"French Toast"

With apologies to all, I have to say I don’t have a new poem for Original Poetry Sunday—the ghazals feel a bit stalled right now, but I haven’t decided what this means—so I’m posting one of the poems I wrote last spring. Especially in light of yesterday’s “autobiographia literaria,” I thought this might be interesting.

Between late June & early July (about two weeks) I wrote seven poems, all on a “food” theme; in addition to “French Toast,” there were also the following:

• Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
• Potato Salad
• Pasta Alleluia (a bit of an “in joke” here—a name for pasta aglio é olio)
• Macaroni & Cheese (this has been posted on the blog here)
• Fondue
• Greek Salad.

While I believe all seven are good poetry, I do feel at a bit of a distance from them for a variety of reasons. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it—& hey, French Toast is always great for your Sunday brunch…. & be sure to check out the following other blogs (at least) for Original Poetry Sunday:

Amazing Voyages of the Turtle
Apogee Poet
Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes
Premium T.
Secret Poems from the Times Literary Supplement
Yes is Red


FRENCH TOAST


Goldfinches camped out & hectic atop the yokes of
dandelions asked the musical question I
couldn’t catch—the world grows larger some days

the fruit trees blooming white & pink & rustling with
sparrows— the world gets smaller—a kitchen beating free-range
eggs with a fork in a red glass mixing bowl &

how much cinammon & nutmeg whisked into the eggs these things are
measured in pinches like a dream I dreamed dreaming What
larks! everything’s a laugh—

meadowlarks giggling in the pasture just now
this orange & blue marmelade morning L’amour la poésie
means nothing more than the world transformed thru a lonesome

Hank Williams’ whippoorwill yodel or the paired low C’s vibrating
over a mandocello’s mahogany soundboard
a scrumptious breakfast with sunshine

pouring Grade A fancy amber through the matchstick blinds a peal of
lovely laughter a rupture in the world’s brown eggshell—
the world grows large again back at the ranch I’m

dipping wheat bread into the egg mixture the unsalted
butter skating across the cast-iron skillet the egg-soaked bread
sizzles in goldenly—& orange wedges drip on blue plates my blue

heart my red heart my golden heart opens & closes &
shrinks & grows— the world I know the people I
hold in my heart as it grows & breaks—the

world is el corazón in a Mexican painting the
brown eggshell broken & full & inscribed—the
goldfinches scattering into the blue from the blossoms &

the French Toast’s served with Grade A fancy
light amber like a window—the golden crust this morning
is everyone’s sweet eggshell heartache


John Hayes
© 2008-2009