Food and Poetry

We are still reading poetry for breakfast and I really like it.  I think it’s easy to be turned off studying poetry because of dirty words like “pentameter.”  That just can’t be good.  Plus, what do I know about poetry in the first place?  Nothin’.  But what we are all finding out together is that it is fun.  We are learning to enjoy it.  And I think that is the only thing I hope to teach them at all.  That a poem isn’t something distant and foreign, but it is a tiny present in a neatly wrapped box, waiting to be opened.  Poetry should invite.  Jael has started copying her favorite poems into her journal, inspired by hearing “Jenny Kissed Me.”  We remember favorite lines (“and then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils”), we listen to readings of the Scottish poet Robert Burns and start to talk funny, and we research poems we don’t understand until something that once was cold and obtuse becomes hilarious.  Usually not to anyone else, because half the time it was the weirdos at the breakfast table who made it so funny.  For instance, we started a riot with the poem “Song” by Edmund Waller.  Which is about a man sending his offish lover a rose with a poem reminding her that just as this rose will fade, so will she, so she had better “suffer herself to be desired,” before it is too late. And we joke about Gideon and Jehu trying the same thing when they’re older.  “Does it work?” they ask.  You know, I’m betting anything involving poetry has pretty good odds.  Start ’em young.

The menu itself wasn’t that exciting.  In fact, I don’t think I have anything to report.  Better luck next time.

I am still cooking breakfast and doing lunch as a “snack” outside.

“Look Ma, no dishes!”  Except no one likes hummus.  It’s always something.

These are pictures from a couple of weeks ago that never got posted.  But I thought they were so funny.

Gideon in his breakfast jacket drinking tea.  That’s the life.

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One thought on “Food and Poetry

  1. from co-worker poem she stills remembers from childhood —The soft puff balls of thistles
    And ground pine turning gold
    are summer’s last words set upon
    the glittering edge of cold

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