Move Forward In Grace – Poem

When I write something good, I hate to post it here because I think, Ooh, maybe I can submit it. But I think right now while we are all a little anxious, we could all use a little poetry in our lives. I hope this all means something for each one of you.

Photo by Matthias Müllner on Unsplash

I read an Instagram post about how we all need a little extra grace these days. If that isn’t the truth!  And if you know anything about ravens, they are solitary creatures. I think writers gravitate towards ravens. Poe, well, he was best known for them. But I love them. All of their aspects and they chatter out this wooden marimba sound when they are in trees. It sounds like they are playing instruments. I love hearing it. I channeled a bit of Cinderella, and Lucy from It’s Christmas, Charlie Brown, and all kinds of thoughts. Short, but sweet.

Moving Forward in Grace

Now in the key of raven,
Sing sweet nightingale, sing sweet–
No no! That isn’t it at all.
While spring is in the lawnside violets
Granite snow and ice hunker down up on highest peaks
Topsy-turvy is how we all feel right now.
Let’s all give each other some extra grace
Pulled out of a pocket, see, shiny as a raven’s treasure
All in the key of raven now,
We tinker, we give, we’ve become solitary birds
We fly solo back to our roots
Don’t forget to shed those black feathers when the sun comes out!
And the old pine sits there in a setting sun
Maybe we can all move forward with a bit of grace
Some for you, some for me, go crazy and grab a handful of starbright wishes
You can’t have a monopoly on too much kindness.

Kate

Leaning High School Boy – A Character Sketch

Clem Onojeghuo via Unsplash

He stands there, leaning so far to the left, against a post holding up one small section of the covered patio, as all high school boys are apt to do. Nonchalant; arrogant as they are innately bred, but for the few humble ones; cocky and confident. It’s that air about them that makes them so uniquely high school boys. How he leans, left shoulder to the pole, right slung over with a black backpack; his feet, encased in chucks, or some other hip shoe, are crossed and out so far from the post it’s as if he were forming a mathematical triangle. Bright red baseball cap on his head, he’s old enough to sport scruffy facial hair; sideburns and a bit of a three day stubble. His left palm holds a cellphone and his thumb swipe up as he scrolls, the boredom oozing off of his casual posture…that is far from casual. How do they manage to do it?

This was a sketch that came after driving by the High School yesterday, just after school let out. There was this young guy standing against a pole, his feet easily three feet from the post so the lean was acute, and so obvious…and, well, edgy. It piqued my interest.

Kate

Musings on Missing a Friend

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I miss my friend a lot these days. Random days where I want to ask how to make something, or what technique I need to learn.  Or when I just want to check in to see how he’s doing. Nothing much, or something much. I miss him most when I have a vivid dream where I can actually talk to him and he’s what I remember. Vivid dreams that I wake up and wish parts of it were true; so true or real; that it hurts.

Today was one of those days where I missed Coffeeman so much it was an ache inside. I wanted to cry, I wanted to fall apart on the line, I wanted to walk in back and have him ask if I was okay. I wanted the old to be there. I wanted the fist bump at the end of the night. I wanted the hug I might get if it had been a strenuous week. I wanted to see my friend.

There has been so much conflict and chaos in the last few months and I struggle with how to pull myself out of this pit of despair. Okay, it’s not that dramatic, but I am writing this at after 2 in the morning letting myself cry a little. The one in the shower wasn’t enough.

58 pizzas was busy for early January

Today was a busy day. And as I snapped a picture of the tickets stabbed on their nail, I posted it hoping Coffeeman would see, which he did, and he asked if it was so. It was a super busy day. And I had had the craziest, vivid dreams the night before where a conversation we had had before I went to bed, happened in the dream. It was so weirdly real, so gut wrenching bold in my dream that I found myself mentioning it to Ms. Godsend (aka, our front of house manager, whom I love to pieces and could not do this job without) who thought it was weirdly strange too. I won’t go into detail because it doesn’t matter.

