Poetry in Emulsion

RECIPE from the New York Times

Nog: The Hard Way

Ingredients

• 4 cups whole milk
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 5 large eggs, separated
• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1 1/2 cups dark rum
• Whole nutmeg

Preparation

1.

In a saucepan, heat 2 cups milk but don’t boil. Turn off the heat.

2.

In a mixing bowl, gradually add the sugar into the egg yolks and whisk until thick and pale.

3.

Whisk 1 cup of the warm milk into the yolk-sugar mixture. Add this back to the milk in the pan, stirring over low heat until thickened and blended. Turn off the heat and quickly stir in the cream.

4.

Place pan in a large bowl half-filled with ice water. Stir occasionally, until chilled. When chilled, stir into punch bowl and add rum and remaining milk.

5.

In a mixing bowl, beat the egg whites until they form soft peaks. Then fold them into the nog. Top each serving with grated nutmeg. Serves 8.

stuck.

stuck...
mud is also
thicker than water.
when i was ten
Grampa and i
took a long walk
up the road
through wet cow pastures
for a stroll on the moon
across the orange fence
on fresh concrete and mountains
of dirt acres high
bulldozers, grazed out,
slept in peace
still warm
i know, i climbed on
small muddy hands
left streaks
someone left the keys inside
i told Grampa we should
get in and drive it home
he told me to get down
now
i did.
i wasn't to get my shoes
muddy
on a construction site
in the rain
but that smoooooth puddle
looked exactly as deep
as the sole of my sneaker
i might skate
just under the limit
but
it swallowed my thigh.
Grampa's back was

so much taller
moving away fast
but he said
Don't. Get. Muddy.
my lips were sealed
my voice in the bottom
of my shoe, full of mud
it held fast
warm as a mouth
sucking on my leg
balanced on one shoe
stretching for a blade of grass
the color of concrete
i wondered if anyone
would find
my chubby body
curled into a circle
at the bottom of the mud
like pompeii
and if my mom
would miss me.
help. please.
my held breath
escaped
all i had left
were my eyes
begging Grampa to hear
he did. 
in one stride
small back 
became large hands
even he, tall angry man
had to pull
with all his coiled size
the fear in his face
hurt more
than the teeth in the mud
it took my shoe. 
Grampa swore. 
i stood next to a puddle
in the rain
listening 
to my faults
as my ribs cracked 
under the strain 
of keeping sobs inside
and my eyes
grew an ocean
in unspent tears
i limped home
behind
across cow pastures
one shoe
still stuck
in shame.
(h.t.)

lost dog

the dog darts up the driveway in the dusk
i am sitting on the porch steps in almost spring
listening to peepers and drowsy wrens
having not barked a jogger, she sits facing
her head turns side to side
an ear cocking for every distinct note of evensong
a lonesome beagle a block over, the distant great dane
she doesn't turn her head for the buzz of a scooter,
but ever silver pickup she follows with her nose and tail extended
every hound dog inch stretched against the invisible line of fence
she holds to promises longer than i do.
her little heart does not forgive.
the gathering dusk always finds her waiting.
she sits beside me on the steps
glossy black ears, red collar
she smells of compost and hay
like summer days on the farm.
the smell of  someone else's dinner
wafts across the porch, wrinkling her long, black nose
she sits with me
but she's not my dog.
she lost her heart.

13 march 2012

songs for the cemetery

empty
of word
thought
action
full instead
of sunlight
wildflowers
birdsong
far off
the stink and roar
of traffic
of air conditioners
of living
here instead
a buzz and hum
of insects
wind and
wings
rampant, teeming
life.
4.18.11


i do love the graveyard
unmowed
all things equal
tall grass, periwinkle
rabbit tobacco, phlox
iris and astor
stock and rose
the democracy of neglect
creates
wild abundance.
4.25.11

number 38

and so the poetry 365 project lives. apparently it will take more than a year, but eventually there will be 365 poems here. unless, of course, civilization crashes and i am relegated to scratching in my notebook with carbon scraped from the woodstove. in that case, there will be 365 poems in my notebooks. let's hope it doesn't come to that. regardless, you are welcome to come along for the ride.
lovepeace
heather

exit stage left

in Shakespeare
even the minor villain
expires pursued by a bear
i perspire, very much alive,
in the graveyard
perused by gnats.

ht. 4.11.11

goodnight

at last
the house slept
those within coiled
so tightly upon
themselves
corkscrewed
into dreams
already through
the silent door
and gone
leaving the tiny house
with the tic
 of the cooling stove
and the hum
of the refrigerator
night music
the song of every night
quiet, the house, dark, alone
a wing extended
curled in darkness over
the sleepers
until dawn.

ht. 3.24.11

at my window

my yard is a meadow
where the grass grows high
wrens nest in the eaves
of my home
fledged sparrows hop
up the slope outside my window
eating seeds of clematis and goldenrod
crickets sing
all day
safe from the screaming drone
of an urban yard
nature rests and pecks and slithers and preens and
ruffles her wings
and does it
right here
with me.

9.21.10

poetry
walks with me
whispers in my ear
makes the strawberries in the grass
more vivid
as i stumble on the stick
poetry missed

34

i watched the monster
eat a tree
reach up to its height
and crush it
splintering
to earth
and scrape the earth
with its remains
pounding them
flat
i watched the monster
hating the monster
in the monster
there is a man
pulling the puppet levers
the gaping maw
his arm
tearing
destroying
but in his face
his grim
lined
face
there is sadness
disgust
for what he must do
he stops the monster to ask
do i want the wood?
my poverty he says
but not my will consents
yes
i want the wood
i hate the monster
but i cannot hate
the man.

