INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE HOUSESITTER

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE HOUSESITTER

If the door has blown closed, open it.

You do not need a key.

Feed the birds.

There is seed in the blue jar.

 

Pick the apples, eat the cherries.

Make wine from the grapes.

Do not eat the yellow pears

for they are bitter.

 

The garden is full

of deep green weeds.

Cook them in oil.

They will make you strong.

 

When dew shines on the leaves

go out and wet your feet.

The copper basin holds rainwater

to wash your hair.

 

Milk the goats

at sunrise and sunset.

Drink what you like

and make the cheese.

 

The dogs will kiss

you awake.

The cats will sing

you to sleep.

 

They will tell you

what they wish to eat.

They will tell you

what to dream.

 

At midnight,

the owls will come.

The great gray owl

will speak. Listen.

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April prompts #31–poetry month extension

April prompts #31

A Food poem

Janice’s #6

THREE TABLES

You haven’t seen all of Warsaw, but you’ve seen three tables.

~Cousin Gosia

 

Cold Chłodnik (you say “whahd-neek”) green with dill.

And Smacznego. The white linen cloth. Plates

of meat and cheeses, salad of tomato

and greens, mushrooms because it’s the season,

Celinka’s pierożki with more mushrooms.

Thick slices of seeded bread and special rolls

from the bakery at the corner, and butter,

and rose petal jam (say “rose petal jam”).

A basket of paper napkins with red,

white and blue stripes in your honor. Gosia’s

blueberry pierogi. Coka-cola, apple juice

because Dominik will run a marathon,

the narrow glasses of vodka or Jarek’s

soul-cleansing mixture, which surely does.

The salty oscypek made by mountain

people. Pickles, ogórków and mushroom.

You are full. Language, and why did Babcia

Florentia go to Cleveland and why

did Frieda stay and why did the Russians

shoot Rudolf on the front steps of the house

where they were born?  And the puppy plays

on the floor with the children who have been

excused. Two hours and you are really

full. And in comes Jola with her handsome sons

and she has brought a dish of corn and cream

just for you because you do not eat meat,

and a cheesecake and a mazurek filled

with raisins and walnuts and frosted with

chocolate and this is your family and Edek

fills your glass again and na zdrowie.

And you eat.

NAME THE PLACE

NAME THE PLACE

 

. . if you can, where a woman in black velvet

wears a hat constructed from balloons.

Before a roaring fire,

people are singing Nowell.

 

Banjo and fiddle, washtub bass and guitar

echo through the hall.

Now everyone is singing

“Feeling Groovy.”

 

An aproned man carves turkey.

A woman offers a bowl of potatoes.

Boys and girls run to and fro

bearing pitchers, and plates of cake.

 

A magician pulls

a rainbow from his mouth

while children shout

words to make it real.

 

Everyone is there:

a man who recently bought oxen,

the one who took a wife,

a woman from the highway,

 

a beggar from the hedge.

a man most inappropriately dressed,

Santa Claus, and look!

there’s that maiden, all in blue.

 

November Writing Challenge #11

. . . going by date, since I certainly haven’t written every day. See what can happen if I get a character?

Cast:

a poet/professional football player with an eating disorder

a therapist

 

Setting:

A therapist’s office—two chairs, a desk

The therapist is sitting behind the desk when the poet enters. There are items on the desk, pencils and so on. During the scene, the therapist periodically picks something up and fiddles with it.

 

Therapist: Sit down, sit down.

Poet: Thank you. sits

Long silence.

Therapist: So. What do you want to talk about?

Poet:  Food. I mean, food, really. I want to talk about food.

Therapist: Say more.

Poet:  Well, I mean, I like it. I really like it. I eat it all the time. I have to, for work. I mean, I play football, right, so I have to stay bulked up. So I eat. Food. Steaks and chops and all like that. Bread. Donuts. Cake. Hamburgers. Ice cream. My favorite is chocolate but I like cherry and peach and chunky monkey and strawberry and even sherbet. Lemon, orange, lime. That mixture, you know, that’s striped together. You can scoop it out in your bowl so it looks like a rainbow. Salad—not as much salad as I oughta, but some. Just lettuce and tomato is the best with French dressing or blue cheese. Hotdogs but with just mustard, no relish. French Fries. Pie. Apple pie is the best, but rum raisin is pretty good. And date cream. And coconut cream. And banana cream. Pumpkin if it’s not canned. Mincemeat on Thanksgiving, but not with ice cream, and peach. And. . .

Therapist: It seems to me that you talk about food.

Poet:  Right. You’ve got it. Once I start talking about food, I can’t stop. I mean, if I even think about it, right, I start talking about it. Baked beans. Macaroni and cheese. . .

Therapist: interrupting  I see. I see. Your job is football. I recognize you, as a matter of fact, and I’m a fan, but that ought not to affect our work together. Unless, of course, you have a problem with that.