So there I was on the line at random moments so very very happy for Coffeeman as he’s almost ready to have his new restaurant open (he’s the exec chef, doesn’t own it). I am so happy for him because I hope it works and he’s happy in his new job closer to home. But I am horribly envious that others get to work for him. Why couldn’t it have been us? I know the reason why, and I know that the two of us had our weird moments. But that doesn’t still make me not wish things had never changed.

In my time within the cooking world, I have learned that everyone has their Chef. The one chef that stood out to them. The one they talk about as theirs. Capitol letters and the pride gracing their voice when they talk about whomever it is. Coffeeman is my Chef. I will never refer to anyone else with that stigma. I may work for others, but he is the first one who has meant the world to me. As I tell anyone who will listen, for all his faults, there isn’t a thing we wouldn’t have done for the man. Oh sure, we challenged him, and even his authority, to some degree. But I would have done anything for him. He was pretty much the ‘Jump!”…. “how high, Chef.” It’s funny how you don’t realize that until they’re gone.

I go through small periods of time where I don’t muse on missing him too much. Thankfully we ‘talk’ all the time. Just little snippets of texts that help or vent or update. I don’t think I could exist without a random comment or conversation weekly. Or daily. Yeah, the man is busy. All the time. I worry that I might bother him too much here and there, but hey, he pays attention to my life, and I to his. So that means something, right?

I can count on one hand the close friends I have. I am not someone that has gobs of friends. I have that weird middle ground where there isn’t a word for acquaintance/friend. That in between stage. I know you more than just here and there, but we don’t hang out and you definitely don’t know the inner side of me. I classify these friends as family. You will get a card at Christmas, or a random one in the mail, with a letter. I write letters to those I love. I don’t just do it for the heck of it. So if something random shows up in the mail for you, be it letter, package, etc, it’s because I view you as more than that weird middle ground. You mean a hella lot to me.

And while he probably won’t read this like he used to during the Lucifer days….. I miss you like hell, Coffeeman.

Kate

I Have Loved You Like A Fool

I sit there apologizing to my writing group, the critic inside of me trying to shush what I’ve just read. “I’m sorry, I was really nasty with that,” I say, the ladies all staring at me as I have just eviscerated a newly broken relationship and the person in it. Burnt up in gasoline and flames, the car with the new her in the passenger seat going off in the sunset, him driving with flames chasing after him.

As a writer, the best way to deal with emotions, anger, a relationship that didn’t work, is to curse and write heated things that will tear up or destroy the feelings. For me, I broke the relationship, took a step back, said wait. I thought the two of us would dance around each other at work, and maybe step into something that was good because I still adored the guy. Then he had to go and mess it all up with spending a weekend with another gal I know, one week after I stepped back and we were still flirting like mad. One Week.

Needless to say, I was angry. So, so angry. Sure, I stepped back, but wow. Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt, partly because I’m looking at the idiot going, you want her? Really? (I have actually had a couple other people go, oh god, when I tell them who he’s with)

I just watched Begin Again, a marvelous film with Kiera Knightley, Mark Ruffalo, and Adam Levine, and in it you have two song writers, one becoming famous (Levine), the other (Knightley) puttering around with it and in love with the famous one.  So you have a broken relationship and anger and such and girl songwriter writes this utterly cutting song to guy idiot. It is such an amazing part of the film, partly because it hit me this week as I was dealing with the issues above. And I realized that one of the ways writers deal is to cut down the person we are angry with in our work.

“I have loved you like a fool” is an amazing line. Needless to say, I have some very nice poems that my ladies have sat back going, “It oozes anger. We can just hear your anger.” They also told me to stop apologizing for being a bit nasty. To hogtie and gag the critic in my head.

