Blossom's Blog

In my defense, I was writing within the confines of a Sestina: hence the repetition and strict order of lines...

Nature 3 – Poet 1

A November Sunday in St. Paul
The trees challenge me to a poem:
Autumnal splendor beyond the pale.

Words whirl in my brain; form a veil
as I inhale leaf colours – no two the same.
A November Sunday in St. Paul.

Crushed cinnabars fly in the face of brumal,
driven by destiny: a death rich loam.
Autumnal splendor beyond the pale.

Quince, topaz, cadmium leaves assail
me as I word wrestle raw beauty from
a November Sunday in St. Paul.

Bronzed mahogany oaks, wearing cochineal
and henna fortissimo – their final hymn:
Autumnal splendor beyond the pale.

Day and night past equinox, the chill
and darkness of solstice creep ever on
a November Sunday in St. Paul.
Autumnal splendor beyond the pale.

Decadence for me is a Dacquoise. My friend Ruth (a baker) created this particular recipe when I decided to cast-off-the-dull-sloth of a Wisconsin January by inviting my women friends to a birthday tea party.
Bake three nine-inch rounds of hazelnut meringue. Puree apricots with sugar; add gelatin dissolved in white rum; fold into whipped cream. Layer meringue & apricot cream, meringue & apricot cream, meringue & apricot cream. Pipe rosettes of apricot puree on top. Drizzle dark melted chocolate over entire cake. Chill. Eat. The combination of the crisp, slightly chewy meringue, apricot cream, and dark chocolate is divine! Since I sold my house, friends take turns in hosting the party, now in its eleventh year. I always make the tea, however: strong and black and served with milk.

I am written out. I have completed two Jazz concert reports and posted my two blogs. I contemplate essay number two and find only a dark hole. I cannot think/write. The recalcitrant side of my nature surfaces: Why should I write? What is so important about writing anyway? Then, an angel ( a literary one, for sure) alights on my shoulder; whispers in my ear to turn on the radio. I comply and catch an interview with writer Kaye Gibbons, talking about her latest novel: a book I have just put a 'hold' on in the CSC library. I listen as she talks of her eighteen hour days spent writing, and of how she spends hours/days on one line. I raise my fist and punch the air. I connect. I relax. All is right with the world.

Every year, around mid-November, I assemble the ingredients for my Christmas cake. The raisins, currants, candied orange & lemon peel, and red glace cherries are soaked overnight in brandy—lots of brandy! The next day, the plump, glossy fruit mixture is stirred into a rich batter, scented with cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and just a hint of mace. The cake is then baked for about four hours. As the intoxicating aroma of the ancient spices gradually fills my tiny apartment, I drift back in time and over ocean to the kitchen of my childhood. It is close to Christmas and I am helping(?) my mother put the final coat of royal icing onto the finished cake. For weeks now I have watched my mother regularly remove the dark, spicy cake from its resting place in the pantry in order to ‘feed’ it more brandy. I have marked how she skillfully blended almonds, sugar, and eggs into a malleable paste, a rich marzipan that now covers both top and sides. Now applying the snow white icing, my mother works quickly and deftly with her palette knife to ensure a silky smooth finish. My timer beeps and brings me back to the present. I inhale, sending my mother a breathy hug, and remove my cake from the oven.

My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.
Pat Conroy Prince of Tides
My wound is geography… I had copied this opening line after reading Conroy’s book years ago. I had carried it in my purse for a long while, comforted somehow that someone had identified the cause of my pain. Consequently, when I read this week’s assignment I immediately thought of this line. But although I struggled for hours (more than I care to admit), I could not follow Conroy’s pros without sounding overly dramatic and clumsy. As I analyzed the sentence, I realized that part of the problem was that technically it did not work. It did not fit the pattern of sentences using a “to be” verb; that is, the predicate is neither a subject complement (the wound is infected…) nor is it adverbial (the wound is in his leg…). My struggle over stepping into Conroy’s word-prints, however, was not simply a technical one. I could not wax lyrical about “my wound is geography” because I realized that my pain had stemmed not from being landlocked thousands of miles from family—not a trace of salt in the air—but from being trapped in an unhappy marriage with two small children. That I was far from home only added salt to the wound. Ironically, the second part of Conroy’s opening line proved to be prophetic. The fact that I had traveled and lived in many places strengthened my ties with my family in England, and ultimately gave me the courage to make the necessary changes in my life.

"...allow it to take you to unexpected places..." probably not a good idea to suggest that to me!

In defending the President’s policy of domestic spying, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales explained that such actions were necessary because we are up against an enemy who is “very diabolical.” Diabolical, according to my trusty Oxford companion, means, “ Having the qualities of the Devil or a devil; inhumanely cruel or wicked, fiendish.” Sounds pretty bad to me, so why add “very” to a word that is already powerful? Perhaps, in our ever-changing language, the word “diabolical” has lost some of its potency and, therefore, needs adverbial support? Or, perhaps the President’s argument to justify the illegal eavesdropping on American citizens is losing ground and so the enemy needs to become even more evil than evil. ?Que es posible?

My feet crunch the crushed rock of the rustic Wisconsin road. I take a deep breathe, filling my lungs full of the country air. About a mile into my walk, my body now comfortably in tune, I arrive at the creek. The water surfaces from its bed deep in the earth with a soft, carefree laugh. Rejoicing at the freedom and light, it caresses the rocks into stones, then into pebbles, singing them into submission. I dip my hands into the ancient melody and acknowledge the holy.

In the anxious hours between light and dark, when insomnia cracks its whip and finally drives me from my bed to sit alone in my living room, I look to the trees that line my street for comfort. Though solid and stoic during daylight hours, at night these Midwestern Maples become dancers in the Beijing Ballet. Lifted by the streetlights, their branches reach up, casting bamboo-like shadows upon my wall; soft chiaroscuro images that sway and sashay insomnia out the door and lull me once again into the safety of sleep.

My small living room-with-a-view sings of colour and light. The Indian wool dhurrie sets the tone: stripes of mellow yellow, soft spring green, red, persimmon orange, and purple atop the honey, maple floor; shades, which are repeated in cushions, paintings, and a Peruvian weaving which graces my dining table – still echoing its California orange-tree heritage. Cool, Scandinavian birch wood book shelves and desk complement the resonant hues. While a large bay window allows the sun to bathe the room and my succulent Jade in light fortissimo, by night the room is lit by soft white Japanese paper lanterns. (Fine de Scherzo).