Regarding poetry writing, I am a late bloomer. Fiction ruled my heart and mind although I loved words and rhythm and sound. Poetry was like a mystical voice, too enigmatic to undertake until I found poetry by Neruda, Mary Oliver, and Jane Kenyon, such different voices whispering to me, yet each echoing a love of words. Beautiful, hungry words. Continue reading →
The inspiration for my very first ottava rima (and my last?) is occurring right now and I probably should be powering down rather than typing on, and I can hear people I know say: she just doesn’t show good sense.
While I consider myself a writer, I don’t totally consider myself a poet. I love words and I love the possibility of the musicality of words when rhythm and wordplay exist. However, when words like iambs and feet and meter come up, I, for some reason, hear white noise. I’m still hoping to grow out of it.
When I ate meat, I did not eat mushrooms. I claimed it was the texture, but secretly I viewed them as alien lifeforms and still do, but these days they frequently showcase a dinner. At the beginning of January I savored rich mushroom ragout in a quiet beach restaurant after all of the holiday vacationers had returned to their lives elsewhere. The thick tomato and mushroom laden sauce smothered pasta while the aroma of red wine, tomatoes, and mushrooms with savory rosemary stimulated my senses. Each taste ensured an eye roll of pure delight. At home, I recreate the dish, although it takes an hour of sautéing mirepoix and mushrooms separately, adding tomatoes and wine and garlic and then finally combining for thirty minutes of marrying the flavors to ultimately adorn anything from pasta to potatoes. Besides the ingredients, the secret is time. Only after simmering and reduction, do the flavors peak.
In the holly bush
Robin rests upon blue eggs
Spring welcomes rebirth
Instead of a robin, I offer a picture of Monsieur Cardinal.