Granted, writer’s liberties and all, I can exaggerate more than I actually feel. I sometimes want what I write to be more dramatic than it probably is. Am I wounded by the idiot? Nope. In fact, I’m doing really good as I have progressed in my work with him being gone from my life and work.  I have had a chance to find myself a bit more. I’ve even found myself more inspired with cooking and life. It has been really amazing. Everyone has told me I can do so much better and I deserve so much better, so that has been crucial. Especially with two amazing people at work, and two really important ladies in the writing group. These people are my close confidants.

‘If a writer loves you, you can never die.’ These words are classic to the memes world for writers. Seriously, you won’t die if a writer loves you because they will have you at some point in all of their work, or you will inspire them, or something. But…. if you anger a writer, well, darling, prepare to die. Or be killed off in some gruesome manner. Or tortured.

Coffeeman has this thing he does at work where he slams his fist into a wall or a counter. There is always some force in it, not enough to leave a mark, but you can see he’s irritated. I always picture a knife in the fist when he does it, partly because that’s how I feel about a lot of things. I do this motion with my hand, sometimes with a pocket knife in it, and out to the right and side, I stab air. It is this motion of stabbing, or would like to stab that is the feeling. No, I don’t want to murder anyone, but… as Robert Bly says

Our veins are open to shadow,
and our fingertips Porous to murder….   Robert Bly

Because I work with knives, it’s so much easier to write about it and use the motion when I’m frustrated.

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Now there is a flipside to this whole story. The first part is me getting my digs in. But downside to a writer dating a writer… the other writer has the same opportunity to put in his own digs. One week after idiot guy spends weekend with another, he comes to my writing group as he has been doing for a couple weeks to write. He’s a poet as well. Yeah, that was a hard because one, I was too close to the subject, too angry and couldn’t read out what I had written, angry as it was, and  he wrote something that pierced me. It was a dig of his own.

So rule of thumb, which I’ve had is, don’t date a writer. Two, if you are with a writer, prepare for you being written about, at some point. Good or bad.

I’m still angry, writing about lack of constancy and holes being dug with words, creating nasty hurts. Dua Lipa’s IDGAF song is marvelous right now to how I feel. Along with the song above from Begin Again. I highly recommend the film if you can handle the language. It is incredible, and ends marvelously. And the music is great.

But as the song goes… “I have loved you like a fool….”

 

Kate

Kitchen Affairs and Poetics

Photo by Luo ping on Unsplash

So sorry, dearies. My life has been a little chaotic, personally, professionally, and writing hasn’t been a top priority. Actually, that isn’t true, it’s been a desire, but the mood hasn’t been positive for writing. I was down in the depths of sadness and frustration with Lucifer recently, but life has changed a bit and my outlook is a lot better. Life is changing again as Lucifer is now no longer my head Chef. Now I have a new boss. A new man in my life. Lol. My new Chef starts today when I’m off work, so I won’t get to know the full extent of what it’s like to work with him until later this week. I met him last week and I already like what I see. I have to come up with a name for him… I’m leaning towards Shakespeare or William from Knights Tale.  I’m sure you can figure out from that what his name is.

But this post isn’t about that at all. That’s just a life update. Now onwards to what this post is about:  The poetry from the kitchen and the affairs of life that create the poetry that is my life. People forget that we are poetry in motion.

Everything in life is an inspiration to me and for my writing. It’s the littlest of things, or sometimes, very large things. It’s the every day, it’s the extraordinary. Needless to say, the Kitchen brings a whole new life to my writing. From love affairs that have not panned out, to friendship, to cooking, heartache, depression, frustration, magic, excitement, creation. Heat, fire, flames, cold, water, air, food…. it all comes together creating this dance of a life that I seriously could not see myself without these days. I can’t imagine not working in this kind of life.   (okay, a little part of me really could, but that’s only if I am married and don’t have to work and can be just a writer. Luxury thinking there)

I read off my ‘kitchen poetry’ to my writing group and it has become a thing where Mels and Dona have both said I need to work on this aspect and focus on it, or at least see it as a chapbook of poetry and such. The work flavors my writing so much these days. I even have a title for my work if it ever goes anywhere. “Field Notes on Kitchen Affairs”  though I think “Field Guide to Kitchen Affairs” works as well.

