poem – Page 36 – don't confuse the narrator

the tender-hearted artichoke

artichoke flower beginning to open on the plant

I was so impressed by this glorious artichoke plant with its flowers in all the different stages that I thought about writing a poem.

Then I remembered that Neruda had already written an Ode to the artichoke.
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the poet’s voice

Sometimes the sky seems solid: there are no thoughts; no words; no voice. Sometimes there seems to be no poet.

Aphonia

I have lost my voice.
The murmur of the traffic is enough
to drown the sound of my ideas. Star grit,
like broken oyster shells, embeds itself
in my soft palate and I choke
on smoky clouds as I aspire
to the feathered tops of pine trees.

The moon dissolves,
a luminescent coughdrop,
liquid on my tongue.

kisses

For no good reason, other than that it was growing close to a stone church wall, this flower reminded me of a poem written on a trip to the fiestas in southern Spain.

I remember taking an early draft to the local writers’ group for comments and being disconcerted when one of the women said she felt unqualified to comment because she didn’t know what I meant by kisses.

It’s true that I sometimes use everyday images in my poetry to represent bigger issues, but this wasn’t meant to be any kind of trick.

Sometimes, even when wrapped up in the weird perspective and mixed metaphors of an imperfect poem, a kiss is just a kiss.
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domesticity

Eight months after moving house, I have finally bought an ironing board. Wilko, in their wisdom, describe it – along with so many of their cheaper products – as “functional”. I suppose that has to be better than dysfunctional.

Today is bright and breezy, a good drying day, if only I had a garden to hang the washing in. I don’t, though, so perhaps I won’t bother with such domestic pursuits, and the ironing board can continue in its packaging while I go out and enjoy the sunshine.
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pizza again?

All the recent news about the New Horizons mission has brought to mind a poem inspired by Pluto’s demotion from planet status in 2006:

In the dog house

My Very Excellent Mother used to be
the soul of generosity, and her beneficence
a universally-acknowledged truth.
Around the world, students rejoiced
when they recalled that she
Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas.

But as time passes, so it seems, the universe
contracts; mom’s liberality is capped
and scientists decree that students
will make do with
Nothing.

Supperless
I’m banished to my room. I must redo
my fourth grade science project.