On Writing Poetry

On Writing


behind my knee caps and under
my toes, my ancient back and the line
down my shins─slaving over a hot computer. How
is that different from the fifties when I walked
through Rockland Park to home-cooked
meals and then dashed off? All day,
I selected ingredients, added
spices, don’t ask for specifics, all I know is

I reached into the heart of my fridge, surprisingly
empty even on a Monday after a full weekend─I cut,
shredded, cooked, stirred, testing just a spoonful
for anything forgotten, not too late
to throw in like a stone cast sideways, one ripple
if lucky possibly two, imagery helps
on a hot cooking day. I burned my toes,
my soul aches, can’t even say

I created a banquet, that guests arrived
in limousines, the menu standard fare, clothes
still in the dryer, ready to fold. I hear words
as continuous sounds tumbling
round and round, I see love in the same
way, mildew in a dryer rotating
without heat. I’m very.

Very, very. So kiss me madly, letting me lie
here in the shade, nothing required, nothing
ventured and not a thing gained. I’ve been
cooking all day, no one complimented me on
inspired creations, asked for seconds, chatted
after desert. It’s been a long scorching
day at this writing stove and I have
to sleep. Won’t wait up for you.


Copyright Janice Colman 2009