Photo by Kimson Doan on Unsplash

I write about ‘the dance’ and the life and things that have come together to create this camaraderie of things with people I would have never spent time with had I not been working with them. I love that I am both morning crew and night crew, or night shift as I think of it. I work mornings once a week and the rest of the week I am a closer, being one of the last lines of defense against the scourge that is a dirty kitchen. There is magic in the morning in the silence before the mad dash of the day starts, there is this subtle simplicity of scrubbing down stainless steel at night and knowing you are leaving it as spotless as possible for the morning crew.

Working hand in hand with people you have been with since day one, where one moment you can hate that person, the next you are arm in arm standing firm against the tide of tickets that have just printed up minutes from end of service.  This fight against your own ego and doubt, the fight against the doubt and egos of others. Moving up through the ranks, learning, cramming ideas and techniques into your head, a neverending supply of knowledge. I joked with Lucifer the other day that I have had three different chefs tell me how to make pasta. His reply? “Well, now you know three ways to make pasta!”  Smartypants.  But it’s true.

Here is some of the poetry or more, lines of poetry that have come from work. I won’t share entire poems as I plan to see about publishing but enjoy nonetheless

An Alliance of Gazelles

A flower girl, a pure one, almost,
brazenly attacking and metal clanking,
we are the black white yin yang of the feminine mystique,
she is no demon,
I am no angel,
I am her, she is me,
we are and have become
a whirling dervish,
flesh against flesh we exist in this spatial moment,
an alliance,
this torrid rip of polyvinyl, a film covering over smells and service,
stacking, towering heights,
steel wool buffs out the filth,
the grime sliding down to coat a slick surface of desperate moments,

 In the Evening Quieting of a Kitchen

With the fans off, with just a gentle hum
stainless counters and sinks gleam in their
scuffed patina from scoured scratches of steel wool
red tiles are mopped and grease free
gentle whirs of compressors from refrigeration units
empty stations, empty Chef’s table but for
a single note scribbled on ticket paper
long and lean, blue tape holding it down.
The long, never-ending list of prep on the whiteboard
is cleared off, black half smudges gone,
and new type is written up for the
new day’s prep when morning crew comes in.
Order lists filling up columns, humor jotted down
on the small squared off ‘kitchen blog’ corner,
the night shift in all their exhausted glory
leaving twisted and strange jokes.
Dishes stacked just so in warmers and on shelves,
cambros lined up neatly; nine, six, third, half,
and full hotels are back to rights.

Kitchen Choreography
Not with a fizzle, but with a bang,
the issues are decided here,
silent nuanced double meanings,
the start of every work day where
a Wednesday feels like a Monday.

A pristine kitchen waits to be cluttered,
surfaces waiting to be filled as we
shift around each other, pieces readjusting,
watch-like mechanical movements, tick-tocking.
Time rushing by us. Pans shift, doors open.
The whir of mixing, snap, snap, snapping—
a knife in an onion, hitting a board.
Steel hitting wood, slicing soft flesh.

Fans deafen; defeat normal tones, a shouting match,
a fight ensues to be heard over the gentle roar.
Ovens are blazing, pilot light’s blue flames.
Electrical currents of live wire flow out from
the shifting of bodies, a warning of human placement,
hands sliding across backs,
a warning, a guard, reevaluating each other’s dance space

You can see that there are definitely things that are so kitchen related. I guess being a writer and a prep chef, you get to see both aspects of the world. The writing world and the cooking world.  It has been so inspirational.  I keep writing more and more about it in different aspects. I have one poem about how a knife isn’t just a knife. There is a whole story there. Personal aspects of people. You love and hate your coworkers. One minute you want to kiss someone then next, stab them, smack them, yell an insult. We insult each other all the time. It is what makes us one of the most dysfunctional families around. I may eviscerate a coworker, but I also stand by them.