33

i fell in love
today
for a scant second
but still
it grabbed and shook me
imagine
my surprise
he was painting
a brick storefront
on a scaffold
picking it out
in wet-slick gray
from its unremarkable
surroundings
a previously barricaded
DOOR
stood open
it was
the god-like act
of creating something
where there had been nothing
that won my heart
and eternal devotion
if only for
a moment.

ht.

32

in praise of spring

dirt in the creases
of your hands
beneath your nails
in your hair
behind your ears
(everywhere)
clean dirt
work dirt
good dirt
earned dirt
soft rich smells
of sweat and soil
earth and toil
salt from your lips
in your kisses
hay from your pockets
on the floor

4.27.10

31

13 April

piece by piece
i wrap myself
in a cocoon
of clothing
protecting
my softness
vulnerability
my hat
pulled low
over my too-broad melon
glass fronted eyes
a kerchief
guards the swiftness
of blood
my overalls cover
my cringing belly
the slow plod of my heart
the catch in my breath
my arms, though...
are free
and bare
and brown.

#30

poor moon
caught as you are
in power lines
and outshone
by the streetlight
is there no end
to the hubris
of these children
cluttering up
the skyline
with these webs
of Power and Light
bury them, o man!
and leave the night sky
to the moon.

ht.

#?

the period of shock
is mercilessly brief
the breathless, bloodstained
bafflement
before the heaviness of loss
before the cleaning up
and putting away
and sorting of things
the finding of pictures
and toys
and birthday cards
the loss
of hope.

ht.
3.21.10

wahoo!

i am back! please forgive the long lag. several weeks ago, i installed a "hit counter" on my blog. unfortunately for me, it was some sort of commerce worm, automatically redirecting everyone (including me) to an advertisement page. i could not get into my own blog until this morning. it took a herculean effort. i had to poise my pointer-thingy over the "LOG IN" button in an attempt to push it before the worm had a chance to activate. it took several attempts. after attempting to delete it from the template (the easy way) i had to dig it out of the HTML. if you know me, you know that this was akin to tilting at wind-mills. tot one up for don quixote! i may not be able to remember the name of the pointy thing, but i can find the words "hit counter - false id" in a sea of random letters and punctuation marks. (i know. lots of folk do not find them random. to me, cyrillic makes more sense.)
at any rate, i am back. the poetry project is back in the swing. i am, however, changing the "rules." (it is mine. i can do that.)i will keep posting poetry, but i will only commit to posting the best of the week. if that happens four times a week, good for me! but it will happen at least once!
love to all, and so nice to be writing here again.
down with the bloody red queen!
love
heather

27/28

i

weather is purely subjective
localized to each their own
jane finds gray skies
a palliative to the soul.

ht

ii

(2.12.10)
thank you
(mr. lincoln)
for freeing slaves
(in a foreign country, but not your own)
for setting loose
your dogs of war
(on the retarded
genteel South)
for drafting
the huddled masses
(to fight a rich man's war)
the Holy War
to Preserve the Union
and Free the Slaves
(and keep the Money
at Home.)

ht

25/26

i
hidden deep with the protective custody of
the complete jane eyre
i found, last night, a photograph
a woman feeding pigeons in William's Park
when i took the photograph (at 17) i thought
sweet, fat old lady feeding pigeons on a bench
"real life reportage"
i caught a pigeon sitting on her hand
her smile behind dark glasses
i never noticed that her sandals
were perfect snowdrift white
that her legs were bare and rather nice
or that she wasn't very old
at all.

ht

ii
i smell diesel
my old perfume
and long
for a home
with sails
and a mast
and a horizon
as vast
as the sea.

ht.


i am finding this project more difficult than i expected. i had forgotten that i have to dig for good poetry, as much as i have to dig for good prose. it requires a few moments of quietude, preferably a cup of tea, and a clean kitchen. i have been posting a quantity of crap poetry of late, leading me to decide that i will continue to write every day but give myself the option of not posting rubbish. in that vein, i will start re-reading all my poetry books. starting with wendell berry.
here's to better poetry. ht.

22/23/24

i.

four crows drinking snow
in the middle of the street
under pregnant skies

ht.

ii.

the sound of running water
trickles through my dreams
brilliant cold
melting snow
in braided rivers
down the drive
off the roof
pelting holes
in red mud
gray snow
and me.

ht

iii.

el nino
you bastard
give me back
the sun.

ht.

20/21

i

too many opinions
on Vampire Weekend
synchopated rhythms
repetitive chorus
remind me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus
hidden in my treasure box
reminder of a life
long before my own
a little boy i would oneday love
stealing fingers in Cairo
a desert i have never seen
places i have never been
in synchopated rhythms
and repetitive chorus
reminding me
(inexplicably)
of an Eye of Horus.

ht. (2.1.10)

ii

a scrap of song
on infinite loop
chases its tail
through the fabric
of a day
woven in between the threads
(lowland)
of doing and driving
(lowland)
chopping onions, making soup
(lo-owland)
washing dishes, making tea
(they sank him)
between the steady click
of knitting needles
(in the lowland sea)
it plays
again
and again
only the refrain of
the Golden Vanity.

ht. (2.2.10)