New Eggplant Poem (draft)

This is a new poem that I wrote for my poetry class with Dawn McDuffie.  The formatting came out sucky, sorry about that!  :-(  It is a DRAFT:

Aubergine, Solanum melongena, a Recipe

Open your loppers and wield them like the mandibles

of a huge insect. Steer them step-by-step toward the tall rangy plants

that bow with the weight of their fruit.  Swoop and center the jaws

around the fruit-stalk, yank closed the teeth to sever the tough stem. 

Watch the purple, pear-shaped fruit plop onto soil

damp and fragrant from days of rain. Carry it reverently

to the coiled hose, allowing each of your ten fingers

to stroke the rich, smooth skin. Wash the few dirt clusters

from the plump base of the fruit with a soft spray

and dry the fruit on your clean cotton apron. Enjoy the way

the water droplets sink into the fabric and disappear,

leaving only faint and fading dark spots on the paisley pattern.

Brush your lips against skin the color of stormy sunset. 

Inside, place a skillet on the fire, add fat, and turn up the flame.

Slide the cutting board from its home along the window wall

and pull the thick-handled butcher knife from its block. 

Lay your sacrifice on the wooden altar and slice from the shoulders

to the hips.  Pause to admire the creamy flesh and small designs

of seed. In a low, flat dish pour stone-ground cornmeal, flour,

salt, pepper, garlic, and a pinch of Old Bay.  Blend with a fork.

From the egg basket on the sideboard, raise your piles

of fresh-picked spinach, cilantro and parsley, pausing to sniff

the aromatic cilantro, and lift out two brown eggs.  Thump them

quickly against the edge of the sink, pull the shells apart

and let the wet suns in their small seas fall into a flat dish. 

Mix with the fork. One by one, lay the slices in the beaten eggs,

flip them, lay them in the cornmeal, flip them and drop them

into hot fat. Listen for a quick sizzle and a hiss of bubbles.

When the edges brown, turn them over and watch them dance.

When the slices resemble the sunset gold of the elm leaves

that gather in the tall grass outside your window, lay them

on towels to drain and cool. Arrange like petals of a flower

on Grandma’s heirloom Botanica platter, with sprigs of parsley

and cilantro. Danger!  Don't make these more than once a year

and don’t burn your tongue as you groan and savor

the crunchy crust that clings to the hot, soft fruit.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

for Margaret and Keith

111018-1516-2a(3), 111017-1432-1b(2), 111017-0836-1^st complete,111016 partial draft a

Further instructions, not part of poem:

layer the leftovers with tomatoes and parmesan

and bake. Cut into rectangular chunks and serve warm.

-OR- Place the fresh fruit in the microwave ten minutes.  Cool.  Carefully scrape the soft pulp

from the now delicate skin, add lemon, olive oil, tahini and garlic

and spread on pita, toast or chips.  Wallow then, in the gorgeous glory of baba ghanouj.  

Turn Back the Clock (new Poem)

Turn Back the Clock

I cannot look at the face

of the man who killed Norway's children.

I turn away in horror.

Why? I ask my husband, why

did he kill children?

Why children? How could they have harmed him?

Why did he dress as a policeman, the one person

we teach our children to trust, to go to for help

and safety? Why did he then

shoot them?

Why did he shoot them as they ran, shoot them as they swam

off the island toward the mainland, trying to escape?

Why

did he do it? How could he?

Why? I cry.

And cry.

Fibers of my heart

tear apart

shred

the little strands of muscles part

and all the soul leaks out.

I want to go back in time

gather the children

and protect them.

I want to turn back the clocks

and make them safe.

I want to restore

the lives they have lost

and let them flow forward again

to their own fruition.

I want to go backwards in time

and undo the evil

that made the man

do what he did

before he did it.

"If you want to bake an apple pie

from scratch

you must first invent the universe."

I want to reinvent the world

without that pain.

I want to erase every thread

that led to that event,

unwind it, unravel it

back to its source,

ablate that well of darkness

and set the wheels turning again

so those children run free,

laugh, grow up.

Or I want

someone

somehow

to

save

those children

who can no longer be saved.

I cannot look at the face

of Anders Behring Breivik.

I want to trust the world again.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

"If you want to bake an apple pie from scratch you must first invent the universe." Carl Sagan

110725-0900-2a(2), 110724 1st draft

Images harvested from internet, for which I apologize. Click images to view larger.