Anyways, there are my last three weeks. Heartache, working, exhaustion, food, poetry, fire….. Hmm, a sorceress at work here…

Kate

The Wisdom of Your Elders

This last week was challenging. I felt like someone was trying to push me to the breaking point and well, literally break me. Physically, mentally……. personally. Games played, moves made. Life is a chess match. If you don’t think it is, then you’re not doing it right. Because let me tell you, everyone is playing games. Even I play games, though less than others.

A knife isn’t necessarily just a knife. There is a lot more behind that, but I won’t go into it right now.

The breaking point didn’t happen because I didn’t break. I was pissed beyond belief. I was so so angry. So angry that I didn’t even talk to my family for a good 12 hours because I knew once I started talking, like an explosion, I wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want to put that on them. So I went to bed, slept for six hours and went to my writing group.

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My writing group is mostly women that I would classify as extended moms to me. All older, except two, all wise. All with a collective mind that I don’t think they even talk about but wow are things synced up with them. With me.

I was given the most amazing advice, opinions, and thoughts from those lovely ladies. Their initial advice led me to write some poetry where I allowed myself to be angry. And they even mentioned that I had let the anger out in the poetry and it was so much better to do that then to express my anger through other means. I am kind of a pushover, cream-puff, watering-pot of a person, so I always find it funny to think of expressing my anger in a physical way. Which was what they meant.

The poem was titled “Hurricanes Are Named After Women For A Reason”. Isn’t that great?  Basically, it was about being pushed and me pushing back in my way.  Age does have a way of allowing for knowledge.  Which was where I was going with my title. God, sometimes my blonde, distracted moments really get to me. (I’m more blonde now after an afternoon of lightening)

This card comes from Wisdom of the Crone, a deck of 54 wisdom cards. Click on the highlighted title.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where I started going was how my parents have always told me that your elders are usually smarter. Not always. Age does not always mean knowledge, but seriously, when you have a group of ‘crones’, (that is not a dig, my ladies excel in crone knowledge) and your parents saying the exact same thing about dealing, anger, being pushed, games played, certain people and their personalities, and just kind of all-around advice, it’s so so comforting. I went home after my writing group and my family listened to me vent, then gave me advice. A lot of advice. So much advice that one might think it was overload. At times it has been, but this time, I sat there kind of stupefied that I was hearing exactly what I had heard an hour prior. The collective knowledge of your elders.

I love the Farmer’s car insurance commercial line, “We know a thing or two because we’ve seen a thing or two….” which I’ve used in life recently when people doubt my existence. But it also applies to one’s elders. My family and friends are my elders and they definitely know a thing or two. And after the collective wisdom of them all, I was able to get through the rest of my day perfectly fine. I was even able to mad dash run into work for a few hours when I was needed. I wasn’t supposed to be working, but one line I was able to use, which is really quite true, was “This is my restaurant too.” Meaning, this isn’t a favor to you, but to my restaurant that currently means the world to me. My loyalties run so deep. I can’t even explain it. But I was in such an excellent mood that my time was a fast-paced dream.

I think the only other one thing out of all of this comes from the fact that I am terrible about responding to people in person. Which was the crux of some of my anger. It takes me until I get home and hours later to have the perfect come back. The line that comes to mind comes from You’ve Got Mail.

What happens to me when I’m provoked is that I get tongue-tied and my mind goes blank. Then I spend all night tossing and turning trying to figure out what I should have said. What should I have said, for example, to a bottom dweller who recently belittled my existence? – Kathleen Kelly, You’ve Got Mail

That is me. And that was where all of this stemmed from. Wanting to say something. Needing to say something to a ‘bottom dweller’ who should have known better. But, well again, cream puff.

In conclusion, as I have rambled on. Listen to your elders. Listen to the crones. Listen to the wisdom of years. It really really knows what its talking about. They know what they are talking about. Experience is the best learning tool of life. My experience in life these past 7 months is unexplainable, and I will be able to carry it onwards through life. I value it much more than I ever would.

