How to use this Page

I am rich, buttery coconut with warm ginger tea, melty chocolate crackle on a Saturday night. If you like, marvelous molasses, merry in mid afternoon. A melting moment, a kiss, spicy and sweet.

Drop me, roll me, press me, powder me -- I am your favorite bar none. Flirting with dates, almonds, lemon and cinnamon, I always rise to the occasion. I go wherever you go, tell your fortune if you like.

Love me, love a cookie. Trace my life in crumbs.


culinarycory/flickr

IF ONLY HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD BEEN A COOKIE
by Diane Lockward

Chocolate chip, lumpy but popular,
sanctimonious with tradition,

irreverent snickerdoodle,
or a beautiful cookie like oatmeal lace,
delicate and chocolate-dipped,

visitor from a foreign place, Russian teacake,
shortbread with its dusty Scottish brogue,

the crisp Parisian sweetness of a meringue,
reminder that goodness breaks,

home-baked cookies from the kitchen
if only he could find his way back,
trace the trail of air scented with vanilla,
almond extract, and coconut,

the buttery goodness of his childhood
pulverized like crumbs on the floor,

a blizzard of cookies in December,
date nut bar for the lunch box,
Mississippi mud, the egalitarian black and white,

or an odd cookie, one that doesn't belong,
like a bitter espresso wafer, wimpy jelly tabby,

granola jumble with texture but no taste,
cookies that went astray,

Donna's Polish angel wings,
powdered and fragile as snowflakes,

cookies that emigrated,
crossed mountains, stowed away in ships,

slipped across borders,
and showed up in sweatshops,

flattened by the rolling pin,
cookies that staved off hunger, hid in pockets,
slept under pillows until morning light,
and did not crumble,

a blitz of cookies
spinning through Time
like pinwheels and pfeffernuesse,

cookies earned with his yellow curls,
soft renegade cookies,
dropped, refrigerated, rolled and cut,

cookies baked by his mother,
his grandmother, a procession of women in aprons,

their slippers padding into the kitchen,
women greasing pans, pre-heating ovens,

their hands dipped in flour,
fingers kneading butter, sugar and eggs,

women filling and enfolding him,
bringing him home, wrapped
in the unbreakable dough of their arms.

~ from Temptation by Water (Wind Publications, 2010)


pastelhearts/flickr

Diane Lockward is one smart cookie -- it seems she wrote this poem just for me ☺.  Did you ever think a catalog of cookies could be so provocative, seductive and devilishly delicious? Cookies are portable sin; even when the last crumb is gone, their textures and flavors linger, like lost loves. I like how Diane juxtaposes the seeming innocence of a childhood nursery rhyme with an adult sense of longing and loss, mixing in a little salt with the sugar.

                           
         Source: D. Sharon Pruitt, Pink Sherbet Photography

Some of you may have noticed I've been a bit obsessed with BLUE this week.

Maybe "obsessed" is too strong a word. Try, "enamoured." Yes, that's better. Though green has always been my favorite color, lately blue's been toying with my affections, surprising me with its uncanny guises (I think there's a picture book in there somewhere). "Call me by any one of my names," it teases, and I'll set you to poetic dreaming: cerulean, azure, cobalt, lapis. Aquamarine, baby, powder, indigo, denim, royal, robin's egg. Prussian, sapphire, midnight, electric, teal, sky, navy, steel, periwinkle.

If green is growth and renewal; red, power and passion; and yellow, sunny optimism -- then blue, besides being cool, musical, and melancholy, is deep as the sea, wide as the sky, truer than true. 

  
    photo by haraldna.

With food, blue is rare, exclusive, lending itself solely to a single berry. I find that a bit odd, since it colors many beautiful flowers and birds. But if there has to be only one blue food, then let it be perfect: small and round, delicious eaten raw or cooked, packed with health and nutritional benefits, and available year round. Let it be a fruit that evokes warm childhood memories and inspires exquisite poems like this one:


photo by tiny banquet committee.

BLUEBERRY
by Diane Lockward

Deep-blue hue of the body, silvery bloom
on its skin. Undersized runt of a fruit,
like something that failed to thrive, dented top
a fontanel. Lopsided globe. A temperate zone.
Tiny paradox, tart and sweet, homely
but elegant afloat in sugar and cream,
baked in a pie, a cobbler, a muffin.

