Archives for posts with tag: meal
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 time last year I wrote up an explanation about “Winterreise”, a poem in which a glass of water features as a symbolic object. (Regular readers will have noticed that water is a recurring motif in my poetry.) “Winterreise” describes a meal out with my father, who passed away on the 5th May five years ago. Click on the drawing above to read both the poem and the write-up.

Image courtesy of http://olddesignshop.com/ – Vintage Image Treasury

as told to me by Klara

Last week three

of my octogenarian friends dropped in.

Nobody drops in on me!

But they did: from Brighton, Cambridgeshire and Dorset.

 

So, where are we going out tonight?

asked my friend from Brighton.

I had no idea,

but we found pizza.

 

(I don’t know why I am so into it.

I had it out two nights last week.)

 

We ate

and stayed out late.

We drank too much

and waved our sticks about.