And I value my elders. Thank you. Moms, ladies, family, thank you.

Kate

The Sweet and the Bitter

Some days are good days, others bad. The sweet and the bitter. Pardon me for stealing that phrase, I literally picked up Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler today and started reading it a few minutes ago. I’m already hooked.

Today was a sweetbitter day. (I think I want to use that phrase now) For me it was a pretty sweet day, with a taste of the bitter; for others, it was definitely bitter. I’m not sure it even had a sweet moment.  Life in a restaurant is far from dull, always leaves an interesting taste in my mouth, and a sense of wonder that I am working in a professional kitchen.

But today had an example of how marvelous our staff is, especially working with them. Thankfully music is almost always on while we are cooking. Today, D-man had a great Pandora channel on, I think it was the U2 one, and Simple Minds’ ‘Don’t You (Forget About Me)’ came on. I happen to love the song (though I prefer Anna Kendrick’s version from Pitch Perfect best….) and Lucifer was talking with Richard, our new line chef, though we’ve worked with him since the beginning in different capacities.  Richard either couldn’t hear the song or didn’t know what it was.

Lucifer: It’s from the Breakfast Club.

Me: I love the song, but I’ve never liked the Breakfast Club.

Lucifer: (a phrase that is not polite and I won’t repeat)  I bet you were a 16 Candles girl.

I guess my face must have registered an ‘oh crap moment’ because Lucifer clapped his hands and said: “I’m right!”

Me: Yeah fine, yes I love 16 Candles.

Lucifer was not going to let that go so about ten minutes he goes to the chef, who is not really a soft kind of guy.

Lucifer: Hey Chef, can you believe K (me) hates the Breakfast Club?

Chef: I never really quite liked the Breakfast Club. I never quite got the point. [pauses] I was always more of a 16 Candles fan.

Oh my gosh! I shouted a thank you and we were all busting up laughing because if you saw the Chef, you would not think 16 Candles. Ever. He is super badass. I mean he has these tattoos that are just so badass man. He has a mouth on him that would make every one of my girlfriends turn so red. I was one of those girls till recently. I’ve learned to let it go. My mouth has actually gotten a lot less nice since working there.

But it’s sometimes the little things like this that make for a sweetbitter day. This definitely hit in the sweet department. Another exchange I found highly funny is that I looked up the French translation for ‘eff you’ last night. Va te faire foutre.  As a general rule of thumb, don’t sass someone with this if they know Spanish. Lucifer teasingly snarled at me to shut my mouth and I had best watch what I say. Damn him.  But it did make for a funny exchange.

Again, sweetbitter moments.  I wish most days were sweet for all of us. I wish the bitter didn’t crop up so much, but I love that I can joke with my marvelous coworkers. I love that we have this thing that is a pretty sweet working relationship. I love that I love all my boys (all the prep chefs, dishwashers, and line chefs) and that they are so seriously sweet with me. Richard, St. Michal, D-man, Lurch, Lucifer, and a couple others I haven’t come up with names for. I always tell Chef Wildflower to take care of our boys when I leave. She’s 17, nearly 18, but all the guys who are older than her and younger than me are our boys. We couldn’t do it without them. (and I might add we couldn’t do it without Miss Holly who is like the Mom of all of us)

Ah yes, this kitchen thing is an interesting life.

Kate

Giving Space

If there is one thing I can honestly say about myself, it’s giving space. I don’t do it well, and when I want to spend time with someone, I want to spend time with someone. I don’t always want to back off.  I especially don’t want to give space when a friend is hurting or going through crap. I may not always know what to say, but I like to be there. I like to comfort. I think I’m one of those natural maternal comforting types. Ironic since I won’t ever be a mom in the true sense of the word with my own kids.

