The Art Of Being In The Kitchen

       The Art of Being In the Kitchen

 

In the library of my mind, I stand,

Knowing that I must make lunch.

On no more than a hunch

I riffle through the freezer, fridge,

Bridging tastes.

Going through from A to Z, standing quietly

I taste and test, investing time

To form a meal that will fill.

Maybe I rotate a bit, but really, I’ve not moved my butt.

A meal is forming from within;

Splendid, or so-so, I have no way of knowing, for

Like all good genies,

This one’s free to come, to go,

Its will

An individual.

I may review a recipe,

Then alter strategy;

Start out with one intention,

Ditch it on the kitchen bench and

End up cooking something new –

(Something you might least expect)

Cooking at its very best!

This is just

A form of art

That all too quickly turns to fart,

The start of which

Is simply being in the kitchen.

 

The Art Of Being In The Kitchen 4.28.2015

The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;

Arlene Corwin

Gardening The Forest: A Work In Progress

I garden the forest.

Walking everywhere – like Johnny Appleseed –

I keep my excellent Swedish clippers at my side,

And when I eye a roadside tree

With branch too low, so’s I can see,

I make the lower branches go,

Prune and clear selectively,

Clip high as I can reach,

Which

Being five foot one

And using muscle of the female kind,

Is always kind to undergrowth,

Seduced by ‘further’,

Blazing paths that never were,

So light can filter through.

It wants for sun.

It makes for light.

The woods and I are one;

But I can’t tell a soul.

Wandering on until de-celeration

Starts to take me over,

Signs I’ve learned to recognize

When fervor starts to waver

And observer me says “Rest!”

Works in progress never cease.

It is a forest,

After all.

Work In Progress: Gardening The Forest 11.28.2006 revised 1.18.2014/again 4.20.2015

Circling Round Nature; Circling Round Nature II;

Arlene Corwin

Don’t Leave This Planet Before It’s Time 8.13.2014

Don’t Leave This Planet Before It’s Time

 

Don’t leave this planet before it’s time.

A judgment drawn from friends

Left by their mates, pressed by mistakes…

Downhearted, sad; the list goes on.

We’ll leave, believe me, all too soon.

Trim frame, find mind

And don’t be blind to beauty

Right before you.

I actually

See

A robin right before me

As I write.

I’m quite dumbfounded, though I’m typing steadily

While looking out at bird on tree.

He sits so calmly.

Looking down at keyboard

Caring not a bit if I hit d instead of e.

The mate (I think it’s her)

Has landed one branch over.

She, all gray, and he,

The loveliest tri-colored creature:

Chest a white and red, no tangerine,

No —damn, he’s gone—

My big mistake in looking down.

Don’t leave on any pretext.

We’re not sure of what comes next.

This may not be life’s crown

But there’s some kind of plan on plane

Outside this planet.

 

Don’t Leave This Planet Before It’s Time. 8.13.2014

Definitely Didactic; Birth, Death & In Between II; Circling Round Nature; Nature of & In Reality;

Arlene Corwin

 

If You Think I’m Doing Nothing 2014

If You Think I’m Doing Nothing

 

We were talking about people who have no idea,

And cannot fathom

What it is to pepper days

With standing doing nothing.

Standing doing nothing

Makes the land a dukedom,

House an ashram,

World a kingdom

And unwelcome are the critics

Of this land of nothing-doing

 

In a nothing that’s creative.

There’s a haven of content.

All gets done. The rent

Is paid, meals cooked from what’s around,

The house gets built

Without an architect’s hired blueprint-ground.

Every stilt

Is purposeful and dutiful,

A tool of art and beauty.

Plus, there’s time

Where time’s the paradigm

Of artless paradise on earth.

Time that’s good. Time that’s worthy.

 

If you think I’m doing nothing

When I’m standing, you’re a fool.

It is standing, doing not a thing

That is my basic tool.*

 

*From a conversation I had with a farmer who said,

“If they think I’m doing nothing, they’re idiots!”

 

If You Think I’m Doing Nothing 7.21.1997

Circling Round Nature; To The Child Mystic;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Again 2014

Spring Again

 

The cat is mad.

Some plants are dead –

But underneath, and over death

We sit outside, calmly alive

Drinking our tea.

Perhaps the plants are being saved

And drinking plant-y tea for two

Too.

 

Spring Again 3.28.2014

Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin

 

 

There’s Nature & There’s Nature (Yours) 2014

There’s Nature  & There’s Nature (Yours)

 

If you’re one of those

Who likes, who needs, who find himself

Going from one thing to another,

Getting satisfaction from them all –

Do it!

If you’re one of those who,

Metaphorically,

Seeks study and involvement

In the left eye

Of a butterfly,

Getting satisfaction from it:

Do it!

Find your nature, your involvement,

Your enjoyment,

And then follow it.

It may require experiment

(It always does)

But it will tell you

Where to go.

(It always will):

Listen!

 

There’s Nature & There’s Nature (Yours). 2.16.2014

Definitely Didactic; Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin

 

A Plethora Of Riches 1997

A Plethora of Riches

 

I’m tired of picking mushrooms:

They’re everywhere,

And every time I step outside to get the post

Or take a stroll to someone’s house,

My mushroom-oriented eye espies

A fare, free as the air:

Spicy, fruity, nutty-scented,

King’s ambrosia, restaurants prize: Giants!

Size of dinner plate or coffee cup,

So stopping, stooping, take them up.

“Aha, a group for mushroom soup!”

My counter’s filled with peelings:

Stem and cap and earth and spore.

Swamped (a pun).  No more! No more!

On forest floor or in the ditches,

Inundated by these riches,

I can’t seem to rid myself,

Reduce the pile or shrink the stock;

My freezer’s full. They’re chock-a-block

On every shelf,

And every time I serve a plate,

Scores of upstarts wait outside

And I, who suffer from

A lack of will to not bend down

Wind up reloaded.  Mushrooms come

From all directions: Nature’s crown.

Arlene thinks she well may drown

In fungi she can’t name in English,

But, which costly, hunted dish –

Cherished food to fry or bake

With meat or fish, in soup or quiche –

Is there within a finger’s reach.

And I, ungrateful, maybe selfish,

Feeling I’ve a stomach-ache,

Sit panting for the season’s break.

The plethora encroaches.

 

A Plethora Of Riches 10.1.1997

Circling Round Nature;

Arlene Corwin

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