Poet:  I don’t. Really. I mean, everybody who watches football knows who I am, so I’d have trouble finding a therapist who doesn’t know who I am. And even if they don’t watch football, there are those mustard commercials I do. You know where I eat hotdogs like it’s a test of some kind and one is plain, just in a bun, you know one of those soft kind of buns, not the whole wheat ones. Those are weird. If you’re going to eat a hotdog, you shouldn’t bother with whole wheat, unless you’re having a tofu hotdog but those are gross so why bother. And they say that a bunch of them even have meat in them anyway so what’s the point. And one of the hotdogs has relish and mustard and the other has just mustard and I always say in the commercial that I like the one with plain mustard the best, and I do, really. Relish kind of interferes with the taste of the hotdog, but mustard enhances it, if you know what I mean. Especially that red pepper relish. . .

Therapist:  interrupting  I understand that you also write poetry.

Poet:  I do. I kinda like to have that as a sideline, you know. It gives me something to think about when I’m working out. Words. How they go together. LIke hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. Hotdog and mustard. . .

Therapist:  I see. So do you write poems about food. . .

Poet: interrupting  I most write about food. I like the way food words go together. Brown bread and butter. Turkey and stuffing. Potatoes and gravy. Pancakes and syrup. Bacon and eggs. Steak and eggs. BLT. That’s one of my favorites. BLT. BLT. BLT. BLT. BLT. ..

Therapist: interrupting  I understand. What is your past experience with food? When you were a child, for instance?

Poet: I liked it. Mom says I was, like, always a good eater. A good little trencherman she said, whatever that means. She used to cut up hotdogs and put them into baked beans and I liked those. And chicken a la king. I like the sound of that, too. A la king. A la king. A la king.

Therapist: I can see that. So you always had enough to eat growing up?

Poet: Oh yeah. Mom was a good cook. Good mac and cheese, good hamburger casserole, good meatloaf. With baked potato and squash, usually and pie for dessert. And peanut butter sandwiches on homemade bread. With honey. Or jam. Or jelly. Or fluff.

Therapist: How long have you had this problem? Talking about food?

Poet: Is it a problem?

Therapist: Is it? I assumed that’s why you came to see me.

Poet: No! Why would that be a problem? No, I came to see you because my girlfriend wants to break up and I’m pretty depressed about that. We’ve been together for, like, five years.

Therapist: What are the reasons she gives for breaking up with you?

Poet: Communication. She says we have a communication problem.

Therapist: And how do you respond to that?

Poet: Well, I tell her that I don’t think we do. We go out all the time for dinner and talk. Chinese food, Mexican, sometimes Thai, but I don’t like that as well, and she doesn’t like Indian as much as I do because it’s too hot for her, even if she only gets the mild. Good old diner food sometimes, you know, hot turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce and some pickled beets on the side. And sometimes we go out to breakfast. She always gets just yogurt and granola, though, so I don’t see the point. And I like sausage gravy on biscuits. Or sometimes three eggs over easy, or a cheese omelet with white toast. And sometimes. . .

Therapist: What does your girlfriend like to talk about?

Poet: Oh, well, she talks about plants. She grows a lot of plants. African violets and things. Ferns. Those hanging ones with the shiny leaves. Stuff like that. She talks about those all the time. They need water and stuff. Fertilizer. But she doesn’t have a garden outdoors. Just house plants. Nothing she can eat. But she has room, and sometimes I’m like, “Hey, you could like grow spinach and broccoli and lettuce and tomatoes and all like that. Grow your own stuff for BLTs except the bacon part. I really like that combination:  BLT, BLT, BLT . . . .

The therapist slowly gets up and extis, while the poet happily repeats BLT until the curtain comes down

 

SHAPE SHIFTING

(an old one)

 

SHAPE SHIFTING

 

Last night for my dinner

I slit open a womb of squash,

scooped out the papery ivory eggs,

sliced a green-white onion body so wet and alive

the two halves would not  fit tight together.

I made a salad of living things,

infants of broccoli and radish;

dressed it with the blood of olive and grape.

 

The boundaries are not clear.

This morning the dog dug a nest of mice

out of long grass, swallowed the babies

like little pink pills.  They slid easy

down her throat: wriggling embryos

dissolving in her stomach,

becoming dog.

I commend them to their god.

 

And there was a time I read an article

about a wildlife biologist summoned

to investigate the death of a woman

by mountain lion.  It happens more often

than you’d think.  He tracked the beast,

found its cache in a litter of leaves.

He said, “I hate to tell you, but what was left

looked an awful lot like meat.”

 

 

Grolier Poetry Prize Runner-up, 2001

April Prompts: Number 28

April Prompts #28

Kari’s #1:  A gastronomic delight

WHAT THEY EAT

~for Mouawia

The blessed souls in Paradise–

that garden where one can eat

of the fruit of any tree but one–

eat figs.

Picked ripe,

dried soft and seedful,

sliced wide to hold rich

walnut halves,

toothsome, gold. On each

a dribble of

tahini,

richer, barely bitter.

The blessed souls partake

with crunch and glide,

immortal tongues

and throats full satisfied.

The blessed lick

their fingers clean, and sigh.