A Poem or a Pie
I have been writing poetry as long as I have been cooking. Actually, I think poetry writing proceeded kitchen adventures. Plenty of my poems have been about and inspired by food. I have never seen a great deal of difference between making a dish and creating a poem, although a poem has a tendency to stick around and ask things of you; release this line, abandon that image, add just one more phrase and let my sound get to groovin'! Things like that. Both a meal and a poem are made of certain rich ingredients that begged for form and content- that wanted to tangle together in front of your eyes, and become a part of your body, mind, and soul. A dish without a recipe is a poem pulling you from the future, as you stand grounded in a fragrant pile of herbs and vegetables. You are present to the possibilities that are only accomplished in the relationship between you and the page..or rather, you and the red bell pepper. You are also present to the complete beauty of a thing that you had no hand in "accomplishing", and can have little chance of disturbing or improving. In honor of those mysterious but tactile and tasty wonders, I want to share either a poem or a pie with you as the seasons roll in. Today, it's a love poem. As we wait for apples and enjoy the last days of summer, let there be campfires and lots of colors.
Heart, I said, what a gift it has been
to enter this circle of lovers,
to see beyond seeing itself,
to reach and feel within the breast. - Rumi
Image to describe feeling They say fleeting When a bird passes over the sun Then yellow runs Over our eyebrows Black arrows like dreams of being born Squinting out of water into breath Until our foreheads touch Truly green like light morning
-- Flash like a God’s catcall to the mortal dancing, moving limbs in codas of delight-- our spirits our prisms for the light
first in importance The two first feet made orange impressions In the untouched clay, leapt over each other Lay Like red prairie fires close together, sputtering Sparking, always in whispers Spreading into the bodies of the night trees Waving there like white blossoming comets
water, food, wordlessness Violet rocks throwing out song Recalling their membership to mountain The way blue folded over her face And held —rain that rounded them with kisses, enclosed with fresh wet pools
For this feeling there is only feeling The sounds of the words, instead of their meaning White that is not white A rainbow that paints what is all And in between.
~Caitlin Kenzie Scott
Do enjoy your holiday dear dancers!