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Poetry and Pie Crust

on May 02, 2012

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Check out my Ploughshares blog post about Marina Tsvetaeva.

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Take-Out

In general I try not to be snobby about my California ways. It's not helpful, and it's certainly not going to win me any friends, but here's where I probably cross the line: chow mein. In California, chow mein is a delicious dish with noodles. Well, of course , all of you west-coasters are thinking. Mein means noodle, doesn't it? Maybe, maybe not. Out here in New England an order of chow mein will get you a gloopy gravy mess of veggies and meat with not one noodle in sight. The first time I ordered chow mein, I thought the restaurant got my order wrong. The second time, I thought it was just that one lousy restaurant, and then I tried again somewhere else (I can be tenacious when it comes to my chow, I suppose). "No, it cant' be true," I cried to R upon opening the little white to-go carton. Alas. There's a lot of conversation on the web about the difference in east coast and west coast chow mein, but no one seems to be certain about the reason for it....

Meeting the Unitarians

R and I took Buckaroo to the Unitarian Church for the first time. The church is huge, the congregation is small, and Buckaroo made a heap o' noise. I cringed as he ran up and down the empty pews and shouted, "Bye bye" to the people, but then the minister paused her sermon to say how nice it was to have a little one in the sanctuary to remind us what it's really about. Shew. I don't follow the news very closely-- mostly I just read the election headlines-- since my dad died I don't like to hear about the violence. My old therapist (have I mentioned that I miss her?) said it's a symptom of post traumatic shock. Every ugly, senseless thing takes me back to a highway in Alabama and what I imagine happened there. This is one of the many reasons I avoid TV altogether-- had my share of real-life drama. This is why I didn't hear about the shooting at the Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville TN-- until today. I thought I misunderstood the minister when ...

Poem #8 Now for Something Completely Different

How Does a Dinosaur Brush his Teeth (with huge thanks to Jane Yolen ) How does a dinosaur brush all his teeth? Does he run from the sink, and give his mom grief? Does he clamp his mouth shut, paint the mirror with paste? Does he yank at hand towels to cover his face? How does a dinosaur handle the floss? Does he shout, “Stand back, Dad! I am the boss!”? Does he break the box open, pull out miles of string? Does he toss it into the air with a fling? How does a dinosaur make his throat gargle? Does he spout a fountain of mouthwash till Mom is losing her marbles? Does he spray? Does he play? Does he act most unpleasant? No, a dinosaur doesn’t. A dinosaur waits with his mouth open wide while Dad brushes every tooth inside. He flosses until each molar’s a pearl, then sips his mouthwash without even a quarrel. He gives his mom a minty peck on the lips and runs off to play. Mama says, “Have fun, little dinosaur, and Happy Birth...

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