Not Soup Yet
(at a Writing Retreat)
I throw poems,
this time at the lake breeze in the wood.
With colored leaves they skitter the walk,
with sumac rise red as passion.
I stir words
like I so soup, on all the burners all at once--
thicken spicy gumbo, thin avgolemino,
clarify all the basic broths.
All slow to come
and all at once
they come in good time
over and over.
Circling the Tables
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying, eating
of the last sweet bite..—Joy Harjo
We have circled so many tables topped
by formica or wood, marble or glass,
with our mugs of tea and fortune cookies,
our espresso and chocolate, wine and biscotti,
baguettes and cheese—spreading, crunching
filling up on tireless conversations,
our grand opinions on the state of things
spilling freely across their surfaces.
There, too, was just the backyard fence talk
about the woman who cries every Saturday night,
that wayward girl who ran off with the local
bad boy and his guitar on a Harley, a man
with Alzheimer’s who turned fire starter,
whatever wasn’t as we’d like it--
too much war, not enough money, all of us
growing wider and grayer than expected.
How often we squeezed in around those tables
in small kitchens or long stretches of dining rooms,
as if our heart-to-hearts would solve it all,
transform our worlds. Today I find myself
quiet and alone, hungry for a feast of table talk,
dreaming us back again chewing over
breaking news and fearlessly writing recipes
for all our protests, actions, revolutions,
living it up like it really mattered.
Andrena Zawinski is an award-winning poet whose latest collection is Born Under the Influence. She has contributed regularly to Monterey Poetry Review and has been a featured reader for the Monterey Poetry Consortium. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA she lives on Alameda Island in the San Francisco Bay Area.
(at a Writing Retreat)
I throw poems,
this time at the lake breeze in the wood.
With colored leaves they skitter the walk,
with sumac rise red as passion.
I stir words
like I so soup, on all the burners all at once--
thicken spicy gumbo, thin avgolemino,
clarify all the basic broths.
All slow to come
and all at once
they come in good time
over and over.
Circling the Tables
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying, eating
of the last sweet bite..—Joy Harjo
We have circled so many tables topped
by formica or wood, marble or glass,
with our mugs of tea and fortune cookies,
our espresso and chocolate, wine and biscotti,
baguettes and cheese—spreading, crunching
filling up on tireless conversations,
our grand opinions on the state of things
spilling freely across their surfaces.
There, too, was just the backyard fence talk
about the woman who cries every Saturday night,
that wayward girl who ran off with the local
bad boy and his guitar on a Harley, a man
with Alzheimer’s who turned fire starter,
whatever wasn’t as we’d like it--
too much war, not enough money, all of us
growing wider and grayer than expected.
How often we squeezed in around those tables
in small kitchens or long stretches of dining rooms,
as if our heart-to-hearts would solve it all,
transform our worlds. Today I find myself
quiet and alone, hungry for a feast of table talk,
dreaming us back again chewing over
breaking news and fearlessly writing recipes
for all our protests, actions, revolutions,
living it up like it really mattered.
Andrena Zawinski is an award-winning poet whose latest collection is Born Under the Influence. She has contributed regularly to Monterey Poetry Review and has been a featured reader for the Monterey Poetry Consortium. Born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA she lives on Alameda Island in the San Francisco Bay Area.
