Jill,
Many thanks, loved the poem, I live in a house without a conventional
oven...(well it was conventional in the 1940's) wood-fired, does the hot
water too, really brings the seasons into one's life and onto the table.
The stews and soups and cakes are a feature of our winter. Summer, a
time for eating outside. We've lived this way for six years now --
enjoying Warwick's cold winters (which would be scoffed at in Europe)
relearning the rhythms of a year - taking in, again, some of the tastes
and smells that once meant home or piano lessons or a classroom too close
to the home economics wing.
Clayton
Jill Jones wrote:
> Clayton,
>
> If you're looking for something a bit different on the taste theme,
> there's Dorothy Porter's poem on cigarettes in Crete.
>
> There's lots of tasting (manily drinking) in my work, I realise. I've
> taken the liberty of posting one poem from my third book, The Book of
> Possibilities (hale & Iremonger, 1997).
>
> The deep bowls of winter
>
> Deep bowls of winter
> fill tonight with simmering.
> Hearts of vegetables, collation
> of flesh and skin.
> Assembled by the light
> that loves the ripeness,
> the knife which adores
> spilling juice and seed.
> If they say winter is hard,
> remember this kitchen,
> the animal drift to the stove.
>
> And curling from the top
> of a pan is the invitation
> for lips and throat,
> combination of blue flame
> and the wide black pot.
> In the mouth lies a garland,
> hot sweet chilli, garlic,
> thirst of salt. All cells
> may drink rich brown stews.
>
> Another gift lingers in
> the light of conversation, plates
> flat as hands. The last offer
> of juice flows into night.
>
> Cheers,
> Jill
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