Today was one of those rare writing days where I sat down, read a few pages in the newest book on poetry I’m slowly making my way through, Madness, Rack, and Honey, the collected lectures of Mary Ruefle. I read the first lecture, and then a part of the second. I found myself in conversation with them both, underlining, making notes. 

In the cafe, Word Raccoon opened my laptop.

Without AirPods in, while people came and went, while I was noticing everything, making smalltalk, inquiring after the children near and far of patrons, Word Raccoon sat with me as I wrote.

I wrote about the fact that I could only see half a tree and I had to stand up if I wanted to see the rest or to crane over to see other trees. I realized then how important trees are to my writing process, how often I stare at them for no good reason except they steady me. I think everything that a tree can be is in my gaze, like their stability, their (semi) permanence. Their unimpeachable character, their connection to nature, the fact that almost everyone gets trees, no matter your class or economic status. That they are ecosystems of their own with endless possibilities to be written about, from their architecture to their aesthetics to their scientific nature. On and on…

I will spare you a blow by blow on each of the poems. Word Raccoon is rolling her eyes in advance, saying the poem is the result so why walk through each step?

Without meaning to, I wrote a whole raft of poems:

Instrument of Justice

Sighted 

Feeding Poets Soup 

Buchmans in the Kitchen (you know the scene)

Mixing Metaphors and Batter (it’s kinda mean – I may tuck that away)

Staying Steady

I Stand to See the Trees

Memory’s Rising

Planchette

Self-Claiming

Cue the (Redacted) btw, unless I am very much mistaken, I do believe the day did. 😀

The caffeine was just the right level, the temperature, even indoors, was a bit cool but I’d decided to wear shorts so I just covered my legs and I was fine.

How come I didn’t need music or silence to write? I don’t know. Just a rare day, I guess. I’m grateful.

A young man who works there writes song lyrics. He was surprised that I knew all of his favorite authors and most of their books. He likes the moderns.

He always asks me how the writing was for the day when I pack up to leave. Which makes it seem legit. Which it is.

The poems today were all of a piece and yet varied, on topics from death to co-creating. And always, always love. 

They’re thinky poems. I like thinky poems. WR adores thinky poems.

Today, I was proud and surprised at my output. 

Over the past week, still recovering, I wrote very few poems, though I missed it. Of course I was bewailing the lost time, thinking I might never write again. 

Still, even while sick, I wrote:

Word Church – “Art can be made on a porch where the sun has confined dust to its quarters.” (I felt confined while sick, too. Ugh.) 

Existentially Romantic

I Want (Not what you think – the first line: “I want to have an argument with you.” And OMG, it has my FAVORITE phonetic spelling in a poem ever.  Even if it is mine.) 

Tender

Duet of One 

Woolfing it Down (Title too obvious?) 

Early Warning System

I barely remember writing them and I don’t know what most of them are about but I can guess. 

Who knows why today was so effortlessly fruitful. Maybe my brain was storing things up the past couple of weeks. Maybe it was the confidence boost of the longlisting. (I’m not letting go of that so soon, modesty be damned. LOL.) Whatever the reason, it felt like I was turning the pages of my soul and writing down the important parts on onionskin, you know? 

They may not be perfect. (They’re not!) They may be rough and need refining, lengthening. (They do!) But it feels like I’m offering something important, something meaningful. Like I’m in the conversation, you know? 

The soup I made this afternoon was vegetable beef. It was the best I’ve made yet; I love any excuse to use my Dutch oven. 

Recipe? It’s not special, just an everyday recipe, and it’s not my dad’s either, which is amazing, but I liked it and it allowed me to use up some veggies.

A More-or-Less-Recipe for Vegetable Beef Soup

A pound of ground beef

A yellow squash, sliced into half moons 

A zucchini, sliced into half moons  

A 28-ounce can of tomatoes

8 baby potatoes (white and purple are a nice mix), quartered

¼ a medium cabbage, sliced thinly (Don’t use the core! Bitter!)

2-3 medium carrots, sliced into coins

½  to a cup of casarecce (pasta; use what you like, but remember that delicate pasta will turn to nothing; the amount really depends on how much you like)

A packet of onion soup mix. Two if you like it salty. Or, you know, add to taste. 

Vegetable oil 

Brown a pound of ground beef in your Dutch oven. Add a bit of vegetable oil if it tries to stick. No need to drain it if you haven’t chosen a fatty grind. (Is that a funny way of saying that or poetic?) 

Then: 

Add four cups water

The can of tomatoes (don’t drain them)

One packet of onion soup mix

Add the potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. Let them cook 10-15 minutes, until they’re 

pretty much tender.

Then add the squash and zucchini.

Let them cook for 5- 8 minutes, until desired tenderness.

Add the pasta (any kind will do, especially smaller pasta; you don’t want spaghetti)

Cook it for 5-8 minutes or until it’s at the desired firmness. 

Taste – add second packet of onion soup mix, or? 

Add a few grinds of pepper if you like. 

You can add more water if you’d like thinner soup.

If you like your veggies firmer or softer, end the cooking time before or after my directions. 

It bears repeating: be careful with the pasta or you will have mush, love. 

Makes enough to serve 4-6 people. Or, you know, leftovers, if you are careful with the pasta. You could cook the pasta separately and add it just before serving. 

My original coffeehouse where I often write is reopening tomorrow. I am wary, but I will give them another try. After all, they have my maple tree. But they are on probation with me! 

There are men on the roof of a house down the block. (I want to say that’s the neighbor’s house, but I can’t call everyone my neighbor, or can I?). Their hammers, as it begins to get dark, sound like fireworks and I’m nostalgic for July. 

I was going to record a poem tonight, but maybe not with that in the background. 

The lanterns have come on. If I unplugged the lights before they switch on, they’d stay on. 

Too late.