i don’t want to be a layer of fat
congealed in week old dirty pots left on the stove
or splattered on the laminate and scraped off with a spatula
like a piece of hardened wax.
i want to be the hot oil,
bubbling and spitting and searing your potatoes.
bearhat
another old one. my favourite actually.
this poem made it into an anthology, which really did my frail ego worlds of good.
i like poems (and prose) where the words sound like the actions taking place. the repeated ssk ssk ssk sound of the middle reminds me of a scraping spatula.
“scraped off with a spatula like a piece of hardened wax.”
to tell the truth, i dreamt this poem (the words, the rhythm) fully formed, and just sat up and wrote it down before going back to sleep. in the morning i was pleased to find it worked and the sounds of the words fit the images. fluke perhaps. or maybe the subconscious knows more than we give it credit for.
Pilgrim
Yep, I think I get it, sort about wanting to be the fire not the ash, great imagery.