December Journal Entry
Perhaps consider poetry
a gourmet grocery shop,
endless pyramids of
shape-shifting fruit:
persimmon, star flower, pomegranate –
and across the aisle
in hand-woven oval baskets:
Vietnamese coriander,
Thai basil, Chinese leaves.
Experiment without knowing
the exact region where
the pomegranate is grown
the pronunciation of the Chinese leaf.
But don’t set out to deceive
the check-out girl;
you can’t pretend that you’re
a kumquat or a chanterelle.
And get away with it.
Instead, practice rapture –
and inquisitiveness, pose
a question to the golden
beet, the artichoke heart;
engage with a yellow fin.
The page relies
on the clean attempt
to move beyond the safe way.
Where is the ineffable?
Bring home a mango
prepare it with Kosher salt.
—Susan Rich
____
first published in 5 AM.
Not Writing
The pen is the tongue of the mind.
~ Miguel de Cervantes
I’m creative as a lamppost tonight,
the ignition switch
burned out.
Spotlight blown from a single branch
along this rutted, side-worn street.
I’m emptied of loquacious lovers,
of one old Italian monk;
a golden dog licks his leg,
makes his mark, smooth and easy.
Words, words everywhere –
and not one S placed right.
Where lurk the amorous vowels?
Swept along by elliptical ships, feasting
on amaranth pears?
Tonight, teach me
the timing of a tangent,
the cartography of a constellation.
No, no, not tonight dear.
Not there, not here.
—Susan Rich
____
first published in Quarterly West last year.