Kick the Poetry Can’ts #15
This is another one of my favorite prompts to try. Sometimes it confuses people because there’s no easy answer. As usual, I start with a list but you can brainstorm in whatever way works best for you. If you’re using the list to brainstorm, try starting off each sentence with the same phrase and then go back and revise it to make it more interesting. Or not. Either way works.
Write about what you don’t understand. Or use the line, “I don’t understand . . .” and see where it takes you.
I’m exhausted tonight but here’s my brainstorm:
I don’t understand how my grandmother always made all the food come out of the oven at the same time so everything on the dinner table was hot.
I don’t understand how to cook. It seems too much like math and makes my brain hurt.
I don’t understand how people can taste something, like a sauce and decide what it needs.
I don’t understand how to stir things on the stove evidently because a lot of things get stuck to the bowl.
I don’t understand the concept of heat because I always turn it too low and then when things don’t cook the way I expect I turn it up too high and things burn.
I don’t understand cuts of meat because I once tried to use stew meat as shishkabobs for an important dinner.
I don’t understand rice. It should be so easy but it’s not and my rice maker intimidates me.
I don’t understand cooking.
You might gather from my brainstorm that I’m no wizard in the kitchen. And you’d be right. I don’t like to do things I’m not very good at it and cooking just frustrates me. But husband, who does most of the cooking around the house, really enjoys it. I’ve gotten better over the years but I still don’t get the pure joy from it that he does.
Here’s my rough draft of a poem. It’s not much of a poem yet but I think I like the idea of exploring the two ways cooking happens in this house.
My husband whistles while he cooks
or sings along with the iPod
head bobbing in time
as he chops veggies
pounds the meat
heats the oil
a dash of this, a pinch of that
happy dancing to the fridge
for just one more egg
he studies the recipe
the way I read a book,
with intent
with joy
I don’t understand that at all.
Your turn.
Original art by Susan Taylor Brown
I don’t understand all the poverty in the world
Whilst there is also an abundance of wealth
How people can be dying of starvation
In places where food is plentiful
I just don’t understand
I don’t understand people sleeping on streets
Absolutely nowhere to go, not even a friend
Is it a choice or necessity, so unbelievable
That there is not even so much as shelter
I just don’t understand
I don’t understand how even after education
There are still so many unemployed people
Some by choice this is true but for others
They would give anything to be gainfully employed
I just don’t understand
I don’t understand, I may never understand
How many people live there lives everyday
I cannot possibly know true suffering
Until I have been there which I sincerely hope not
I just don’t understand
- Anne McKenna
Another good one, Anne. I like the repetition throughout the poem. It adds to the feeling of not being able to understand.
I don’t understand how gardens grow
I don’t understand why my carrots look like little skinny fingers
I don’t understand why everyone gives away zucchini when I hoard the few I grow
I don’t understand why my garden never seems wet enough even though I water once a week!
I don’t understand why the strawberries are the size of blueberries
I don’t understand why the farmer’s market vendors’ veggies are so much bigger than mine, even though we live in the same area
I don’t understand why I don’t have a green thumb
and this is the poem I came up with…
The farmer at the market piles his plump vegetables on the long tables
The food’s crispness, size, and rainbow colors display evidence of prize worthy gardening
The vendor shares smiles and chats confidently with customers across the tables
Dispensing tips on planting and harvesting kohlrabi, carrots, and kale
His large, weathered hands collect coins to ensure his return next week
I open my produce bag with my clean, manicured hands
And stuff it full of succulent, glowing greens, reds, and yellows
I turn towards home, wondering if the zucchini seeds I planted a few weeks ago will dare to show up.
I’m so glad you came back and gave another one of these I try. I love how this list took you to the farmer’s market. You painted a great picture of the scene.
Love the sound of “piles his plump vegetables” and this line “The vendor shares smiles and chats confidently with customers across the tables”
I like the ending too!
Writing about something you don’t understand seems counterintuitive, and then I read your poem which I absolutely adore. Love the last line!
Cooking seems more of a have-to than a passion to me. But then I love to bake. Go figure!
- ellie
I agree, ellie! Hubby loves it and I barely tolerate it. I prefer baking if I have to do any of it. But mostly I’d rather do the dishes.