ART: It’s time for a poetry moment…

25 03 2008

I was stumbling around the intarwobs this morning, cup of tea not-so-firmly in hand, looking for a break. A window. A crack in the pavement.

I found a poem.

Tossing aside the slightly misogynistic comparison of food and woman (T.Vivante’s Log, supplemental: I find it funny that when I’m writing, the English major in me goes silent, leaving me to commit all manner of grammatical crime. But when I’m reading? Pop out the critical theory and let’s get dissect-y!), I found it fun to read. The alliteration held me. The rhyme amused me. And really, these days? I’ve barely had the time for a chapter of anything. I have a copy of Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake ~~taunting me~~ waiting for me on my table (and about a dozen other books that need a good spine cracking). I am a little tickled about something though - my schedule may be tight, but I found I have time for recipes and poems.

The Clean Plater
Ogden Nash

Some singers sing of ladies’ eyes,
And some of ladies lips,
Refined ones praise their ladylike ways,
And course ones hymn their hips.
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Is lush with lyrics tender;
A poet, I guess, is more or less
Preoccupied with gender.
Yet I, though custom call me crude,
Prefer to sing in praise of food.
Food,
Yes, food,
Just any old kind of food.
Pheasant is pleasant, of course,
And terrapin, too, is tasty,
Lobster I freely endorse,
In pate or patty or pasty.
But there’s nothing the matter with butter,
And nothing the matter with jam,
And the warmest greetings I utter
To the ham and the yam and the clam.
For they’re food,
All food,
And I think very fondly of food.
Through I’m broody at times
When bothered by rhymes,
I brood
On food.
Some painters paint the sapphire sea,
And some the gathering storm.
Others portray young lambs at play,
But most, the female form.
“Twas trite in that primeval dawn
When painting got its start,
That a lady with her garments on
Is Life, but is she Art?
By undraped nymphs
I am not wooed;
I’d rather painters painted food.
Food,
Just food,
Just any old kind of food.
Go purloin a sirloin, my pet,
If you’d win a devotion incredible;
And asparagus tips vinaigrette,
Or anything else that is edible.
Bring salad or sausage or scrapple,
A berry or even a beet.
Bring an oyster, an egg, or an apple,
As long as it’s something to eat.
If it’s food,
It’s food;
Never mind what kind of food.
When I ponder my mind
I consistently find
It is glued
On food.