Living With Poetry | On the Coast Near Malibu

The last time I apologized for a poem was in January 2011. It was my first post on Eat This Poem, and Louise Gluck struck a somewhat melancholy note to begin the year. 

I won't apologize for this brief stanza from Robert Hass, but I will say that things are strange. On Christmas Eve, we found out that Andrew's parents were both recovering from the flu, so we postponed our visit until the weekend. That left us with no plans for Christmas day, and with such little notice, I didn't have time to cobble together a plan like I normally do.

So we drove to Malibu. With few provisions to make a picnic, I threw together a sturdy kale salad dressed with lemon and studded with almonds. It was packed in glass jars, and we drove, unobstructed by traffic and long lights, to the coast.

It was not the coast of Sausalito, but I thought of this poem just the same. Robert Hass is like me, a Californian, and his poems often draw from the landscape of our rugged and beautiful state.

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from On the Coast Near Sausalito

by Robert Hass

I.

I won't say much for the sea,
except that it was, almost,
the color of sour milk.
The sun in that clear
unmenacing sky was low,
angled off the gray fissure of the cliffs,
hills dark green with manzanita.

Low tide: slimmed rocks
mottled brown and thick with kelp
merged with the gray stone
of the breakwater, sliding off
to antediluvian depths.
The old story: here filthy life begins.

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Yes, life begins. In January, we feel it. Life is tugging, gnawing, requesting refreshment, and I'm grateful to have had a couple of weeks to retreat from my routine, read cookbooks, make plans, and rest before 2014 began.

I didn't manage to put together a retrospective post on Eat This Poem for 2013. In fact, I had a near meltdown on New Year's Eve when I couldn't find grass fed short ribs for the traditional meal Andrew and I share (served under a bed of celery root risotto), so I was feeling out of sorts the entire week. But we found a way through (Andrew called three butchers before finding one that had what I needed) and our meal was salvaged. In fact, it was spectacular. We set goals, ate cheese, drank one of our best bottles of red wine, and I managed to stay up until midnight.

Here we go. 

What I'm Reading | December 2013 + New Literary City Guides

And here we are. Twelve months later, twelve months older, and hopefully wiser and braver, too. My December was filled with the usual trappings of holiday festivities: champagne, spiced apple cider, twinkle light watching, family visiting, Downton Abbey season 1-3 watching (season 4 starts in January!!), cookbook reading, and even a little time for writing. 

Cheers as we go swiftly into a new year.

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I need to visit Rachel so she can make me this. 

A Jane Austen trivia game is really happening. 

An Italian reality show for writers

"I am almost always right in feeling that there is a poem in something if it hits me hard enough."

The cultivation of Christmas trees.

Ring bells, be joyful

13 must read links for food writers

Jhumpa Lahiri meets brownies

"We're all in this together, and that's why it's a movement." 

What happens when you ask strangers to see the last photo taken on their phone? This.

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New! Literary City Guides

From the tree-lined streets of Williamsburg, Brooklyn to the bustling cafes of Bangalore, India, today's new literary city guides take you around the world. Both cities have a strong coffee culture, and enough bookstores, restaurants, and museums to keep any traveler busy for days. Stop by to visit the latest Literary City Guides! 

That Fluttering of Mute Flies: Reflections on Why Poetry Matters

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"A poem is occurring every moment

         for example

that fluttering of mute flies..."

-Mario Santiago Papasquiaro

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As 2013 comes to a close, I want to ask a simple question: Why does poetry matter?

During National Poetry Month this past April, I gave much thought to why I (or anyone), should care about poetry. You might think that a person with a masters degree in the subject, a writer since about age six, and with a literary food blog to her name, has never questioned the purpose of poetry in her life. But you would be wrong.

Most days I spend about an hour commuting home in the late afternoon, which gives me ample time to ponder such questions, and my train of thought goes something like this:

I hope the 101 isn't backed up like it was yesterday.

I'm glad I remembered to put almonds in my purse last night.

What dress will I wear to the New Year’s Eve party? I should really go back to the mall this weekend.

Poetry is a reflection of the soul. It articulates emotions we can't verbalize.

If I have enough energy, I'll bake muffins tonight.

Do I have time to do yoga? Maybe just a couple of stretches.

Why do I blog?

Do people even read poetry anymore? I don't even read that much poetry, and I blog about it!

All writing is about relationships. The relationship between the writer and her subject, the writer and her readers...

I'm hungry.

Poetry is an escape, a truth, an absolute. It's like listening to jazz. Anything can happen.

Why does poetry matter? I've wondered this so much in the past year that I've taken to reading all the arguments I can. Books like Can Poetry Matter? and Beautiful & Pointless make the case for this "endangered species" as Edward Hirsh puts it in How to Read a Poem: and Fall in Love With Poetry. 

In the end, though, logic cannot win. There is no arguing for poetry, because it’s something to be felt. You need it and crave it, like a primal hunger. You cannot ask why too frequently. Sometimes, yes, I wonder why poetry and not something else. Why not snowboarding or classical music or landscape painting? So the why becomes a what. Not why do I care, but what should I do?

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After finishing my academic studies, I found poetry less relevant. I still enjoyed reading it, but with the absence of a practical purpose (like analyzing it for a required paper, or being around other students with the same passion), my relationship with poetry was forced to change, and I didn't know how to cope. It took several years to find my way back. In the mean time, I started writing about food, and now here we are.

Wang Ping said this about the poet Ghassan Zaqtan, who won the 2013 Griffin Poetry Prize.  

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"What does poetry do? Nothing and everything, like air, water, soil, like birds, fish, trees, like love, spirit, our daily words … It lives with us, in and outside us, everywhere, all the time, and yet, we are too often oblivious of this gift. It’s a poet’s job to bring this gift out and back, this gift that makes us human again." -Wang Ping

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This quote made me sit up a little bit straighter, because it articulates so well the role poetry plays in life. It's not a question of whether or not poetry exists or if it does or doesn’t matter, but how we respond to the daily reminders of its presence. Poetry is like the ocean, a river, a cluster of redwood trees, existing whether we see them or not, marvel at them or not. Sometimes poetry catches us in a quiet moment, and we remember how small we are. Sometimes we sputter a line or two, form it on the page days later. Sometimes we snap a photograph, find a wall to hang it on.

Poetry is just another way to say we are here, we saw this, we felt that.  

Poetry is in everything. From “that fluttering of mute flies,” to a bowl of flour and water, waiting on the counter to become bread, the work of your hands. Poetry is living and breathing, part of all we see, if we choose to see it and invite it in. 

In 2014, let’s resolve to listen close, to see beauty, to find the poetry in the every day. It’s waiting in the kitchen, in the air, and in the places we will travel. Poetry is already here, we know that. The question is, will we listen?

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I’m curious: I know you’re out there, and that you cook and read and share a certain kinship with the space. I’d love to know why poetry matters to you. Please share your comments below!