“The OY! of Cooking” sold so well
in my imagination (the book
that taught readers how to cope
with ugly kitchen mishaps)
that I’ve faux-written a second
cookbook, a self-help cookbook
available in the self-help section
for your browsing convenience.
It’s titled “Regrets and Vinaigrettes”
and it’s on sale for a limited time only
in various independently-owned bookshops
in the contiguous United States.
The chickens are just heading in
through their chicken-sized door
as I challenge spring in the car,
tires hugged in mud in the bend
where the fast-driving neighbor
does his fast-driving damages
of ruts in the road. I am not yet
thirty and wearing the remains
of red lipstick as I walk through
the door of my home. My man’s
on the floor with his toes to the sky
in a stretch and the teapot is still
breathing steam. Imagining other
couples is like imagining history:
I can’t do it at all without the help
of a movie. In the film of my days,
my man is healing himself
with patience and I am healing
my self with something like hope.
On a bad day I can’t even fight
off my rooster; on most days
I’m pocketing eggs with a song.
To think that I was alive when this was written. To think that Mingus was alive. And William Matthews, too. Happy National Poetry Month; may your day be filled with the digestion of experience!
(Poem scanned from “The Open Door: 100 Poems, 100 Years of Poetry Magazine,” edited by Don Share and Christian Wiman.)
Some people didn’t even want to be poets
but their moms were poets or they know famous poets
so they get really published. I’m not jealous
I’m just observing. I have really big hair
which I’m proud of and impresses even me
and I’m the one it grows on. Now in the first comment
about poets I’m not impressed with not trying
and in my second comment about hair growth
I’m quite taken with what happens with no effort.
I guess what I’m learning about myself is
it’s easier to grow hair than get rid of jealousy.
But probably everyone knew that already so
what’s the point of poems anyway,
hair is better.
We’re planting our seeds. We’re
sowing them in. We’ve made
our selections, we’ve sawed
the boards & nailed them,
we’ve scarified the seeds
who need a little scaring.
Some seeds are smaller
than any item I’ve ever
collected. Some seeds
are blocky, brown & sharp.
We’ve showed them where
they can live in light
on the the dining room table
where the bulbs are big
and the view is right.
No one’s perfect, as
they say–I disagree. I say
a seed is perfect, through
and through. It’s got all it needs
to do inside of it, it knows
and does it in a mere
two days. The seeds
are growing on the table.
The seeds are chatting
with the moon, rising greenly
with their necks to greet her.
(gif by misha m johnson, the most talented photographer in the upper valley)
What does the sun taste like?
An egg yolk.
What does the moon taste like?
Soda bread.
What do the stars taste like?
Salt and pepper.
Something that I miss about San Diego is the sideyard, that yard we had on the side of our house, where friends used to gather. So many great things happened there: poems under the streetlights, loud live music, deluxe beverages (alcoholic and non-alcoholic), yoga mat washing by way of rare rain, hot pepper roasting (& peeling), yoga class by Britta, yard sales, the explorations of a young chicken named V’Nilla… That being said, we also experienced chair thievery with frequency. And people used to walk their dogs onto the lawn and let them shit and just leave it. Hummingbirds buzzed through there and friends visiting from the east came and sat in the sideyard with their faces facing the sun and said, “Aaaah.” People purchased Misha’s photos there and we parked our bikes there and we grilled fish out there and we sat with tea out there under the purple umbrella that Misha bought because he knows how much I love purple. We grew good mint out there and a kale plant that looked like a palm tree and a bush of African blue basil that the bees adored. And before we left, we invited everyone over to buy and take our stuff, and we made fancy popcorns, and we played bocci, and drank beer and lemonade from a cooler. It was our living room, carpeted with the spikiest grass I’d ever known, and Misha would turn off the sprinklers and then every week dudes would come and mow the grass and turn the sprinklers back on. And now that we’re not living there anymore I hope heartily that whoever is living there is loving that little square of green as much as we did, is using it as hard as we used it, and is calling it a sideyard.
