Surrender, Again
Never mind, then— I’ll just pour myself in the bowl of the earth, let my heart be ladled about. There are worse fates than being delicious.
Photo by Shigeru Sakuma on Unsplash
The Prompt
The phrase “bowl of the earth” has come up for me over and over in the past few months. In the recent flooding in Kentucky, the bowls between hills became sudden lakes and inspired fragments of poems, none of which said what I wanted to say. On a short hike this past week, I sat at the edge of a cluster of small waterfalls, watched water pour itself into limestone bowls. Again, I found fragments of poems. And maybe the poem above, which came a day later and is inspired by the obnoxious and ongoing necessity of surrender to chronic illness, arrived because of the waterfalls the day before or the lakes a month before. Or maybe I just had dish metaphors on my mind (I absolutely did) ever since reading
’s lovely response to one of my recent posts, in which he compares the heart to a bowl.I’ve been playing around with a poem that begins “I married a man whose heart was a fork” and thinking about all the ways in which we humans show up to the world as bowls or forks or knives or occasionally garlic presses, so I guess it was inevitable that a dish-forward (or kitchen-tool-forward) poem was going to tumble out of me. What I liked best about writing this one is that I thought I was heading toward the word “devoured,” but I landed in “delicious” instead. Surprise—whether as a reader or a writer—is one of my favorite aspects of poetry. Maybe that’s good practice for life?
If you would like a prompt to play with today, then I invite you to throw the cupboards and drawers in your kitchen wide. Pick a dish or kitchen implement (or a whole shelf of them, if you’d like), and explore the endless trove of possible metaphors they contain. Go wide. Go weird. Filter later, if you must. But begin by throwing everything into the pot. See what bubbles up when you do.
You may find things besides metaphors. You may remember the person who gifted you your favorite mug or the way your partner never adequately cleans the grime from the plates. You may remember that one of your soup spoons went missing and find yourself imagining the fantastical adventures it’s having out in the world beyond your silverware drawer. You may remember you aunt, how she would tuck the phone inside the silverware drawer whenever a telemarketer called, then give the whole thing a rattling shake. You may discover that your memories are metaphors, too.
Whatever you find, give it a stir. Give it a shake. Watch the steam rise from its surface, and feel the poem that wants to emerge. Can you write it as if you’re tasting something brand new?
If you’re up for sharing a taste of whatever emerges, I’d love to read it, and I’m certain others would, too, so please drop into the comments thread. It’s always a delight to find you there.
P.S. The first poetry open mic, co-hosted with
, was so life-giving, and I’m still breaking into random smiles of amazement over the talent and generosity of the readers, participants, and audience who made it what it was. We’re hoping to do another in April, and I’ll let you know once we set a date.
I once wrote an Ode to Kitchen Gadgets, which I’ll post here. It’s quite silly. I love your poem.
Ode to Kitchen Gadgets
It began
with monkey peeler
an orange monkey
arms outstretched
holding a blade
instead of
a banana
It peels
the skin from carrots
of apples
or pears
sliced with
the eight-blade
slicer corer divider
A flower
blossom of fruit
But the obsession began
with the Hutzler 571
banana slicer
yellow curved
to match that
just peeled banana
the saver of marriages
of shattered dreams
The plastic onion to hold
my half leftover
onions and tears
Or the lemon
to hold the slices
I used to save
in baggies
found weeks later
mashed and moldy
on the bottom
of the fruit drawer
Plastic pepper holders in
red and yellow
and orange
I’ve even mixed
the colors red pepper
in orange
yellow in red
and there I find them
in the refrigerator
perched proudly
on the shelf
proclaiming
their identity
next to Butter Cutter
butter enshrined
with each click
a perfect pat
Kitchen gadgets
plastic gods to
ease the way
Here's some sister-trippy s&*#... I completely forgot your original post, but for days remembered that I was supposed to write a poem about kitchen utensils. Only now when I got ready to post it did I see all the parallels with your poem. It was inspired by my beaters, thinking of them as separate entities from my handheld mixer.
.
You don’t go looking for trouble
but will throw down when pushed,
whipping the toughs until they buckle
and fawn. Your thirst
is not for blood (never a drop)
but for emulsification.
.
What better bowl could there be
than all of us reduced to satin?
My ego is a lump about to be
dashed, then born again
as flour that freely surrenders.