“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man.” ~ Henry David Thoreau
Every Autumn, I fall in love with apples all over again.
I reread my favorite apple poems, visit the farmers market to say hello to my friends Stayman, York, Winesap, Fuji, Rome, and Jonathan, drink lots of warm cider and best of all, look for new apple recipes.
No matter how you eat them — out of hand, in salads or in every conceivable baked treat, it’s all good.
Repeat after me:
Apple Tea Cake Swedish Apple Pie Grandma’s Apple Crisp Rustic Apple Brown Betty Buttermilk Apple Buckle Apple Pandowdy Apple Cider Donuts Apple Clafoutis
See, you’re smiling. Are you thinking of family chattering at the table, the wonderful smell of cinnamon-y apples wafting from the oven, the safe, happy place of your childhood kitchen? Apples have that effect on people.
Today, just because you look all perky and adorable, we’re serving Baked Apple Oatmeal Pudding.
I love sinking my teeth into Dorianne Laux’s delectable poem because of the way it celebrates how wide ranging our apple associations are. Nature’s wondrous, perfect blushing orb — hold it in your hand, hold worlds within a world for all time. There from the beginning (A is for Apple Pie! an apple for the teacher), what piece of real or imagined history will you taste with that first bite?
“It is Spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” ~ Rilke
Good morning, Poetry Friends, and Happy Spring!
More than a few rabbits have invaded the Alphabet Soup kitchen but we don’t mind in the least. Thought we’d ease into Easter Weekend by serving up an iconic Mary Oliver poem and some delicious baked french toast.
In this season of renewal, growth, and fresh starts, it’s good to remind ourselves that something wonderful may be waiting for us just over the horizon. As someone once said, “you can’t turn back the clock, but you can wind it up again.”
So let’s toast this new morning, this new day, with all the positive energy we can muster up and nourish ourselves with food for the mind, heart, body, and spirit.
“The invention of food as ‘food’ — the ‘loved object’ — is the imagination’s attempt to (re)create the act of eating as, not passive, not infantile, but active, ‘adult.’ The instinctive physical act is appropriated by the conscious self, made into a kind of artwork. A kind of poetry.” ~ Joyce Carol Oates
I’m so glad you’re here! Please make yourself comfortable, have a cup of Earl Grey tea, and gently enter the world of Diane Wakoski’s “Breakfast.” The table is set with an array of beautiful, lovingly crafted images, each lyrical moment turning a simple meal into soul-nourishing art. So this is how it feels to own the morning!
BREAKFAST by Diane Wakoski
In the Spanish kingdom
of my living room:
the morning sunshine.
A polished wooden table gleams;
silence is the reflection of burnished woods/ pine,
waxed to catch the yellow sun.
Outside the wall of windows,
these turning to burgundy and gold,
the wind moving especially
the green leaved ones,
the branches fluttering and bowing,
The kettles boiling now —
one with water to scald the pot,
the second with boiling water for the tea.
scented Earl Grey,
another courtier, this one perfumed,
a dandy, one of those too-
beautiful men I cannot resist.
On my pine and yellow canvas chair
I rest, drinking the tea,
from a white bone china cup. A remaining crumb
from last night’s crusty French bread
is being dazzled on the table’s surface/ now
an opal, a pearl, ivory,
a minor jewel dropped from the chest.
In the south window
four sweet basil plants have reached the
height of 18 inches each,
their lime green leaves pungent when
touched/ I give each a little clear water
and pinch off forming bud clusters.
This morning, against all rules,
poached in water containing a few drops
of white rice-vinegar, its soft oval body
resting in a poaching cradle of tin,
on three tiny legs, its stiff upright handle
above the boiling white water.
Now, I turn out the egg on a plate
of translucent orange bordered with yellow and black. It
lies there with a vulnerable film over the yolk
while I take my small silver scissors & snip
four large leaves from another basil plant,
this one growing in the kitchen window.
The silver blades slice the leaves in ribbons over
the cooling egg.
Alone, at the big table
with my plate, my single
herbed egg, a goblet of
iced water with a fresh sprig of mint
also from the kitchen window garden,
and my china cup of hot tea I sit
in my morning kingdom.
we will ever have
in each day’s life. There is no more.
Thus, I need
this morning’s royalty,
the immortality of the flesh,
the music of wood,
my perfect view of the autumn swamp.
I love this free verse sacramental meditation — the slow unfolding of process, the weaving in and out of emotion, the subtle build to the pronouncements in the final stanza.
With slow deliberation, I prepared poached eggs for my breakfast this morning, snipping fresh basil, sipping my tea. My slotted spoon is my sceptor; we are all reigning poets in the kitchen.
♥ Mary Ann at Great Kid Books has this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup. Enjoy the full menu of poems simmering in the blogosphere, and have a good holiday weekend!
♥ See a list of all the 2011 Poetry Friday posts on this blog here.
“Poetry, for me, is the supreme art of the individual using language to show how special, different and wonderful his perceptions are. With verve and finesse. With discursive precision. And with utter contempt for pettiness of imagination or spirit.” ~ Diane Wakoski
*Emerald Ice was the winner of the Poetry Society of America’s William Carlos Williams Award.