This morning, because the snow swirled deepIn the rest of the poem, the oatmeal is sculpted into a woman, and the poem ultimately deals with the subject of love, or the lack of it.
around my house, I made oatmeal for breakfast.
easter...
cap'n crunch french toast
at the local cafe
The Dishwasher's Lament
I worked hard.
My jets are exhausted
scrubbing your bowl clean.
But, really, oatmeal again?
Must you consume it every
cold and snowy day?
I expected more of you--
have you become the clichéd
porridge-eating poet? Do me a
favor, prove me wrong.
The next time the sun
splashes its rose across
fresh swirled snow, grab
your well-scrubbed bowl,
fill it with figurative
oats. Splash it with
metaphorical milk. And
please, I beg of you, use
a throw-away spoon.
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
VI.Imagine sending a young girl to bed with promises of dreaming about her one true love--what maiden wouldn't want to go to bed?
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
One day, as she was coming from school through the streets of Rome, the son of the chief magistrate met with her; and, casting his eyes upon her countenance fell in love with the maiden. Not knowing who she was, he got his parents to find out, and to ask her in marriage for him. This they did, and at the same time sent her a great many love-tokens, and promised still more. Some most brilliant ornaments the young man bought himself, such as charm the fancies of young girls: but all were thrust aside by the Blessed Agnes, as if they had been so much dross. It was no part of her study, indeed, to please by beauty of body. But she could not but shrink from the thought of being displeasing to her Lord by any uncomeliness of soul, brought on by her own unfaithfulness to Him.After much effort on the part of the magistrate's son and his family, Agnes still refused to marry the boy. For her refusal, Agnes was put to death on January 21, just a week short of her birthday on January 28.
Happy Birthday, Aggie!This week Tara at A Teaching Life is hosting the Poetry Friday Round-Up.
Twelve years old, just the age
when adolescence begins and
an interest in toys wavers,
eclipsed by a yen for the divine.
Aggie refuses to submit to
the tyranny of hormones
disrupting her dreams and
turning her body against her.
Concerned adults try to mollify
Aggie with baubles. Promises
are made that estrogen dominance
can't begin to reconcile.
Aggie will only refuse! No
trinkets! No! No amity, no
capitulation. Just stubbornness.
Unholy, impure, stubbornness!
Aggie's got a brand new toy.
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
Other than purchasing poetry books and attending readings, you never really get a chance to put your money where your mouth is, when it comes to poetry. Now, the opportunity awaits you to support an interesting poetry project, "Letters Between Poets."Small Towns are PassingYou can listen to the poet reading "Small Towns are Passing" by clicking here.
by Wesley McNair
Small towns are passing
into the rear-view
mirrors of our cars.
The white houses
are moving away,
wrapping trees
around themselves,
and stores are taking
their gas pumps
down the street
backwards. Just like that
whole families picnicking
on their lawns tilt
over the hill,
and kids on bikes
ride toward us
off the horizon,
leaving no trace
of where they have gone.
Signs turn back and start
after them. Packs of mailboxes,
like dogs, chase them
around corner after corner.
from Lovers of the Lost (David R. Godine, 2010)
Last week I started forcing a hyacinth bulb on my kitchen windowsill. Almost within hours its roots began to sprout and a touch of green began to show at the top. I think this bulb was ready and waiting for me! Hyacinths to Feed Thy SoulSaadi is the pen name of the Persian poet Muslih-ud-Din Mushrif ibn-Abdullah Shirazi. Poetry is obviously good for one's health since Saadi lived from 1184 to 1283 (or 1291--the date is uncertain), which would have made him 99 (or 107) when he died!
If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone
to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
the view throughI'll finish with a quote from Carl Sandburg: "Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits." Ponder that for a while, then visit Irene at Live. Love. Explore! for this week's Round-Up of poetry postings.
the kitchen window
january's grey
skies eclipsed by
a forced hyacinth
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
