Putting Poetry on the Menu

by Jane Richards
 
I wasn’t always a poet.  I followed a steady diet of novels for much of my life, from Nancy Drew to Thomas Mann to James Michener. To me, novels were seven-course meals, an indulgence to be enjoyed on long afternoons. From the age of seven, I wanted to be an author. However, I took another path, and established a social work career.                                                            

It wasn’t long before I realized how much I missed those long afternoons with books, so I returned to school to learn to write novels. Although the required poetry writing course offered a taste of the pleasures of verse, I was determined to pursue the writing of my own novel and shelved the pursuit of poetry.

Prose writing is very demanding, and as my schedule filled to the brim with other responsibilities, those long afternoon writing and reading feasts became shorter and shorter. I found I only had time for quick repasts, so I turned to poetry.  I learned to love the small bites—a poem was like a sumptuous dessert, its ingredients pared down to only the richest and sweetest—rather like flourless chocolate cake (my favorite!). I love the way a poem heightens a brief moment, intensifying experience with vivid sights, sounds, smells and textures.  A simple autumn afternoon, when penned by a skillful poet, is full of carefully chosen colors, fresh scents, and unusual birdsong.   A poem can tell a story, and say things that are difficult to put into words.  A poem infuses a moment with meaning. Sometimes it makes me laugh.

My experiences in nature inspire much of my writing and after 6 years, I felt I had written and published enough poems to create a book.  Publishing was an area I knew nothing about, and it was Margaret Kay who convinced me I could make it happen. From her, I learned how  to make my childhood dream come true.  The result was the birth of  The Feather Variations. Below is one of the selections, “The Bluebird Trail”. It tells the story of my first year as a bluebird monitor, which made a deep impression on me. Bon appetit!
 
The Bluebird Trail
 
One spring I monitored bluebird boxes.
Every week I would open the panels and peer inside,
scan the darkness, count and record,
while from a nearby branch
an azure-feathered parent watched,
fretting.
 
The nests, well-crafted as an Amish bed,
cradled blue eggs one week,
hatchlings the next--
the open yellow beaks a bouquet in full bloom,
each attached to a small sack of ashen skin,
lumpy with bones.
  
Limp bodies grew down the color of first light,
then wild quills poked out all akimbo.
The nestlings took on heft and form.
Now my intrusions prompted them to hunker down,
wing to wing in the cramped quarters,
still as stones.
 
When the feathers gleamed like a rocky creek in sunshine,
I knew the day of  fledging approached:
I was not prepared for the swiftness of their departure.
I shut the abandoned home                                        
rejoicing--yes!--but not before a moment,
fretting.  
 
First published in The Weekly Avocet #282
 
The Feather Variations is available in paperback from Amazon.com.
 
 
https://mybook.to/FeatherVariations