Introducing “Poets in the Kitchen”

This entry is part 1 of 6 in the series Poets in the Kitchen

Here in central Pennsylvania, summer’s full bounty is upon us. SWEET CORN signs pop up along every road and highway, causing mini traffic jams rivaled only by those at the farm stands offering early peaches. In the woods, chicken mushrooms appear on random stumps and logs almost overnight, neatly stacked like piles of bright orange books, while in the meadows, blackberries are ripening so fast that the bears and human pickers together can barely keep ahead of them. Our neighbors’ free-range chickens are laying more than ever, though judging from their strident daily celebrations, the novelty of this creative act has yet to wear off. They’re watched over by a rooster named Clem who sounds the alarm at the first sign of a predator, even driving deer away from the neighbors’ big vegetable garden. His late rival is in the freezer, but this living rooster is likely to feed them ten times more.

All of which is to say I can’t imagine a better time of year to launch a new series featuring the intersection of poetry and culinary arts: Poets in the Kitchen. When I emailed Luisa about it last week, I was pleased to learn that she already had plans for a cooking-related writing project, so the series will give both of us a chance to try out some ideas. But we want to extend an invitation to guest contributors as well. If you’re a poet and there’s some recipe you’ve invented, inherited or otherwise made your own, we’d love to hear about it. Posts in this series will be centered on recipes (or recipe-like things such as instructions for hog butchering, pickling, or making maple syrup) written as plainly or as lyrically as you like. The recipes should be accompanied either by original poems (reprints are fine) or lyrical prose vignettes establishing some connection with poetry. Images, videos, and audio recordings may also be included. We don’t have a formal submissions process around here, but you can contact me or Luisa with any ideas you might have, and we’ll take it from there.

Why poets? In the first place because Via Negativa is a poetry blog, but also because we are fascinated by the contrast between the abstract—some would say spiritual—nature of writing and the essential corporeality of preparing food. And the manner in which these two types of creations are intended to be consumed couldn’t be more different. Or could it? Is it possible to cook for the ages? Can we say with Rumi that our poems are like manna, made for such immediate consumption that “Night passes over them, and you can’t eat them any more”? We want to probe connections not only between writers and what they cook or eat, but also the larger relationship of writing/literature to appetite and desire.

To whet your appetite, and perhaps suggest avenues of exploration, over at Moving Poems Magazine I’ve assembled an annotated gallery of “Ten Culinary Poetry Videos.” Here’s one of them, Thomas Lux’s “Render, Render” as animated by Angella Kassube—a poem about writing that uses metaphors from the kitchen:

Fine

(Lord’s day). Up early, and with Captain Cocke to the dock-yard, a fine walk, and fine weather. Where we walked till Commissioner Pett come to us, and took us to his house, and showed us his garden and fine things, and did give us a fine breakfast of bread and butter, and sweetmeats and other things with great choice, and strong drinks, with which I could not avoyde making my head ake, though I drank but little. Thither came Captain Allen of the Foresight, and the officers of the yard to see me.
Thence by and by to church, by coach, with the Commissioner, and had a dull sermon. A full church, and some pretty women in it; among others, Beck Allen, who was a bride-maid to a new married couple that came to church to-day, and, which was pretty strange, sat in a pew hung with mourning for a mother of the bride’s, which methinks should have been taken down.
After dinner going out of the church saluted Mrs. Pett, who came after us in the coach to church, and other officers’ wives. The Commissioner staid at dinner with me, and we had a good dinner, better than I would have had, but I saw there was no helping of it. After dinner the Commissioner and I left the company and walked in the garden at the Hill-house, which is very pleasant, and there talked of our businesses and matters of the navy. So to church again, where quite weary, and so after sermon walked with him to the yard up and down and the fields, and saw the place designed for the wet dock. And so to his house, and had a syllabub, and saw his closet, which come short of what I expected, but there was fine modells of ships in it indeed, whose worth I could not judge of. At night walked home to the Hill-house, Mr. Barrow with me, talking of the faults of the yard, walking in the fields an hour or two, and so home to supper, and so Captain Cocke and I to bed.
This day among other stories he told me how despicable a thing it is to be a hangman in Poland, although it be a place of credit. And that, in his time, there was some repairs to be made of the gallows there, which was very fine of stone; but nobody could be got to mend it till the Burgomaster, or Mayor of the town, with all the companies of those trades which were necessary to be used about those repairs, did go in their habits with flags, in solemn procession to the place, and there the Burgomaster did give the first blow with the hammer upon the wooden work; and the rest of the Masters of the Companys upon the works belonging to their trades; that so workmen might not be ashamed to be employed upon doing of the gallows’ works.

A fine walk and fine weather,
fine things and a fine breakfast
of bread and strong drink.
A fine judge to be a hangman.
A fine flag in procession to the gallows.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 3 August 1662.

Borrowed Lines

(I borrowed the first line from each couplet in Luisa A. Igloria’s “Ghazal of Rain” and replaced her second lines with my own. Her original lines appear in italics.)

 
This is the only time machine with a curtain:
hours, minutes, seconds: draped and pleated into lines.

A skylight amplifies the pinging of the oldest message:
under the moonlight, ‘I love you’ outweighs other lines.

Towels grow damp from moisture in the bath—
gather basket, take clothespins, hang them out on lines.

The tongues of books lie close to each other.
They each dream of what’s written between others’ lines.

No one knows if the silverfish nest elsewhere, if they curl
up fetal, or stretch out in sketches of fine pencil lines.

Is it worth doing laundry, fighting shirt collars’ resistance
to starch, folding trousers to iron their seams into lines?

