Literary
Painting by Donna White and courtesy of BlazeVox.org
Painting by Donna White and courtesy of BlazeVox.org

13th Annual Thanksgiving Menu Poem

by / Nov. 26, 2014 8pm EST

For the thirteenth year running, Kenmore poet and publisher extraordinaire Geoffrey Gatza is treating us all to a sensory delight befitting the holiday without the overeating and relentless consumerism. Trained as a chef but practicing as a poet, the Thanksgiving Menu Poem is a perfect marriage of tastes for Gatza, who runs BlazeVox Books

Gatza usually builds the poem around one of his favorites living poets (past years have included Anne Waldman, John Ashbery, Charles Bernstein,…) but this year’s poem is dedicated to YOU.

Well, right back at you, Geoffrey! After surviving a lengthy hospitalization for an infection and abscess in your lung this past summer, we’re thankful you pulled through!

Here are some excerpts from Gatza’s 2014 Thanksgiving Menu Poem, “Pisan Carrots.” The full version may be found here. The following two poems are preceded by corresponding “taste poems,” something of a assignment with which to digest the meaty poem to follow.

As Gatza would say: Hurray! And Happy Thanksgiving!

 

The magic of sunshine on white metal  

A taste poem
  

Some things one cannot say: 
Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
  

1) Cold wildflower honey 

2) One leaf of flat Italian parsley 

3) Slice of a yellow tomato 

4) Slice of yellow watermelon 

5) Slice of cucumber with olive oil and salt and pepper 

6) A thin slice of cold red bliss potato with a drop of fresh lemon juice

  

 


 
  

Earth Revolves Itself Once Again

—after Pierre Reverdy
  

Resounding blooms
Blue birds fly north. 

In the backyard where everything seems to happen
The squirrel darts through our leafless lilac tree.  

Outside a woman is cleaning the table; a man makes fire.
Water streams from a hose clearing the driveway apron. 

A rainburst negotiates with a cloud. 
The sun abrupts with striking chimes.  

 


 

You disappeared like a hole enveloped by water 

A taste poem
  

Some things one cannot say: 
Gather ingredients together on a plate. Then place one at a time in the mouth.
Chew up and enjoy its simplicity and then directly proceed to next item for
the flow and context of the poem.
  

1) Hot chili paste 

2) A Slice of Ginseng Root 

3) Bee pollen  

4) A sprig of dill  

5) A Raspberry macaroon 

6) Pear Schnapps 

  



  

Henry Darger Dreams of Emily Dickinson 
  

Easter Morning
  

I see you lying there, slumped over in the street. You look 
In peace, peaceful, peacefully resting as if you were asleep.
Only you were not asleep on the couch, or in your chair.
You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting.  

Objects come speeding past us as we drive down the street. 
More cars pass, we travel on. I avert my attentions elsewhere. 
I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace. 
Our gaze follows the divided road home. I try to forget you lying there.  

I cannot see you in my home; you are dead, lying on the street. 
That’s how I’ve come to know from solitude, how I know, knew 
Your windsongs. They are in the street face down, lying there sad.
Accommodating the farcical arrangements, I pick yellow flowers. 

I, in my dark home, I keep seeing you there, dead alone. The breeze 
Blowing, shifting your hair with the winds directions. We are lifeless
There is no peace left in the world. We are all scared, we run north
When danger sounds, as peccadillos roaring through rustling trees.  

In the days that passed, time eats away the skin, wind blows the pong. 
Promise you won’t ask me to tell you how I knew. My eyes labor, 
My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief 
Of those left behind. We drive away as if the unknown occurred.  

At ten fifteen we long for the respectable time of midnight, the bells
Sound triumphant over death. We smell of thoughtful repentance. 
For three days you lay there waiting for us to pick up your remains.
Never are the bodies recovered, we were unable to identify them.  

We are unable to recognize a dead woman because we hate the weak
And the poor. The dead never come around to say hello, so we refuse 
To open the door. I cannot perceive you anymore, I saw you lying, 
Slumped over in the street. Only you were not asleep, were you?  

You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting. 
I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace. 
My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief 
Of the peaceful, peacefully resting while you were asleep in death.  

I, in my dark home, keep seeing you there, dead alone. Our moonlight
Was jealous of my leaving the scene. We did not a thing but witness 
You passing. I was with you in my imagination. I believe I took you home 
In a cedar box and a clean cotton washing towel. We do not make it happen.  

We washed your body with scented oils. 
We decorated your body with lilacs and gardenias.  
We hoisted our voices to a god who rejected you while you were alive.
We sang sad songs of brave artists who stated all the ideas that made you alive.  

I see you lying there, slumped over in the street dead. 
I consider why there is no synonym for the word you.  
If I pray hard enough, the myth of Jesus comes to mind
On my beads I pray you that will rise again revitalized.  

This morning the sun dances in observance of Easter and 
You still wait to be removed. Taken from the street and now
Lie on last season’s grass. Thursday you were obviating, today 
You are among the honored dead memorialized as a sacrifice.   

I vowed to the stars above that I would take your body home.
I vowed to my grandfather’s spirit that I would pick up your sleeping 
Body, bring you to the side of the road, damn you for your disregard
Of all things human, and with a slight stroke, caress your cheek 
    while you passed on.  

I did nothing but come home and think fine thoughts while I drank 
Inexpensive whiskey. Smoked my mind to sleep while you rested on 
Cold black tar, an asphalt bed, waiting for me to come and save what
Earthily remains congealed on the path towards my home. I sang. 

If you come to my home I will gladly give you a gentle libation.
We will sing songs of nations that are no longer nations. Special 
Times with tons of water under fallen bridges. We sing old songs 
And think of ways to lie to ourselves that we are fine upright folks.  

As time goes by we hum the old songs. We try to carry our heads 
On our shoulders. We must remember that sighing is only show.
As time goes by we recall old lovers with regretful souls. Seagulls. 
We met the moment you died; we are forever joined in victory.  

We are recursive blights on society. We deserve to be hit by cars. 
We are not like you, dear reader. You can survive the everyday 
Deaths of sleeping America. We are all asleep at the wheel. Driving 
Toward Wednesday, the day of the blood moon eclipse. We drown. 
  

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