"She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn't boring." Zelda Fitzgerald

Friday, April 29, 2011

Poetry Friday: Baking + Stress

 Happy Poetry Friday to you all! Today I am sharing a poem about catastrophe. Not all poetry is about the pretty. Sometimes there is panic and mania and life feels all at ends. It's hard to share this kind of poem. I done one other, about my sister that was this shade of vulnerable but still every little bit of open and honest about faults and weakness feels like another level of nail-biting nervous. That said, I truly believe in the feelings and the honesty that writing can bring to the world and in the bits embedded in this poem. I hope you are able to use it in small small way. 

Blueberry Papaya Cucumber Juice and Chocolate ...Image by Food Thinkers via Flickr
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Metro: Don't PanicImage by nevermindtheend via Flickr

Chocolate Cake, Balm for All Ills

It is a small private emergency, I have forgotten that I told our hostess
I will bring dessert and there is so much to do and so, so little time.
In short: the normal harried crush of motherhood.
I am having the panicky, slo-mo meltdown that I have on these occasions,
When I am asked to be a She-Atlas and also look graceful to boot.
I feel like my spleen might suddenly leave my body without my permission.
I alternately cry and curse and do a few harried circles in the kitchen.
There is no time and I promised to arrive, grinning at her front door
The diaper bag, purse and baby on one arm and a laden plate in the other
With moth-wing flutters pantry to counter, I assemble ingredients for,
What else? Chocolate cake, balm for all ills.
I don’t take the time to level the cups or even measure some items.
I sprinkle and drizzle and let powders fly in fevered tempo.
The counter, my chest and the nearby wall are bathed in cocoa dust.
The oven has somehow magically heated while I pour and mix and fling,
And yet now, the countertop is littered with dirty dishes in uneven, teetering stacks.
So, at the last, I end up on the very tile below the sink, a portrait of desperation
Holding the shining bowl between my ardent hands, I lean over the cake pan
And have my own silent confessional about housewifery, stress and other
Desperate, laden topics; principly, my urgent need for this cake to work.
Kneeling on the kitchen floor, I pour my fragrant prayer out in swirling brown eddies
Into the buttered pan, every scrape of the spatula says: ”Please. Please. Please.”
I have whirled into 5,000 Our Fathers and done all other manner of penance once
I manage to nudge the dripped upon pan into the yawning mouth of the oven.
I stay there on the floor a moment, forehead on my smudged fingers.
And I leave my prayer baking in the mercy of the God who understands the private 
Emergencies of all manner of people, even small somewhat harried housewives

If you'd like to read previous Friday creations, feel free to click on the poetry tab at the top of the page labeled "Original Verse." You can sit reading for a good while if you have a mind, the collection is ever swelling.

If you'd like to participate in Poetry Friday yourself or read a cross section of poetic inspiration please step on over to our hostess Tabatha's blog, The Opposite Of Indifference.
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