Preparation appeals to the obsessive-compulsive streak
that sleeps on the whole quiet in my nature.
How I enjoy with somber pleasure littering the sink
with little brown shells.
Sometimes I can remove in virtually two pieces
a meticulous vest and cap.
Other times I have to pick with my nails,
gouging precious pieces of white.
Or if I can remove the shell smoothly,
that thin membranous bit remains
to be peeled off separately.
I can’t abide the texture of that inner skin.
Two eggs, lightly salted, become dinner.
So essential, so primordial, so filling
Roundness fits palms exactly, resting in wire baskets;
I don’t want festive Easter or Faberge.
Leave me this unique ecru, a beveled blank.
I smile at sunny-eyed possibilities nestled in centers
and tiny letters like a tattoo patterned cheek,
writing fine-point wishes that fade with boiling
and I wash the fragments away.
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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Faberge at that
You have a very delightfully creative way of drawing word pictures; of making the mundane take on meaning and filling simple observations with with depth.
language: 4, rhythm: 3, subject: 2, tone: 3, form: 3.
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great Job
Amazing how you captured the common experience of peeling the shell off an egg and turned it into a poem. Well done!
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Wow. I could never come up with all this for something as simple as hard-boiled eggs.
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you know that a poet is incredible when he or she can take something so simple and common and turn it into an artistic, beautiful thing. that's what you've done here.
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This makes eggs sound like the tastiest meal ever;i`m glad the two hard boiled eggs(that fits palms exactly then become dinner)aren`t a metaphor.Anyway,scrummy poem.
Rhetorica.
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Exquisite. I suppose the next time i prepare hard boiled egg, i'll be thinking about this poem and i'll be taking notice of the details you've written in here. While reading this poem, i found myself recalling how i'd peel off the shells. I associate this particular preparation of eggs to one of the most difficult times in my life.
Anyway this poem came to life. That's what your poetry is to me, they are alive. They make me look at things and their details (searching for little dents unique to them). You always were the "food poet" and i mean that in a good way. You capture the sensuality of food perfectly.
Great poem pie.
-iphios -
Interesting poem (but in a good way
) I loved how you described it.
haha, this random but my dad loves hard boiled eggs.
Anyways, good job!
Hope.
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