Two more poems being translated into French

Marie de Montpellier (in France) is translating two more of my poems into French.  She's already done two others.  Her current choices are one from Desire ("Forgetting You") and one from Counting Fingers, Smelting Light ("Remembering Ricky").  I am very excited, pleased and honored.  YAY!  :-D  Woohoo!

First IPad Poem

If

 

What if, instead of dying flowers, perfume

smelled like mountaintops, like granite

 

and fir-filtered wind?  Breezes lift our feet

from the rock and fragrance-scented air

 

buoys us up over golden rows of mountains.

You laugh like a child taking his first step

 

out onto the taut surface of water

and instead of sinking, we skate

 

on that tensile surface that quivers

like my heart when you reach

 

the long pin freathers of your wings

and wrap them all light and tickle

 

and remember around me.

 

 

 

Mary Stebbins Taitt

first poem on Ipad,

1000618-1557-2b(3), 100617

Fool's Errand

"THE SNIPE HUNT" by Mary Stebbins Taitt (click image to view larger.)

Fool’s Errand

Winged as a curlew, long-beaked as a woodcock,

sleep whistles and dives through the shattered night.

Searching, I scrabble through dark swamps

reeking of marsh gas and fœtid with the smells

of rotting fish. My song bursts with yearning,

alternating chipping, burbling and fluting sounds,

like a sparrow held under water. My pleading

tastes of the raw shrimp and crayfish I wave

in a mesh bag. Snipe bait. Muddy ooze seeps

cold through the knees and hem of my nightgown,

black muck and slime cling to my fingers and toes.

Burdocks, stick tights and beggars ticks

burrow in my hair. I carry a snare for the snipe

of sleep, but when the bird swoops by and I reach

to snag it, my fingers pass, ethereal, through

a taunting fantasia of feathers, fog and clouds

of unborn sleep that drifts past, damp, intangible

and utterly unattainable. Snipe dreams tumble by,

hauntingly near but always beyond reach.

They refuse to descend into my wake-parched eyes.

I strain toward the gibbering voices of dream

phantoms. They talk in tongues, whisper

and twitter in mysterious dream-coded languages

and their aurora-colored feathers flutter

around my bed, falling like the warm snow of dreams

but never touching my face. Long snipe beaks

tear the night in strips, shredding it into confettis

of longing. The snipe of sleep will be neither captured

nor kept. It cannot be domesticated. Elusive, beyond wild,

it ranges over the incalculable waters of night. It turns

bedrooms into swamplands and sanity

into shrieking lunacy.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

A snipe hunt is a wild-goose chase or fool's errand. The term originated from a practical joke where experienced campers convinced inexperienced campers to capture a “snipe,” variously described as a bird or animal. The novice campers were given absurd methods of catching the snipe, such as running through the woods carrying a bag while making odd noises (snipe calls). Real snipes, shorebirds with long bills, are so difficult to catch for even experienced hunters that the word "sniper" originally meant someone skilled enough to shoot a snipe.

Perhaps if I could capture the snipe of sleep alive (and release it in the morning), I could finally rest. But if, sniper like, I shoot it, sleep will never come.

100417-1203-4b(12), 100416-2249-3g(10), 100411-1838-2b(3), 8/16/2007 4:37 PM

This and the previous version at the Rolandale Silk Creek Retreat House in the Hiker Kitty Room. NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Month)

Tree Dreams

newer version:

Tree Dreams in February

Under the ground, a dark and perpetual night, almost as void
of life as deep space, presses cold teeth against the dreaming trees,
but the trees sink further into their roots and listen all the way up
the long fibers of their empty veins to owls rustling in their nests,
to small movements inside the eggs, to the first cracking
that heralds these winter babies, these messengers of spring.
Lost in their roots, sunk in depths of the frozen earth, trees dream
of sweet sunshine, of snow melting, of the slow unfurling of leaves
and flowers, of fledgling owls stretching their wings and launching
into the great pale blue of treacherous air. The trees remember
summer nights, owls lifting silently from their branches, occluding
the moon and stars, or hooting to one another from high above
the branches where the little diurnal birds rest in their nests.
The trees dream the smell of summer wind and the wet caresses
of rain. As they weave into their dreams the smells
of their own flowers, the tastes of their own nectar,
the touch of the bees’ pollen-laden feet and gentle tongues,
the taste of frozen earth loses its pungent bitterness.

