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It's poetry week. Every three weeks or so several of us meet with our poetry professor from college days for conversation, poetry work, and dinner, which our former professor - now mentor and friend - prepares and serves with grace. It's a pretty cool deal. Two women skype in from Boston and one from Tennessee. I'm still working on a draft of a poem for tomorrow. Meanwhile, below is one from 2005 BC ('Before Chickens' on the farm). In this case, the egg came first.
I find that some people are tormented if you ask them to read a poem. "Is it long?" they whine ask. If you're one of them, stop here, consider this a very short post, and maybe imagine what is in the drawer, above. If you're not one of them, or if you're willing not to be, read on. I think poems should open a little drawer in your head, or at least make you want to know what's in the drawer.
In the stanza about conversations, this was BB (Before Blogging). PB (Post Blogging), it's even more true, thanks to you.
The Hard Boiled Egg
As I peel my egg,
shell adheres
to the clear membrane
in chunks, like ice floes
on the surface of water.
Before I bite
the end, cool and round,
I know the felt-like yolk
will mix with the metallic white,
an aggregate flowing with
grains of pepper and salt
on the riverbed of my tongue.
Every day is a completeness
like this. Conversations
like embryos fresh
and awake for surprise.
Nakedness under a shell.
Nourishment begun
at my mother’s white table cloth
that spreads to the snow
fields around this farm peppered
with thistle crowns and bare
branches emerging from
under the mask of white
that curves around the world.
~
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