June 2015
I am a husband, father, rabid backyard gardener, and blogger on nature, books, films and other subjects based on the premise that there's a garden metaphor for everything. Still utopian and idealistic after all these years, I cover the arts for the Boston Globe's 'South' regional sections and also write about environmental issues. My short stories, poems, book reviews, and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous literary publications. I was named a Finalist in the Massachusetts Artist Grant Program for a story about my "greatest generation" father.
About the Stranger
He cannot help being black, like all the others
I picture him walking toward me on the endless path in the city park
Never in the greenleaf vale of some Whitmanic imagination
The stranger is always 'him,' he cannot help that either
I fear him, some long-lost brother, or cousin, generations removed
Come to claim his right in the fortune
I do not possess
Disappointed in me, rejecting my tears
All explanations besides the point
Otherwise, he looks well, born with gifts I can only envy,
speed, endurance, far of sight
I offer him degrees of satisfaction,
quit-claim deeds, an old car abandoned on a street corner,
a book of ancient tales, fables
memories of people neither one of us knows
It's my sword he wants
I yield him his rights
As we cut each other's heart free
from a broken chest
Cocktails on the Balcony
Beirut
One flag
Three green peoples
March
Two movements
under the sun
Borders
Israel, Syria
One tough neighborhood
History
Cedars, alphabet
Bring back Phoenicia
With Mediterranean view
Drinks on you
He cannot help being black, like all the others
I picture him walking toward me on the endless path in the city park
Never in the greenleaf vale of some Whitmanic imagination
The stranger is always 'him,' he cannot help that either
I fear him, some long-lost brother, or cousin, generations removed
Come to claim his right in the fortune
I do not possess
Disappointed in me, rejecting my tears
All explanations besides the point
Otherwise, he looks well, born with gifts I can only envy,
speed, endurance, far of sight
I offer him degrees of satisfaction,
quit-claim deeds, an old car abandoned on a street corner,
a book of ancient tales, fables
memories of people neither one of us knows
It's my sword he wants
I yield him his rights
As we cut each other's heart free
from a broken chest
Cocktails on the Balcony
Beirut
One flag
Three green peoples
March
Two movements
under the sun
Borders
Israel, Syria
One tough neighborhood
History
Cedars, alphabet
Bring back Phoenicia
With Mediterranean view
Drinks on you
Invitation to the Feast
I'd like to start with some Inspiration Soup. A small bowl if it's strong enough.
I'm leaning to Puccini, and if you have something off of "La Fanciulla del West," I'd be in emotional-culinary heaven. (Add a dash of emoticon if you're of a mind to.)
If not the “Ch’ella mi creda” (“Let her believe”), the tenor's fabulous heart-breaking Act III aria —
a classic Consomme of Tears — then maybe something from the long love-duet at the start of Act II?
Always look for these items: love to eat my heart out.
After which the appetizer is surplus to requirements. My appetite is fine: I'll have a glass of Rhyme Wine,
along with a lightly sauteed brain teaser: Couplets of the Immortality Ode, perhaps, served in a melancholy sauce.
Tempt me not with thy salads of Green Health. I've been down to the Salley Gardens, but it seem someone has left the Yeats open and the rabbits got in.
My taste runs more to savory-sour. If you have a blue cheese burger handy,
remove everything but the blues. Add figs, maybe, and something sweet, sweethearts of artichoke will do.
Nothing meaty gets past me now. Smells arouse me, the scent of success on the plate: ribs of Old Adam, the sweetbreads of paradise, the laws of Italian sausage.
Is there a pasta course anywhere in this menu? Can I bowtie one on? I gknow a gnood gnocci when I can gnaw one.
God, I forgot to order more wine. Bacchus will not be pleased.
Meet me in the garden afterwards,
and we'll share some dessert. How about "The Lineaments of Gratified Desire"? William Blake, c. 1795. A fine, old, slightly daring vintage.
Credit: The idea for "Invitation to the Feast" came from Trish Hopkinson's essay on a menu for poetry which recently appeared in The Rain, Party & Disaster Society. Read Trish's essay HERE.
I'd like to start with some Inspiration Soup. A small bowl if it's strong enough.
I'm leaning to Puccini, and if you have something off of "La Fanciulla del West," I'd be in emotional-culinary heaven. (Add a dash of emoticon if you're of a mind to.)
If not the “Ch’ella mi creda” (“Let her believe”), the tenor's fabulous heart-breaking Act III aria —
a classic Consomme of Tears — then maybe something from the long love-duet at the start of Act II?
Always look for these items: love to eat my heart out.
After which the appetizer is surplus to requirements. My appetite is fine: I'll have a glass of Rhyme Wine,
along with a lightly sauteed brain teaser: Couplets of the Immortality Ode, perhaps, served in a melancholy sauce.
Tempt me not with thy salads of Green Health. I've been down to the Salley Gardens, but it seem someone has left the Yeats open and the rabbits got in.
My taste runs more to savory-sour. If you have a blue cheese burger handy,
remove everything but the blues. Add figs, maybe, and something sweet, sweethearts of artichoke will do.
Nothing meaty gets past me now. Smells arouse me, the scent of success on the plate: ribs of Old Adam, the sweetbreads of paradise, the laws of Italian sausage.
Is there a pasta course anywhere in this menu? Can I bowtie one on? I gknow a gnood gnocci when I can gnaw one.
God, I forgot to order more wine. Bacchus will not be pleased.
Meet me in the garden afterwards,
and we'll share some dessert. How about "The Lineaments of Gratified Desire"? William Blake, c. 1795. A fine, old, slightly daring vintage.
Credit: The idea for "Invitation to the Feast" came from Trish Hopkinson's essay on a menu for poetry which recently appeared in The Rain, Party & Disaster Society. Read Trish's essay HERE.
©2015 Robert C. Knox