My Life

For the Midweek Motif at Poets United – Hobby. Magally is steering the boat this week while Susan is away.

My Life
“The only insult I’ve ever received in my adult life was when someone asked me, “Do you have a hobby?” A HOBBY?! DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING DABBLER?!” ― John Waters, Role Models

“Cooking is a craft, I like to think … a good cook is a craftsman—not an artist. There’s nothing wrong with that… Practicing your craft in expert fashion is noble, honorable and satisfying.”  – Anthony Bourdain

flipping the thick pat of butter
into the well seasoned omelet pan
I swirl it around until the pan is well coated.
slowly I pour the beaten eggs into the pan and wait
for the edges to bubble.
Using the silicone spatula I lift the edges of the eggs
and let more leak underneath.
I continue to do this until the eggs are almost done.
sprinkling the finely chopped herbs and a bit of cheese
over the eggs, I flip the circle in half
and slide the omelet out onto the plate.
I sprinkle a few more chopped herbs, finish with fine sea salt.
The omelet is pale golden and leaking melted cheese.
It is perfection.
A few slices of tomato, a slice of pale toast spread with butter and honey –
Cooking is my life, my “hobby”.
The herbs come from another “hobby” and
honey and tomatoes from two more.
This poem represents another “hobby”.
All of these “hobbies” represent my life,
what makes me – me.
My life is knit with these “hobbies”,
knit so tightly you cannot push a needle through.

Quadrille Monday: Rock

Today Mish is in charge of prompting for the Quadrille.  What is a quadrille?  It is a form unique to the dVerse Pub. It has exactly 44 words, excluding the title and it must use the prompted word in the body of the poem.  Not a representation or definition of the word, but the word itself.  I have been going through a lot of changes.  I have been thinking that most of what I write is crap.  Plain and simple. It is part of the process  –  some of it is actually good.  So today I am writing my manifesto in 44 words using the word “rock”.  That is the prompted word:  rock.  Use it, skip it, throw it, paint it, build with it, dance to it, build a fire with it.

throwing rocks
A boy with a rock slew a giant years ago.
What is your giant?
What will you slay today?
Intolerance? Racism? Hunger?
Sexual abuse? Animal cruelty?
My poems are my rocks.
I am letting them loose today.
Let loose the brave poems.
*Yūkan’na koto.

*Japanese for: be brave as in bushido

piles of rocks in Japan – public domain photo

Imprisoned Free Verse

Today (Thursday) Bjorn is hosting the dVerse Meeting the Bar with a secret guest. He wants us to use free writing to create free verse. The theme is looking back through our past decade and pick any theme we have used. The directions are:
1) select a few keywords (2) set timer for 9 minutes and write whatever come to mind (3) use this to create our own free verse. Bjorn included a picture of his draft which reminded him of being in university and studying physics. This was a hard exercise for me as I never write anything down. I get an idea and then form the poem/haiku/tanka in my head. Having to write down first really tied me up! Come visit at dVerse to see the other poems linked to this prompt. I have a feeling there are going to be some really interesting poems/drafts linked. My draft is at the end of the poem. One look and you will see why I rarely write anything down!  Also linking this to Poets United, Poetry Pantry  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/12/poetry-pantry-283.html

moritsuke Public Domain photo

Imprisoned Free Verse
my “free verse” is often a contradiction in terms
as my verse is never free – in the sense of
free association – poems are always formed
in my mind first –
words are precisely arranged
to entice the brain and
capture the heart.
like moritsuke –
the Japanese art of food arranging.
every item is placed to best advantage
to show and balance color, form –
like a painting or flowers.
on the paper, the soul of my poem,
the heart of my poem
becomes a captive held prisoner
squiggled words in a prison of paper and ink
with a guard named Frustration.
The smell of the first snow or the drift
of a red maple leaf to the ground
can only be written in the mind and felt
by the heart. Ink and paper
are for grocery lists or
a scribbled recipe for a friend.
In my mind, poems about the first snow
or love or stars or trees
are a a sheathed sword.
When brought out into the light
they shine with a life of their own.
And sometimes, they stay in my mind
until my heart can bear to let them go.

copyright kanzensakura
poem draft