The challenge this week was to write a poem about your mother's kitchen. There were a few additional pieces suggested, such as including an oven, something green, something dead and a female relation. But as poetry is want to do, the words that come out don't always match the initial requirements. That's alright, since what does come out is usually much more honest. Here's what folks are sharing.
Jacqueline Leach Dove left her poem in the comments. She found her way here as many often do, through some kind of serendipitous search. Welcome, Jacqueline!I didn't exactly follow the rules this week either. Here's my poem.
My Mother’s KitchenMarianne Nielsen from Doing the Write Thing! shares a poem entitled The Kitchen.
My mother’s kitchen has an ant farm
And confusing tins with tea.
A territorial cockatoo who struts about,
Causing unsuspecting toes alarm.
My mother’s kitchen is eclectic
More artist’s lair then cooks abode.
The pots upon the stove quite hectic,
Declaring with gusto their mother load.
My mother’s kitchen is at times
Heavy with unspoken words
As duty wrestles with desire
Amongst the whey and curds.
My mother’s kitchen is the place,
Visitors first spy as they arrive.
Flowers, art, bead work embrace
All with eyes to absorb it’s grace.
Hark, who is this whose skipping in,
Joanna clasping fresh-picked flowers
The daughter of the next-of-kin,
She who is destined for her own kitchen?
sister AE of Having Writ shares a poem called The New Kitchen.
On her FaceBook page, Jane Yolen wrote about her mother's cooking in My Mother's Kitchen.
D. Dina Friedman left this poem in the comments.
KitchenElaine from Wild Rose Reader shares a poem about her grandmother called A Home for the Seasons. She also shares five more memoir poems about her maternal grandparents.
It is an airless place.
The walls are green.
On a dark table, meat
drips blood onto wax paper
There are bones, soup, smells,
dirt on the floor, dog hair
chopped meat in a gleaming silver bowl
where I must go in an add
bread crumbs, tomato, egg
and form flesh into perfect shapes.
It is a place of flesh,
of women’s voices and old pots,
family carcasses framed on the yellow refrigerator
the shells of ourselves. My wild brother sneaks in
and steals cookies.
Scenes From a KitchenIt's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a comment about your poem and I'll add it to the list.
I close my eyes and remember
Pegboard cupboards and uncovered baseboards
Gramma mixing German potato salad in the tulip bowl
Five of us at the kitchen table
Me in my mother's lap, mourning the loss of a grandmother
Cookies--sour cream, cut-outs and chocolate chip
Four of us at the kitchen table
Mom with her back against the oven on cold winter days
Spaghetti and meatballs every Saturday night
Three of us at the kitchen table
Chocolate molds hanging on the wall
Porcelain elephant holding Mom's rings on its trunk
Two of them at the kitchen table
Much too quiet now