It’s been quite the week. And I might have taken the Wolf Moon eclipse as my Sunday Weekly poem’s subject matter. But then we had an eclipse at Wolf Moon 2019 and I wrote one then. And I did write a draft of 2020 version, but I figured we might need to mix things up a bit this week.

Or nature might have been my muse. We have had some spectacular skies here this week as a parenthesis to the full moon’s eclipse.


But nah! When you have houseguests you tend to think a lot about menus. So food has been my muse. Also, there is a lot of music being played in the house.

 I want to stretch that infinite string
 of dried dough that has become 
 an elastic grace note pulled
 from the magic pot of water 
 at a rolling boil that’s be-bop
 and it soars round in its steam
 and you can keep it plain or do it
 fried, or meaty, or saucy or so
 spicy it feels kind of naughty,
 its cayenne kick that turns 
 to a croon till that bit of old dough
 is swooning onto your plate and it all
 started with a migrate out of the east
 on a camel’s back west, travelling
 the old Silk Road route and all along
 the people named it their way –
 gnudel or nouille or the even faster
 pasta.  Noodles are the original jazz.
 Each place would sing its song
 on a plate no matter what its name,
 served up the sauce wherever it came.
 We kind of like this noodling
 with flour, water and the odd spare egg.
 It’s poor people’s princely fare
 that can sing a mean hymn of praise
 and swoop into some melancholy longing
 for your baby who just stayed
 and never followed your string, 
 just sucked it all up with your silky voice.
 It’s all jazz and the world is just
 a pea served with your noodles.
 And all of us are just following
 that elastic note on its last string.
 Copyright © Bee Smith 2020. All rights reserved. 

Featured image Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash

Poetry Pasta

I woke up late. A friend is due in something less than an hour. I need to shower. So poetry practice is a bit like playing beat the clock. The theme was suggested by an email exchange with a poetry creative colleague yesterday when I said I wanted to noodle with a particular idea or theme. Which, given what needs to happen today, won’t happen until after suppertime. It kind of feels like a typical humpday of a week’s Wednesday.

Poetry Pasta

takes flour and water,
maybe an egg,
pulling it all together,
rolling it out so flat
it's a virgin's bedsheet,
so fine,
call it paper thin
until it's
a page
and a poem.

But how do you cut it?
So many shapes to choose for your filet.
How shall you embellish it?
So many tastes to please, so many ways.
Will they eat it? Will they like it?
Well, millions have been known to praise
this soul food that, like poetry,
it's no passing craze.

Copyright © 2019 Bee Smith. All rights reserved.

Featured Photo by Elle Hughes on Unsplash