Lenore

Up early, and got me ready in my riding clothes, and so to the office, and there wrote letters to my father and wife against night, and then to the business of my office, which being done, I took boat with Will, and down to Greenwich, where Captain Cocke not being at home I was vexed, and went to walk in the Park till he come thither to me: and Will’s forgetting to bring my boots in the boat did also vex me, for I was forced to send the boat back again for them. I to Captain Cocke’s along with him to dinner, where I find his lady still pretty, but not so good a humour as I thought she was. We had a plain, good dinner, and I see they do live very frugally. I eat among other fruit much mulberrys, a thing I have not eat of these many years, since I used to be at Ashted, at my cozen Pepys’s. After dinner we to boat, and had a pleasant passage down to Gravesend, but it was nine o’clock before we got thither, so that we were in great doubt what to do, whether to stay there or no; and the rather because I was afeard to ride, because of my pain in my cods; but at the Swan, finding Mr. Hemson and Lieutenant Carteret of the Foresight come to meet me, I borrowed Mr. Hemson’s horse, and he took another, and so we rode to Rochester in the dark, and there at the Crown Mr. Gregory, Barrow, and others staid to meet me. So after a glass of wine, we to our barge, that was ready for me, to the Hill-house, where we soon went to bed, before we slept I telling upon discourse Captain Cocke the manner of my being cut of the stone, which pleased him much. So to sleep.

I wrote against night and forgetting
for a lady still as thought

we had a plain dinner
among the graves

the hill slept
in the manner of cut stone


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 2 August 1662.

Ghazal of Rain

This is the only time machine with a curtain:
all night and all day, blue beads of clicking rain.

A skylight amplifies the pinging of the oldest message:
you thought you forgot, but here it is again, in the rain.

Towels grow damp from moisture in the bath—
And then the air takes them, infuses them with rain.

The tongues of books lie close to each other.
No mouth remains dry from the intimacies of rain.

No one knows if the silverfish nest elsewhere, if they curl
on the ceiling’s damp surfaces through slow months of rain.

Is it worth doing laundry, fighting shirt collars’ resistance
to steam? All afternoon, the sour effluvia of rain.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Ennui.

For the time being

“I have a partiality, it seems, for the partial…” ~ Jean Morris

Yellow bells
wet with rain, caught
in the window’s red frame.

On her kitchen table,
gingham flecked
by the years.

There was not time
enough for sifting through
all the stories.

I bent to say goodbye,
brushing against her cheek
or the future’s papery leaf.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Unfinished.

Ennui

Up, my head aching, and to my office, where Cooper read me another lecture upon my modell very pleasant.
So to my business all the morning, which increases by people coming now to me to the office. At noon to the Exchange, where meeting Mr. Creed and Moore we three to a house hard by (which I was not pleased with) to dinner, and after dinner and some discourse ordinary by coach home, it raining hard, and so at the office all the afternoon till evening to my chamber, where, God forgive me, I was sorry to hear that Sir W. Pen’s maid Betty was gone away yesterday, for I was in hopes to have had a bout with her before she had gone, she being very pretty. I had also a mind to my own wench, but I dare not for fear she should prove honest and refuse and then tell my wife.
I staid up late, putting things in order for my going to Chatham to-morrow, and so to bed, being in pain in my cods with the little riding in a coach to-day from the Exchange, which do trouble me.

rain all afternoon
I put things
in my hat


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 1 August 1662.

Unfinished

This entry is part 1 of 5 in the series Art and about
Perino del Vaga: Holy Family with Saint John the Baptist
Perino del Vaga: Holy Family with Saint John the Baptist
Unfinished… Works from the Courtauld Gallery, Summer 2015

Unfinished, but delight enough in these:
the captured pause, the dissolving outline,
the delicate suggestion of process.

I have a partiality, it seems, for the partial
image, the summary (misread as summery)
evocation of a scene, a face, a figure.

Isn’t this how it is in life – the quiet click
as a roaming eye hovers and finds its focus
in something less than the whole picture?

The contour of her cheek, the shadows between
his small fingers, the meeting of two surfaces.
Incomplete is enough for me.

Neuroses

Up early and among my workmen, I ordering my rooms above, which will please me very well. So to my office, and there we sat all the morning, where I begin more and more to grow considerable there. At noon Mr. Coventry and I by his coach to the Exchange together; and in Lumbard-street met Captain Browne of the Rosebush: at which he was cruel angry: and did threaten to go to-day to the Duke at Hampton Court, and get him turned out because he was not sailed. But at the Exchange we resolved of eating a bit together, which we did at the Ship behind the Exchange, and so took boat to Billingsgate, and went down on board the Rosebush at Woolwich, and found all things out of order, but after frightening the officers there, we left them to make more haste, and so on shore to the yard, and did the same to the officers of the yard, that the ship was not dispatched. Here we found Sir W. Batten going about his survey, but so poorly and unlike a survey of the Navy, that I am ashamed of it, and so is Mr. Coventry. We found fault with many things, and among others the measure of some timber now serving in which Mr. Day the assistant told us of, and so by water home again, all the way talking of the office business and other very pleasant discourse, and much proud I am of getting thus far into his books, which I think I am very much in.
So home late, and it being the last day of the month, I did make up my accounts before I went to bed, and found myself worth about 650l., for which the Lord God be praised, and so to bed.
I drank but two glasses of wine this day, and yet it makes my head ake all night, and indisposed me all the next day, of which I am glad. I am now in town only with my man Will and Jane, and because my house is in building, I do lie at Sir W. Pen’s house, he being gone to Ireland. My wife, her maid and boy gone to Brampton. I am very well entered into the business and esteem of the office, and do ply it close, and find benefit by it.

I consider the rosebush cruel
and the rose frightening
as a ship in the Navy.
I am ashamed
of the timber in a book.
I think up a God
and it makes my head
into a well of ice.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 31 July 1662.