Ode to the Arichoke - a poem for farmer's market season

Another poem...the Ode to the Artichoke. Came a cross this long time ago.

Ode To The Artichoke

The artichoke

With a tender heart

Dressed up like a warrior,

Standing at attention, it built

A small helmet

Under its scales

It remained

Unshakeable,

By its side

The crazy vegetables

Uncurled

Their tendrills and leaf-crowns,

Throbbing bulbs,

In the sub-soil

The carrot

With its red mustaches

Was sleeping,

The grapevine

Hung out to dry its branches

Through which the wine will rise,

The cabbage

Dedicated itself

To trying on skirts,

The oregano

To perfuming the world,

And the sweet

Artichoke

There in the garden,

Dressed like a warrior,

Burnished

Like a proud

Pomegrante.

And one day

Side by side

In big wicker baskets

Walking through the market

To realize their dream

The artichoke army

In formation.

Never was it so military

Like on parade.

The men

In their white shirts

Among the vegetables

Were

The Marshals

Of the artichokes

Lines in close order

Command voices,

And the bang

Of a falling box.

But

Then

Maria

Comes

With her basket

She chooses

An artichoke,

She's not afraid of it.

She examines it, she observes it

Up against the light like it was an egg,

She buys it,

She mixes it up

In her handbag

With a pair of shoes

With a cabbage head and a

Bottle

Of vinegar

Until

She enters the kitchen

And submerges it in a pot.

Thus ends

In peace

This career

Of the armed vegetable

Which is called an artichoke,

Then

Scale by scale,

We strip off

The delicacy

And eat

The peaceful mush

Of its green heart. 

Pablo Neruda

Still love it. And now it's providing design inspiration too! If you want to see what I've been thinking, check out my new pinterest page. I'm trying that out. http://pinterest.com/alicatbird/boards/

Mary Oliver, or, a poem for my mother

Last time I was in Vancouver we put my mum's ashes up at the Mountainview Cemetery. It was good to be there with my family and move a few inches in our slow acceptance of her passing. My lovely Aunt was there and she provided us with some beautiful words with which to remember my mum by when she read the following poem by Mary Oliver. 

The Summer Day
- 1990 

  Who made the world? 
  Who made the swan, and the black bear? 
  Who made the grasshopper? 
  This grasshopper, I mean-- 
  the one who has flung herself out of the grass, 
  the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, 
  who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-- 
  who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. 
  Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. 
  Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. 
  I don't know exactly what a prayer is. 
  I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down 
  into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, 
  how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, 
  which is what I have been doing all day. 
  Tell me, what else should I have done? 
  Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? 
  Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
  with your one wild and precious life? 

I just looked this poem up, and found some of her other works, equally moving and beautiful. If your spriti could use a little boost. Have a read. 

http://www.mrbauld.com/oliverpms.html

Emily Dickinson

I have been looking up various artists and for some reason Emily Dickinson swam into my head. I have been thinking that I ought to read more poetry, and I love her poems and her story.