The power of blue. Number one antioxidant fruit,
bantam-weight champ in the fight against
urinary tract infections, best supporting actor
in a fruit salad. No peeling, coring or cutting.
Lay them out on a counter, strands of blue pearls.
Pop one at a time, like M&M's, into your mouth.
Be a glutton and stuff in a handful, your tongue,
lips, chin dyed blue, as if feasting on indigo.
Fruit of the state of New Jersey.
Favorite fruit of my mother.

Sundays she scooped them into pancake batter,
poured circles onto the hot greased griddle, sizzled
them gold and blue, doused with maple syrup.

This is what I want to remember: my mother
and me, our quilted robes, hair in curlers,
that kitchen, that table,
plates stacked with pancakes, blueberries sparkling
like gemstones, blue stars in a gold sky,
the universe in reverse,
the two of us eating blueberry pancakes. 

            

If you've sensed that I've been on a Diane Lockward kick lately, you're absolutely right!

First, I posted "I'm Lonely as the Letter X," and then, "Eve's Confession." I may as well top those off today with a third poem from her most recent collection, What Feeds Us, called, "Heart on the Unemployment Line." 

It's a nice example of Lockward's fondness for peeling off the skin and breaking open an idea, feeling, or experience. Here, she riffs on the clichés of the heart, making the familiar fresh. Lockward's fine tuned catalog of human emotion is both playful and poignant; the "mistress of diction" serves up a fine feast, warm cockles and all.

HEART ON THE UNEMPLOYMENT LINE
by Diane Lockward


"Dinner is Served" by missdarlyn.

It's a good heart,
in the midst of the matter,
not dangling on anyone's sleeve.
Previously left in San Francisco.
Experienced being wrenched and hung out to dry.
No daws peck at it now.
Works hard, never skips a beat, shows up on time,
even with throbs and aches, even when sick.
Four-chambered pumping machine the size of a fist.
Pumps its store of blood each day,
always in circulation, making its rounds.
Team player, cooperates with capillaries,
arteries, and veins, all blood-saturated.
A versatile heart, innocent or evil,
sweet or bitter, light, heavy, full, faint, or dear.
Systematic, keeps to a schedule.
Once stolen by a nimble-fingered thief, high
on a hill, later returned.
Occasionally stays up late playing cards,
enjoys the shuffling, the quick flutter,
being held in someone's hand.
Grows fonder during absence,
pours itself out, likes its cockles warm.
Always at the center of things -- artichoke,
palm tree, head of lettuce. More reliable than the brain.
This heart won't burn, arrest, attack, or fail.
Once was dropped and broken, sutured by Time.
Never taken a bullet though something like a knife moved through it.
Even in grief, it keeps beating.

*Posted by permission of author, copyright © 2006 Diane Lockward, published by Wind Publications. All rights reserved.

I highly recommend What Feeds Us. It's one of the few collections of contemporary poetry I've read in recent years (aside from Billy Collins) where I've actually liked every poem. I can't think of anyone else who is as adept at exploring the rich sensuality of food, and its many emotional and sexual connotations (you may already know "Blueberry,"  "Linguini," and "The History of Vanilla"). Diane is fearless and full of fire, and will often take you to places you never expected.

To hear her read "The Fruitful Woman," from Eve's Red Dress (2003), click here. You may well be tempted to bathe in berries. ☺

Today's Poetry Friday hostess is the lovely ♥Elaine Magliaro♥ of Wild Rose Reader, who has a true poet's heart. There are many delicious offerings on the menu, so click through!

Copyright © 2009 Jama Rattigan of jama rattigan's alphabet soup. All rights reserved.

 

by Lucien Levy-Dhurmer (1896),
rosewithoutathorn84's photostream.


Take a deep breath, my friends, for today you must be brave.

It's confession time.

Have you ever hidden food you really love (like chocolate) so no one else would eat it?

Even worse, have you ever "cheated" on your S.O. with fine pastry?

Temptation is always there, ready to sabotage our good intentions. Perhaps it all began with Eve's apple. Oh woman, how weak thou art in the presence of sugar! We're all doomed, to be sure. But what a sweet way to go. (BTW, how come men never feel guilty about what they eat?)

