~ Write a poem about a Feast ~

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

~ Mark Strand, from "Eating Poetry"

Still-Life with Fruit, Nuts and Cheese by Floris Claesz. van Dyck (1613)

Is it food that makes your feast, or words, books, hugs, laughter, company, gratitude? There is a magic to plenty, even if--or especially if--plenty is a rare occurrence in our lives. When I have a harvest of anything, I both feast and preserve. When family gathers to celebrate, we feast. Uncovering hidden histories is a feast of learning. Having a weekend to indulge in a series of mystery novels, that, too, is feasting. How have you feasted lately?

Here, I offer you a feast of poems as inspiration for your poem.

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The Traveling Onion

By Naomi Shihab Nye

“It is believed that the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship —why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” — Better Living Cookbook

When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way the knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.
And I would never scold the onion
for causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or its traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.

From Blossoms

By Li-Young Lee

From blossoms comes

this brown paper bag of peaches

we bought from the boy

at the bend in the road where we turned toward

signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,

from sweet fellowship in the bins,

comes nectar at the roadside, succulent

peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,

comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into

the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

Thanksgiving for Two

By Marjorie Saiser

The adults we call our children will not be arriving

with their children in tow for Thanksgiving.

We must make our feast ourselves,

slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates,

potatoes and green beans

carried to our table near the window.

We are the feast, plenty of years,

arguments. I’m thinking the whole bundle of it

rolls out like a white tablecloth. We wanted

to be good company for one another.

Little did we know that first picnic

how this would go. Your hair was thick,

mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff

to look over a storybook plain. We chose

our spot as high as we could, to see

the river and the checkerboard fields.

What we didn’t see was this day, in

our pajamas if we want to,

wrinkled hands strong, wine

in juice glasses, toasting

whatever’s next,

the decades of side-by-side,

our great good luck.

And from Mary Oliver:

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Please link one poem that is your response to the material of this prompt. After you link your poem, please visit others.

Don't forget to include this link in your post.

What's Going On?

27 November 2024

Feast

The Traveling Onion

From Blossoms