cooking

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I will not complain, not one bit, about this stretch of persistent spring weather--65* to 75* every day for a week, although I know what it augurs.  As my daughter (aka The Future) says, we might as well enjoy it while Earth lasts.  So for now it's a slow cooking we're in....and in that spirit, on Friday morning I posted only the beginning of this InstaDraft TM. Saturday morning I'm finishing it off.




Allium, Part I

Am I onion? one large bulb
a single layered heart
ready to shed my
brittle paper jacket
ready to loosen membranes
fall into rings
tears springing easily
when cut

Or am I garlic? one fat clove
of the many pressed in
puzzlewise together
bound in a thin tight skin
like a head full of brain
whose barrier fights back
must be sliced
or crushed

Either way:
pliant snap of faintly green-white
wet sting, sticky
resistance of ivory ooze and bite--
either way,
into the hot pan,
in the puddle of melting butter
I land.

Allium Part II

I settle, I saute,
gently jumping in the fat.
Slow the sizzle
to a bubble.
Let me simmer,
edges golden browning,
softening, curling.  Sugar
overcomes sharpness,

slow roasting to striped
ribbons, ovals of savory scented
caramel sweetness.
I am reduced,
both destructed and created,
recreated. Onion  or garlic?
All I am
is cooked.


(c) HM 2017

*******
There--garnished and served up.Get it while it's hot.

The round-up today is with Karen at her shocking clever blog.  Run your roots on over to taste the beneficial sulfurs of today's posts.

air, pride, plume, here Buckle!

Okay, I've had enough--for a while at least.

I'm buckling
back to
pure words now,  
pure words now.
It was a blustery day here yesterday,
swirls of snow,
but none of the peace of accumulation.
Whenever I go back to Gerard I'm struck,
the way his lines speak the every day
in a glorious plenty beyond the everyday.



The Windhover || Gerard Manley Hopkins  1877

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

    Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

     

   No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.


The round-up today is at The Logonauts with Katie.  Swing on, sweep on, glide on over for some gold-vermilion ecstasy.

featured!

My post this week is at A Penny and Her Jots with Penny Parker Klostermann!  She's featuring my 2nd graders' coral reef poems WITH artwork this time.  Swim on by, and thanks!