyu, of course) as I write this.  And I am imagining.  Later, I shall walk.

What is the unexpected voice in a good meal & in a poem?

Dance.
Dance of energy.
Dance of words.
Dance of taste.
Dance of articulation.

The thrill of having a poem signed.  Pure dance.  

Raven. How do differences between raven and crow shed light on poetry and prose?

All ravens are crows.
Not all crows are ravens.
Note size.
Distinguish shape of tail feathers.
Listen for their calls.

Now, apply the above to poetry & prose. Noting that beauty unifies.

Raining harshly this morning; it appears ravens & crows have self-grounded. Exploration of differences on temporary hold. Thus, haiku (the cat) sleeps.



About food. Huge difference between tuna (recognizable as fish) and tuna (contained in can). Both are tuna (I think).

Is poetry inherently multi-media?

When does poetry most resemble video art? Performance poetry, recorded? YouTube-ing it?



Food like poetry has always been essential as well as entertainment. Now,cooking is hot. Multimedia, print & online. Cook as poet, personality, seer,and bard. Pass the herb-roasted salmon with honey mango/heirloom tomatoes (more than 2 kinds), and pinenuts. Please.

To who or what are you addressing your question?

To the poem? Or the poet?
Did you expect an answer?

By the way, what were you asking?



Can we extricate a cook from the menu? Or garlic from hummus?
Perhaps, best question the amount, not the ingredient.

Is editing what a poet must do

to hear what she really meant to say?
Didn't know she was saying?



Are leftovers reassembled, a cook’s method of editing?

Why mourn a forgotten line of poetry?

Or a poet: under-appreciated, undiscovered, forgotten?

Language knows. Remembers. Consciousness reconfigures.

Read once a line of poetry is praise plenty.



Of food: order & abandonment as in ingredients left out or dismissed. Makes a dish something else. That ingredient reconfigured used at another time to advantage. Smiling cook and happy those around the table. Like particular poems within earshot, joyful.

What does editing a poem & recycling have in common?

Where do outtakes of lines of poetry end up?

Scraps. Filled/crossed-out pages. Appropriated ink. Accounted for.

A list-poem waiting to happen?



Scraps. Of food. Compost.

Or salvaged? (personally speaking) Leftovers. Enjoyed. As in, put to good use. Mulch?
Lunch, never better.

Is poetry competition, career, or a calling?

yes
no
combo

residue

maybe




The simple/the fresh nourishes.


A poet I know says, “Words are the ultimate spice.”

Is poetry a subtext of the personal?

Does the poet write to understand herself in each revision? Is poetry mirror-making?




Easter. And what construct is any holiday? Reveals/reinvents. No chunks of this/that. Small plates, bright colors, fragrant as hand-picked rosemary.

What hunger does poetry satisfy?

Hunger is always personal.

Which words feed hunger?


What food, poetic?

What are the 3 visages of a poet?

Farmer
Builder
Cook

Sit down (please) in the room the builder built. Eat the food the farmer planted & harvested. Then, the cook improvises. What outcome?




The fork/spoon poised satisfies hunger. Which food appoints? What music goes with...

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.

Why is a familiar word suddenly unfamiliar?

Why does a turn of phrase turn alien?

Of course, for some, poetry might as well be extraterrestrial.



Which foods are weird, otherworldly?

artichokes
escargot
durian

When a particular word saturates a poet's work, is this iconographic shorthand?

A word stands for. For example “crow” or “cypress.” To what means? To which end? The personal expressed in image/metaphor. Is the reader brought close or held at arm’s length?



With food, this may be construed as the cook’s “signature dish.” Signature style? Consistency and matter of taste.