Poem for Poetry Thursday
Okay, so I ran out of time to right a new poem. Spent so much time writing yesterday's poem I lost sight of today (hard to believe, I know).
So today's poem is an oldie, but one that fits the prompt. And, it a roundabout way, addresses one of my favorite indulgences.
Sugar
I pour a tablespoon of sugar on my kitchen counter
spreading it thin with the back of my spoon
Each grain becomes a moment,
a seed resting on tilled earth,
the words forming in my husband’s mouth as he says
kiss me, and I am reminded again and again
of the first, the beginning, the newness of his mouth,
his plump lips deciphering the arc
of my teeth; his tongue a new species born
in my vast ocean. I myself a creature,
made of sugar and water
capable of dissolving right out of existence,
salvation and destruction in one sweet instant.
Each granule is a lost poem, an unanswerable wish
spinning on the edge of consciousness.
I say to the pots and pans: every act of nature
requires a human narrative.
I tell my story to the cereal boxes, the soup cans—
they turn their labels away in disbelief,
their stupefied lids open wide like paper sacks.
For every truth I hold to be self-evident,
I touch the flat of my tongue
to the counter’s surface.
So today's poem is an oldie, but one that fits the prompt. And, it a roundabout way, addresses one of my favorite indulgences.
Sugar
I pour a tablespoon of sugar on my kitchen counter
spreading it thin with the back of my spoon
Each grain becomes a moment,
a seed resting on tilled earth,
the words forming in my husband’s mouth as he says
kiss me, and I am reminded again and again
of the first, the beginning, the newness of his mouth,
his plump lips deciphering the arc
of my teeth; his tongue a new species born
in my vast ocean. I myself a creature,
made of sugar and water
capable of dissolving right out of existence,
salvation and destruction in one sweet instant.
Each granule is a lost poem, an unanswerable wish
spinning on the edge of consciousness.
I say to the pots and pans: every act of nature
requires a human narrative.
I tell my story to the cereal boxes, the soup cans—
they turn their labels away in disbelief,
their stupefied lids open wide like paper sacks.
For every truth I hold to be self-evident,
I touch the flat of my tongue
to the counter’s surface.
Comments
i'm taking the last lines with me to savour.:o)
Nic: I'll take a fresh look and see what I come up with. Cool.
nic was thinking of modifiers?
i was only lost in the sensuality of the build up. keep every last one of them (the modifiers, that is)
(and i only ever manage one haiku plus one longer poem a week - i tremble at the thought of setting myself a higher target ;-))
Isn't it so cool when you have one "in the can" that will fit the bill?
I see Brian Turner is reading at the Dodge festival - it was quite a surprise to me to see a New Zealand poet there (assuming it's the same Brian Turner).
I'm looking forward to hearing your reports.
Catherine, I think it is the same Brian Turner from New Zealand. I haven't read his work but look forward to exploring it before I arrive at Dodge.
I can't begin to tell you how smart this is. I love the turn, speaking to the pots, pans, the cereal boxes! And then that final, graceful assertion to close the poem--such deliberation. And yes, ymmmy.
And yes, too, have fun, absorb and receive all that language and spirit at the Dodge!
I know you will be there in spirit.
*sigh*