Mary Stebbins Taitt, 1st, a poem for the unity web exercise.
100213-1554-1c(3), 100213-1013-1st

First draft:

Tree Dreams

Deep in the frozen earth, trees dream
of sweet sunshine, snow melting, of the slow unfurling of leaves
and flowers. Underground, a dark and perpetual night, as empty
of life as deep space, presses its cold teeth against the dreaming trees,
but the trees sink deeper into their roots and dream of summer nights,
of owl flight and the resting diurnal birds tucked in nests in the trees’
safe branches. They remember being awake, they remember the smell
of wind and breezes and the wet caresses of rain. As they weave
into their dreams the smells of their own flowers, the taste
of their own nectar, the touch of the bees’ pollen-laden feet
and gentle tongues, the taste of frozen earth loses its bitterness.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

1st draft just now.

The illo is also called "Tree Dreams" and is a quick "Unity Web," my personal version of Zentangle, which I cannot afford to buy. Of course a quick Zentangle is probably an oxymoron, but I can't help it, I need to go. See more Zentagles here, most of which are much nicer than my quick "Unity Web." If you click on the illo, you can see it larger.

I learned about Zentangles from Nessa here.

Life is a Circus

Life is Circus

In the circus of my sanity, no applause
ripples the canvas, no cheers
harmonize with the band.  My mind
wobbles across the tight rope, sagging,
slipping, tumbling into the darkness
where no nets wait to catch me.
The lion's maw, full of rotted teeth,
yawns open and I tumbled toward it.
My last sequins sparkle faintly
in the fading light as all goes black.

Mary Taitt, 11.24.09

This is for Laura Tattoo

Meeting the Neighbors in my Nightgown

Meeting the Neighbors in my Nightgown

It wasn't fire or an earthquake that brought me outside
in my nightgown; I went only to fill the backyard bird feeder
so that the early risers could fill their tummies
but glanced up at a quiet whine from Nelson
as Frank yelled, "He doesn't bark at you,
anymore; he's decided he likes you," and they
came across the street toward me, Frank
in his wrinkled Madras shorts and unbuckled black galoshes,
though it wasn't raining and there were no puddles
or even sprinklers running.  His chartreuse shirt
with the giant Mickey Mouse clashed with the ragged
pink and orange shorts.  I was embarrassed
to have no bra, worried my breasts would giggle,
held my arms carefully over them until I bent
to pet Nelson and saw the hairy grizzly-bear heads
peering up through Frank's open black galoshes.
Eliana from next door was beside me then,
arms folded across her chest, bra-less, too,
wearing her son's high-top basketball shoes
and in a too short nightie with a man's shirt clutched
about her until she, too, bent to pet Nelson.
She giggled, I giggled, and suddenly we all laughed,
laughed and laughed until tears ran down our faces.
Nelson yapped at us and all the neighborhood dogs
set into howling and the mailman, coming around
the corner with his arms full, handed us our mail
with only the slightest flicker of a smile, said
"Top O'the Morning to you," and tipped his cap. 
He bowed, danced a little jig, clicked his heels together,
and continued down the street, while Frank, Eliana
and I retreated quickly back into our separate homes,
wiping away tears and snorting softly to ourselves.


Mary Stebbins Taitt
090514-1639-1b(2), 090514-1225-1st

Vertigo Fear Shadows

Vertigo Fear Shadows

At the edge of a shadow cast by the neighbor's oak,
sun shines on my face, a breeze rustles my hair
and the shadow of the oak shifts and wriggles, restless
and hungry, withdrawing and then approaching
my bare toes, over and over while the whole dancing
shadow with it's patches of sun slides slowly closer.
Shadows of leaves, shadows of branches, shadows
of baby acorns nestled among the leaves.  Shadows
of robins passing each other with worms and insects,
shadows of their babies opening wide their mouths.
Such a chorus of pleading.  Wingbeats, then stillness.
A touch of cold startles me.  I look down to see darkness
on my hands, isolated and with no visible source
from the tree.  The deep, cloudless sky throws no shadows,
but the shadow on my wrist expands toward my heart.
Compelled to drink from that well of night, I bend toward
my hands.  A black wave engulfs me.  The earth tilts, the sky
spins and the tree lurches.  I smell bruised grass, damp soil.
Feel tiny pebbles mashed into my cheek.  Taste salt and iron.
Sweating and cold, I watch the jonquils and tulips leap jaggedly
in the garden.  Jump and twist spasmodically.  On my knees,
my body curls in Bala-asana, the child pose, and I close
my eyes to still the jumping.  The darkness
behind my eyes turns and jerks raggedly.  I breathe
slowly.  Feel a passing chill, another shadow.
I open my eyes to see a vulture circling, its shadow
passing over me again and again.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090512-1319-1b, 090512-1229-1st

