poetryweblog
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Literary links linger'd over by a poet....

Saturday, November 30, 2002
THANKSGIVING 1999

My mind is full of menus.
I read your poems, longing for the un-exotic.
The soup Babette prepared was clear,

A consomme to begin, nothing to clutter the palate.
Birds light on the clothes line.
Wind chimes of shell clatter in the afternoon.

I eat corn chips and think of spicy pumpkin soup.
In the next poem, a radio is playing.
There are at least nine versions of spring.

I could make the lime crème fraiche ahead.
Pepitas are easy enough to find.
A bird eats a snail on the walk.

I'll soak wood-chips in wine to flavor the turkey,
Smoke it slowly on the barbeque.
Next a series of dreams:

Drunken dreams, driving dreams,
Running-to-the-sea-shirtless dreams.
A maple glaze for the ham.

There are many birds being named.
Detailed flight patterns.
Numerous clouds.

I'm hoping it won't rain, not that it matters.
The fire is in the kettle.
Carmelized onion tart a sweet side dish.

You turn toward the ocean, looking for insight
On the low road. Maybe kindness.
And for dessert, clafouti.

Peggy Tahir



posted by Celia Saturday, November 30, 2002
. . .
Friday, November 29, 2002
Witches
James Tate

There are all kinds of druids and
witches living in the hills around here.
They don't hurt anybody as far as we know.
But you can always spot them at the grocery
store. First off, they drive these really
broken down old pick-up trucks, often with
hand-made wooden shelters over beds
like they could live in there. And they're
covered in layers of shawls and scarves
and bedecked with long gaudy earrings
and necklaces and bracelets. And always
the long, long hair. They buy huge amounts
of supplies, twenty pounds of cheese, giant
bags of granola, etc. They move quickly
as if afraid of being burned at a stake.
We all know who they are and like having
them amongst us on their secret missions
to decorate their inner Christmas trees
with bedevilled human chickenbones.


CONJUNCTIONS:35, American Poetry: States of the Art, Fall 2000



posted by Celia Friday, November 29, 2002
. . .
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
"We need
help, the Poet
reckoned."

Ed Dorn [via the daily bleed]


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