Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Not one or two but several layers
of complicated tastes and fragrances—
cassia and anise, coriander, fennel,
fenugreek: why can’t sugar be sweet
and salt be itself, even bitterness
be green distilled from herbs
grown hardscrabble in the soil?
Sometimes, I want the straight-
forward thing, no break hinged
between skin and seam.
Sometimes I want the flat side
of paper, not anymore its curl.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 08 2011
Bright red enamel of a teapot through the window,
brick red of a roof. Ask the weather vane twisted
in the shape of a whale which red it was that drew
fire from the earth’s belly, which red planted
seeds that burned in the mouth of the girl—
she held out for half a year without seeing
the black-throated blue warbler, without hearing
yellow-throated vireos speckling the air with
their song. So stark, these trellises of bark and steel-
cut grays. Whose white scarf has caught in the trees?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
We see them again now— inked V of geese
brushing against the sky, turning
the flyleaf toward winter.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
an hour past sunrise
slug trails glisten
on the highway berm
Scrounging around in the kitchen tonight
to make lunch for my daughters,
I find there’s only the end slice
left from a loaf of wheat.
But there are dry noodles in the pantry,
and in the vegetable bin a few
green onions, some carrots. And
leftover chicken, which I can cut
into strips! Into the boiling water,
a few drops of sesame oil impart
such a rich fragrance; soy sauce
deepens the color of stock.
A car door slams somewhere down
the way. Across the rooftops, thin
stroke of a train whistle. Who’s going?
Goodnight or goodbye; and love to you.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
what is it like to live by oneself?
I can no longer remember, or if I ever
truly did. Surely it can’t have been
in the short month intervening after I
graduated from college and then got married,
believing that was the only way I might
finally make a life, something of my own.
Neither can it have been in the years
I went to graduate school, the first time
after my second child was born; and then again
when my third child turned three— Roommates
down the hall sharing the bathroom,
sharing the fridge and kitchen (though also
cleaning duties). And at home, with growing
children and extended family, never any
door that one could keep closed for too long.
I didn’t really mind, but also welcomed
summers when I could slip away by myself
to visit a friend, go to a writing retreat,
work free of the coils of schedules and
routines for two short weeks. Oh the joys
of breakfast at 11 and bedtime at 3, a walk
with no other purpose than the walk itself.
On the other hand, my pathologist friend
in Chicago, who’d lived by himself for over
thirty years, sometimes told me how he wished
for human sounds in the middle of the night,
in the empty bedrooms of his tastefully
furnished flat— how he’d scan the trees
bereft of birds and their call and response,
how sometimes he’d flush the toilet in the guest
bathroom at random times of day, just to hear
the water gurgling before eddying away.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
During an idle couple of hours looking at images tagged “banjo” on Flickr, I was struck by how many truly odd photos turned up. Here are a few of my favorites (click through for credits and to see larger versions).
blossoming witch hazel
I pound a stuck storm window
with a Chinese dictionary
*
red-spotted newt
even on land it still steers
with its tail
*
where it lost a limb
a glimpse of twisted heartwood
mosquito in my ear
*
old bolete
gnats follow the branching cracks
in its skin
*
first rain in weeks
the dry canyons in my moss garden
disappear
*
night-blooming cereus
two spiders feed
on a white moth
And if you haven’t visited for a while, yes, the site does have a new look.
Who’s always nuzzling, always guzzling,
lowering the nose and mouth into folds
of clothing or skin in search of something
warm and delicious? Tonight I see a photograph
of a woman suckling her infant at one breast;
at the other, an orphaned fawn. The woman’s
destitute, though not emaciated. The edge
of her red sari is smudged with grime; her nose
ring’s a wire bangle sharpening her features.
But the caption says she cannot refuse: noble
motherhood makes it impossible to refuse
such hungers. There is no hurry to wean.
So then I learn of fountains all over the world
that celebrate lactating motherhood, portraying
goddesses of one sort or another, lifting
and pointing their many-petaled breasts
into the sun, all of them squirting white
streams of water: Artemis’ fountain at Villa
D’Este in Rome, Our Lady of Perpetual Lactation
in Guatemala. What do the tourists think
as they open their mouths wide, their faces
drenched in the spray? As a new mother reading
Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care from cover
to cover, I remember a section describing
the child’s first discovery of the world
through her mouth— nipple, finger, chew
toy; blanket, spoon, then sliver of apple
in whose belly the fragment of a star
is sown. At my children’s christening
party, their grandfather hurried
to tear the tongue off the roasted pig
and bring it to their lips. Instinctively
they closed upon the bit of charred
muscle and sucked, crying for the milk
that would not come. Good, good,
he crowed, They’ll learn to speak up
for what they want! I wonder if the same
was done for me; though I don’t wonder now
at how strong the instinct (I want it too)
to fold myself into my mother’s neck—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
It’s rained for the better part of a month, and the woods are wild with fungi. We’ve been been eating like kings: maitake, chicken mushrooms and giant puffballs. But some of the inedible mushrooms are eye-catching, too, and so plentiful they can even cover a trail blaze, threatening to replace our way-making with their own. Continue reading “Along autumn trails”