NOTE:  This did NOT happen as written, but is a combination of the earlier experience of vertigo with the later experience of the shifting shadows and the mysterious one on my hand.

This would not format correctly below. See it correctly formatted here.

Friends


OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I detest work
but I need a milkshake. Ready? Here goes:

I saunter in the kitchen door.

“I love you, little Sweetness and Light,” my mother says.

“Whatever,” I answer, and keep on walking.

Hear the grump in my voice? She deserves it.
First, I’m not little. I’m a teenager, and I tower
over her. OK, only by an inch or two,
but she’s no dwarf.

Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet,
and I generate no light, except
perhaps toward any witches who see auras.
Mom might; she’s that weird.

I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back
and give her a hug.

"OK, what do you want?” She asks.

“Friendship,” I say.

She guesses right, of course.
I hug her mostly only when I want something.
The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background
or disappears off my radar entirely.
She knows it, too.

I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.
I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.
I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games
and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.
I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.
I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room
clean the bird cage and bury the compost.
Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .

I hug her again, stroke her hair. “Friend,” I say.
“Milkshake,” I say. “Real friends
make their friends milkshakes.
You’re my friend, right Mom?”

“Oh,” she says, “you want to make me a milkshake,
how sweet. You charm me with your generosity.”

“Awwwwww . . .” I release a big sigh
and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,
but already, she hauls out the milk
ice-cream and sugar.

“Chocolate,” I yell, as I dash upstairs.

Don’t tell Mom, but I often create a perfect milkshake.
I just hate to wash the blender.
Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon
or George killed any monsters yet.
And she can wash the blender.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090504-1157-2e, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1st of this version (earlier draft/version was a short prose poem)

earlier draft below:

Friends

OK, watch this; see if I don't win. I need a milkshake

but detest work. I saunter in the kitchen door.

"I love you, little Sweetness and Light," my mother says.

"Whatever," I answer, and keep on walking.

I hear the grump in my voice, but she deserves it.

First, I'm not little. I'm a teenager, and I tower

over her. OK, only by an inch or two,

but she's no dwarf.

Anyway, I'm not little, I'm not sweet,

and I generate no light, except

perhaps toward any witches who see auras.

Mom might; she's that weird.

I stroll toward the stairs a few steps, then turn back

and give her a hug.

"OK, what do you want?" She asks.

"Friendship," I say. She guesses right, of course.

I hug her mostly only when I want something.

The rest of the time, she vanishes into the background

or disappears off my radar entirely.

She knows it, too.

I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money.

I want to stay up all night and sleep all day.

I want to eat candy, drink soda, play video games

and watch TV. Hang out with my friends.

I want no school, homework, baths, clean clothes.

I want to refuse to practice the piano, clean my room

clean the bird cage and bury the compost.

Fat chance; but if I play my cards right . . .

I hug her again, stroke her hair. "Friend," I say.

"Milkshake," I say. "Real friends

make their friends milkshakes.

You're my friend, right Mom?"

"Oh," she says, "you want to make me a milkshake,

how sweet. You charm me with your generosity."

"Awwwwww . . ." I release a big sigh

and roll my best sad puppy eyes at her,

but already, she hauls out the milk

ice-cream and sugar.

"Chocolate," I yell, as I dash upstairs.

Don't tell Mom, but I create a perfect milkshake.

I just hate to wash the blender.

Now I can leap into Runescape and see if Simon

or George killed any monsters yet.

And Mom can wash the blender.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

090504-0340-2c, 090503-2149-1c, 090503-1911-1^st of this version (earlier draft/version was a shorter prose poem)

NaPoWriMo #19

I spent a lot of time trying to get this to format correctly on the blog, but it would not. So Sorry. Wahn! Waste of time, too!