Another thing I’m not good with is grief.  Not that I don’t deal with grief, but I haven’t had to, so I don’t always know what to say or do in the situations. The one time in my recent life where grief was a part of the process, was losing Boris this winter out of the blue to colon cancer. I was in shock and cried for two days. Till I found out that Boris hadn’t been truthful with me for the seven years we friends. Suddenly that friendship seemed like a sham (still blows me away some days) and like a water faucet, boom, I was out of the sadness. Even the anger.  Hold on, I want to check up on the stages of grief. Well, I think I blew through a few and was at the end rather rapidly.

So again, grief for me is more of an abstract. Watching someone go through aspects of it is hard. Especially when I want to be a giver of comfort. I don’t want o to have someone blow me off because they need to deal. Let me deal with you.

I think some of that stems from the fact that when I’m not coping well, even if I say I’m ‘fine’ which as women know means ‘ I’m not fine and I’d really like to talk about it and could you hold me,’ I actually want someone to push me to open up. What I really want is to talk about it. I want someone to care enough to push through my boundaries and ‘nudge’ me to open up.

So when a friend tells me to let them be and they’ll deal with it on their own, or think about it on their own, to me it feels like I’m being pushed away. Currently, that is my situation right now. I have a dear person in my life who is making me feel like I’m knocking on a brick wall. I know that we all have boundaries, and we all deal with tragic or tough things in our own way, but being on the flipside of the person going through a rough time, and being told to back off, in a way, is incredibly hard for me. I don’t understand it, I don’t like it.

I guess this is where I wonder about boundaries. If person A has the boundary of letting them be, but person B needs to be around person A to feel connected, who’s more important? I almost feel like there is this weird paradox in regards to it. Who’s right? Is person B supposed to push a little to get what they need? Or are they supposed to back off from person A to give them space?

Because I can tell you right now, if I am pushed away too much, it makes me get very frustrated. (of course, I am person B in this scenario) The more frustrated I get, the more annoyed I will be with person A.  So what’s right?

I feel like I’m overthinking all of this, and when I’m tired, which I am, it’s all much more dramatic than if it were an everyday kind of thing. My mother always talks about a poster my dad gave her when they were seeing if their relationship was going to work, and my mom was going home for a while. Something along the lines of ““If you love something set it free. If it comes back it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.” I think she repeats it better than this, but whatever.  See, I’m a more insecure person, so if someone pushes me away, it feels like I’m literally being pushed out of their life. So to let go of someone, for whatever reason it is, is very, very hard for me. This statement is one of those ones I’m not exactly good at.

But I feel like I’m going to have to learn this little bit about life. Frustrating as it is. But I still wonder, am I allowed to want to spend time with Person A? Am I wrong if that person wants space? I mean, gosh darn it. See, I am not good at giving space.

Kate

The Romance of Writing Love Poems

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash
…wishing I could fly. Excerpt from the poetry collection “This Is For The Women Who Don’t Give A F*ck” by Janne Robinson. Published by Thought Catalog Books | ShopCatalog.com

I wrote the other day about how I was delving back into Foolsgold and I might find myself writing love poems.  I can’t say as I am a very good writer of those types of poems. I have to actually be in a state to write them. I did write a form of a love poem, and  I am prone to sharing those poems with the person they are for. Actually, if I write something for someone, I give it to them. What I mean by writing for someone, is that I will give the person a poem they inspired.   Lil, my coworker, got a poem that was about this brave wildflower pirate girl. Lucifer was given a poem that was to him. Mrs. Austen was given a poem years ago about tiny letters. (I think that is somewhere on this blog).

I guess you could look at poems to friends as a form of a love poem. One of the ladies in my writing group has two poems in my rejected manuscript. Actually, they aren’t so much as love poems, but inspired poems. That lady can inspire poems that are super incredible. At least to me.