EVE'S CONFESSION
by Diane Lockward


photo by Adam Kuban.

Sunday morning I slipped
out of bed, ran to the bakery,
and bought two apple
fritters, bulging
with fruit and slathered
with sweet white frosting --
breakfast in bed for me
and my husband.
     While he slept on
in innocence, ribcage
peacefully rising
and falling, the kitchen
filled with essence 
of apple. And oh!
those fritters looked
divine. I broke 
off a sample -- wickedly
good -- then another
and another.
     Of course, it was
my husband's fritter
I sampled. I stuffed
my mouth. Globs
of tart gooey apples slid
down my throat, apple
after apple, and chunks
of dough, crusty
from the fryer.
     I could feel
my cholesterol rising,
arteries hardening, and I
didn't care. That fritter
was delicious.
     As the calories
mounted, guilt entered
the kitchen. And still,
that pastry beguiled me.
"Eat of this fritter," it called.
"Okay," I said, "one last bite,"
but I knew I was going to fall
and fall, knew in my evil
heart I was going
to eat it all.

~ posted by permission of author, copyright © 2003 Diane Lockward (Eve's Red Dress, Wind Publications). All rights reserved. 

Being bad never felt so good.

Just in case you'd rather have a turnover (if you're going to be bad, you may as well go all the way):

photo by Ezra Pound Cake.

Stroll on over to Book Aunt, where Kate Coombs is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup today. Lots of naughty poetry people to play with over there.

"Ever since Eve started it all by offering Adam the apple, woman's punishment has been to supply a man with food, then suffer the consequences when it disagrees with him." ~ Helen Rowland, English-American writer (1876-1950).

Copyright © 2009 Jama Rattigan of jama rattigan's alphabet soup. All rights reserved.
 

#11 in an ongoing series of posts celebrating the alphabet.



Writing X's for kisses dates back to the Middle Ages, when much of the population was illiterate. A person made an "X" for his name, then kissed it, as a promise to stick to the agreement. Over time, the X came to stand for the kiss itself. (photo by Samdogs)

If X marks the spot, you've come to the right place!

I thought we'd give X a little love and attention today. As one of the least used letters in the alphabet (second only to Z), I imagine it must get pretty lonely at times.
 
A, E, I, O, U get invited to parties left and right. But X? It's usually the first to be crossed off the A-list. This is what sometimes happens to letters with a sordid past: X-rated movies, Brand X, the symbol for "Poison." But I'm happy to report X has redeemed itself of late. 

Today, almost everybody wants an X-Box, loves the X-Files, and knows X to be a mover and shaker: XFER, XMIT, XREF, X-ing. Besides, who can resist a letter with such magnetism and mystique? The X-factor definitely makes life interesting.

Up until a few days ago, Diane Lockward was Lady X to me. I saw "My Husband Discovers Poetry" in Good Poems for Hard Times, and simply had to read more of her work. When I found "I'm Lonely as the Letter X," I knew I had truly discovered a kindred spirit.

I'M LONELY AS THE LETTER X
by Diane Lockward


photo by Pixel Packing Mama.

Poor, neglected X, only two and a half pages
in a dictionary nearly three thousand long.
My lover's gone. I know how it feels
to receive scant attention, to have gifts
ignored. X deserves more.

X is special, a symbol, shouting, Don't do it!
And kindly too, warning of dangerous crossings,
strange, dark roads traveled alone.
Mysterious, an unknown quantity -- who really knows
what X represents? I wish I were as prolific as X,
which goes forth and multiplies: 2x, 5x, 7x.

(Rest is here.)


photo by Abdallah.

I am in the habit of crossing my legs. But I'm not mysterious, just short.

Tricia at The Miss Rumphius Effect is our Poetry Friday hostess today. She'll probably give you a kiss if you ask her ☺!

BTW, have you checked out Diane's Blogalicious yet? Fab posts about poetry writing process. A good one to bookmark!


photo by emily2012.

Have an Xtraordinary weekend!
~ jama ♥
xxoo 

 Certified authentic alphabetica. Handmade especially for you with lots of love, hugs, and kisses!