(The sideyard was also where I discovered I could wear bocce balls as earrings, no big deal, just wearing these bocce balls as earrings next to my boyfriend. I’m assuming we lost that game of bocce based on the look on Misha’s face.) (Photo by Marilyn, a true friend who I met–you guessed it!–in the sideyard.)
Dear Scott,
I made you this internet collage comprised of (beautiful) images that remind me of you. I really hope you like it.
Love,
Taylor
Happiest of days to you, friend. I hope your weekend is full of even better things than Ellie giving the sneaky middle finger to you in a photo, though it’s hard to imagine what’s better than that.
I went to AWP last week, for what felt like a week. For you nonwriters, AWP is the biggest literary conference of the year. Workshops, lectures, readings, a bookfair big enough to kill any sane person’s love of books, famous writers all around, lots of glasses, lots of beards, lots of notebook scribbling, lots of beers. I schlepped apricots, trail mix, water, my phone, notebooks, and about ten pounds of books around the city of Boston for three days straight. Other things that occurred: lattes, reunions, inspiration, Anne Carson, free chocolate, free pens, free buttons, literary journals, poet swoons (see: Anne Carson), and I met my pen pal for the first time, with whom I have been corresponding for a year. Magic! Below are some tidbits from the weekend too good (read: weird &/or awesome) not to share.
“I believe that the future of poetry belongs to dead poets.” -Valzhyna Mort (poet)
*
“I prefer myself to Charles Simic.” -James Meetze (poet)
*
“You’re some kind of something and I like it.” -Dara Wier (poet)
*
“They will try to make you choose between the things you love but you do not have to choose.” Muriel Rukeyser, as quoted by another passionate woman
THEY WILL TRY TO MAKE YOU CHOOSE BETWEEN THE THINGS YOU LOVE BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO CHOOSE.
*
“For nonconformity, the world whips you with displeasure.” -Emerson, as quoted by a college professor dude
*
“I am just another person in all normal regards except for my love of lemurs.” -James Tate (poet), as quoted by another poet
*
“Lanyards are a great way to humble people.” -Jacob Otting (poet & comedian)
*
“This wig is terrific.” -Terrance Hayes, reading one of his poems (SWOON)
*
And here are some patterns I am loving this week, by Phoebe Wahl.
And that is all for now. Besides for the joy of another friend engaged, the speed of a new (old) car, the sound of the rain (rain! not snow! woah!), the crunch of breadcrust littered with seeds, and the feel of a hot mug in my hands.
I was given a fur coat for my birthday this year (by my mother-out-law, who gives amazing presents–raw silk scarves & notebooks & dark chocolates & the most pristine and gorgeous hand-me-downs). I’m not here to give my opinion on fur, mostly because I’m not sure of my opinion on fur. But this is what I do know. This coat is a beauty. This coat is so warm that when I walk outside in it, I feel like I’m still inside. It covers my entire body and it is both warm and beautiful and utterly deluxe. Here’s a picture of me the day I was given it, which was a very very snowy Saturday, a day I was not expecting to leave the house but then I did and wonderful things happened.
Today I wore the coat outside to let out the chickies. The chickies had no sense of my my unnecessary glamour, but they were pretty pumped to hop up and out of the coop. Tomorrow, I’ll wear it to a black tie Academy Awards party downtown, which I am attending mostly so that I can wear my new fur coat. Also for the company. Also for general deluxeness, which is scarce in February in Vermont.
And soon friends will arrive in Vermont & it will be my birthday & I will wear the fur coat again. And then spring will come & the snow will melt revealing the hidden garlic & I will be twenty-seven & eager to plant things & eat them. And the fur coat will hang graciously on its soft pink hanger, waiting until I need it again.
***
Photos by Misha, who else.
panache, perhaps 