Archives for posts with tag: dinner
Scrambled eggs-01

By Tom Ipri (Scrambled Eggs auf flickr) [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Into your hands
I commend the
beating of tonight’s
eggs. This will
be the last meal
of solid food.

When my Dad was in the final stages of his cancer, one of the few things he ate was scrambled eggs. That period of my life still circles in my mind. It was a strange time when we all continued with the daily activities of feeding him and being with him, neither realising nor acknowledging that he was actually dying.

I still think about what is it was like to be with the ‘almost gone.’ As I do not work in a profession that confronts death on a regular basis, my only experiences have been related to passing family. I sometimes wonder about the ushering performed by those in pastoral or hospice care, medical or funeral professions. How much of their work is solely the task at hand? How much is curating the metaphysical surrender of the body that expresses our life and appetites?

Twitter: @BeadedQuill
Facebook: BeadedQuill
Books:
In the Ocean: a year of poetry
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys
Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012

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This basket of potatoes is an image from the collection at the Old Design Shop.

Behind cardboard boxes,
I’m in the corner.
Leaning on a cushion,
I’m in the dark.
Potatoes are humming
rich smells from the oven.
Getting the girls to bed:
they have to be given a bottle each;
it’s tea and bath before.

When they’ve gone to sleep
The grownups eat
tired potatoes at 9pm.

It’s always a long day.

2011

When I first arrived in North London, I was adopted by a fellow bohemian type, her jovial husband and beautiful daughters. “118A Creighton Avenue” is my voyeuristic take on the joys and chaos of family life.

Some readers have thought the speaker to be everything from the au pair to a homeless person, a soft toy to a spider, fly or insect on the wall. All these speculations about point of view locate the speaker’s voyeurism in disappearance. All of these would be on the side-lines of the scene, out of sight and out of mind.

I did have to ‘disappear’ when that time of the evening came to put the girls to bed. They were so little and found it disruptive to know that the visitor was still in the house. I would then have to hide in the playpen behind the stack of flattened cardboard boxes piled up for the impending move from 118A.

They moved to a new flat in the September of that year.

“118A Creighton Avenue” features in my first book of poetry
Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012
I have produced two additional volumes –
In the Ocean: a year of poetry
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys
Twitter: @BeadedQuill
Facebook: BeadedQuill

Another illustrative gem from the Old Design Shop, a vintage image treasury.

Another illustrative gem courtesy of the Old Design Shop, a vintage image treasury. 

tonight I’m gonna feed myself right 
from a bag
with apples 
and the thrill of eager walnuttes 
that press the beetroot neat 
sliced nice 
over rocket-watercress-spinach leaves 
stalks ‘n all
spring-water washed

Eating right is important for an artist. Even Ella Fitzegerald and Louis Armstrong advocate this in ‘Frim Fram Sauce’.

In truth, though, I am fish cakes and rye bread kinda girl. That’s why I like a bit of salad with mackerel.

Twitter: @BeadedQuill
Facebook: BeadedQuill
Books:
In the Ocean: a year of poetry
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys 
Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012

“His father beat him around 
the head.
Only a little bit
on Wednesdays, after pay day,
or on Friday late,
after the races.
Clean up your mess, boy!”

The teachers preferred 
her creative writing 
to include such
notable topics.
So mature for her age!


In the accompanying essay to yesterday’s posted poem, I wrote about my creative process. Today both poem and essay are a comment on subject matter.

In my youth and during my brief teaching experience, I noticed a tendency towards a certain tone of pathos favoured by school creative writing. Describing meaningful life-knowledge in correct language and with well-chosen form, students showed maturity of expression. Such were the conditions of mark allocation.

As a pupil, when I wrote to emulate the style of this School of Pathos and Poignancy, I knew very little. My own life did not seem mark-worthy for creative writing submissions. There seemed to be nothing of Pathos and Poignancy in what I did know about – my suburban home-life, our small family dilemmas, my adolescent anxieties about would it all be ok, the constant balance of schoolwork and extra-murals and monthly visits to the renal clinic. Oh, how I dreaded Tuesday nights, because it would be tomato-bean-sausage pie for supper. My worst! 

Now I have grown confident about my small life. I have also been fortunate to meet many who have shared of their lives. In these stories have I been touched by life’s school of pathos and poignancy.

Twitter: @BeadedQuill 
Facebook: BeadedQuill
Books:
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys
Shining in Brightness