Going back to reading Foolsgold, the heading for a chapter had a part of a Hafiz poem that just hit me hard.  The line was:

Tired of Speaking Sweetly
 
Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.
Isn’t that so incredible?  I love the manhandle part. I’ll post the rest of the poem at the bottom, but the thought of how love grabs a hold of us and rattles us to the core… Oooh, wait, I needed that line right there for the poem it inspired. Hold on. I’ll be back………..
Okay, I’m back.
So we’ve been wrecked and grabbed, rattled, thrust away, pulled back. Sometimes love has that ability to turn us black and blue and breaking things. I love finding poetry that hits me so hard that I have to start writing myself. The feelings contained inside are too much and I just wish I could hug the poet and say ‘thank you’ for saying what I’m feeling. Or what I needed to feel.

Galway Kinnell

Last week…. no wait almost two weeks ago, I was at a used book store and found a Galway Kinnell poetry book. I believe, though I can’t remember, I first heard his poetry on an episode of Poetry Off the Shelf podcast, but either way, oh does his poetry hit hard. It hits you right in the gut; right in the heart and mind. While I can only read small doses of his poems, I am in love. It’s beautiful.

 I don’t often find poems that are really good love poems in my readings. I’m very selective, as I don’t want just a lovey-dovey type poem. I want something that destroys you inside. Leaves you raw and trembling because you totally understand it. That is how I feel about this Hafiz poem.

Tired of Speaking Sweetly

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a “playful drunken mood”
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

From: ‘The Gift’
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Currently I have the complete works of e.e. cummings headed my direction via the library. He had the ability to write some of the most provocative, erotic love poems. They have the ability to make you want to grab someone and kiss them desperately, they are that raw. I actually want to print them off, type them up, and hand them to people to make their heart race. To feel.

Even Shakespeare had that ability to thrust you into love wow. Oberon’s love of Titania is in my opinion, epic. Though currently I can’t find what I’m looking for in the darn play to post it here.

Love poems come in many forms. Sometimes, we even need to write love poems to ourselves. One I wrote this last Saturday, titled “You Can Be A Good Girl and Wear A Black Lace Bra” is a love poem to myself about how sometimes what you see isn’t what’s hiding beneath the surface, but it’s all intermingling with the outside to make you (or in this case, me) who I am. Thanks again goes to Mel for the title, though I added the ‘lace’ part because I want to emphasize the fact that there is total girly girl lace going on here.

So, how about anyone else. Do you write and share love poems? Have you read any good ones lately? I’d love to know about both, yours and other poet’s love poems.

Kate

When A Writer Becomes a Chef de Partie

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Photo by Bank Phrom on Unsplash

My life went from ordinary to whirlwind in moments. An application, an acceptance, and suddenly my simple life of get up, run the house, and write when I could, went to get up and be a prep chef in a brand new restaurant.

My days, and nights (the dreams oh the dreams!) are filled with working in a kitchen for the first time in my life. Writing has definitely taken a backseat, but like you know your kids are there, you still have to pay attention to them. I still write. Poems here and there, and a new story started on Sunday with a boom. A Hallmark-esqe thingy. I have three pages. Whoo-ee! I laugh because I’m notorious for starting things.

Being a prep chef is interesting. I’m learning a lot, I’m in charge of a walkin cooler, can you imagine? I make pizza dough by the pounds (40 yesterday) and I direct traffic. I yell at waitstaff, I find things, I’m a gopher. I have too many bosses and not enough time. I’m getting up early, I’m working late, I’m feeling exhausted all the time. And oh wow, where did some of those muscles come from? I have no idea, but my collegue and I compare bruises all the time. Or where we nicked ourselves with the very sharp knives.

I’ve cut up 20+ chickens and sous vide just as many. I’ve helped prepare for an 80+ person Christmas Party. I’ve joked with the chef, and the staff, and the bartender, and made myself the brunt of jokes. I’m blonde, what do you expect.

It’s been good, it’s been bad, and it’s been strange. But that’s what comes when you go from writing to cooking.

So if I’m a little lax on writing here on this blog, part of that is due to just being busy all the time and my life is cooking, not writing. But I have learned one thing, a kitchen is like a pirate ship. Now that’s a prompt I’m working on.

Kate