NaPoWriMo #25 – Weekend Lunch

Steam wooshes out from ovens
while chipped bowls glisten in hot mist.
Chopped bird’s eye chilli partake
in sweet, burbling romance
with a mixture of legalized
incendiary, one-minute highs.
The inscrutable gaze of honeyed pitch
seems to survey my half-faint face –

First. Rice bowls laid on oily tables,
collect the change of $2 notes.
Next, clean all utensils including
grubby, sweaty hands and
lastly: a salutation is uttered
to belatedly consoled hungers,
before we begin our meals.

A single sip, tentative pause.
Roll it round the tongue:
Do the “I’m 3/4 thinking,
1/4 dreaming” furrowed brow,
then big it up further still
with quasi-intellectual frowns –

The first exclamation detonates
from an overly busy mouth.
Bowls overfill, throats choke.
Eyes water, wolfberries are swallowed.
The cursory bite of an unknown herb
soon brings forth an illumination
from a cheerful, seasoned cook.

Then an unrelated interjection
is offered; one part one-liner,
question and tantalizingly
unanswered revelation:

“Will the soup still remain faithful
even with the increasing numbers?”

No one bothers to concur, since
gradual sinkholes are never worth
the tread. The first taste, of course,
always decides the eventual course taken.

Chopsticks jab, scoop and please;
digging into golden broths spiced with wine
as rice grains fall; white, fluffy, forgotten –
collateral victims of greed, abandoned sheep.

Will they be wiped off by unwashed cloths
or feasted upon by greedy, one-legged mynahs?
Tis’ a battle between the two, I suppose –
but one fact remains a beautiful constant
(or, for some, an aesthetically gruesome truth):

The hygiene levels of coffee-shops here
are always represented by muted certificates
in these millenia block fonts…

© Zelda Reville


Day 25 for NaPoWriMo. A hard-disk corruption hijacked my attempts for two poems tonight, plus I really, really wanted to use the taste prompt from Day 27…but I ended up going way off-course with a poem about double boiled ginseng soup. Well done me! 😄 Plus jabbering about food in the night makes me so hungry. I wish I could have attached a photo of what I was talking about but free stock photos of Ginseng Chicken Soup are curiously evasive at the moment, so here’s an article about how to make this (complete with picture of mentioned soup). As always, I’m not responsible for razed kitchens or horrible soup.

NaPoWriMo #24 – Obituary

Lost to the morning, not to breakfast
I was set free to pink mist, kick-beats
and monophonic bird calls.

It was there that I found your name.

My fingers pulled up a Wikipedia tab,
greed filling their hold on speedy fingers.
The insatiability promised by imminent
exploration, new sensations. The glory
of the Internet.

Then the eyes started
on their virtual excursion,
waving goodbye to an exultant crowd

but soon sped to a screeching halt
upon encountering the third word
of the first sentence –

© Zelda Reville


Day 24 for NaPoWriMo. Why must it be ‘was’?? I’m attaching Susumu Yokota’s wiki page for your reference.

NaPoWriMo #23 – Aurora

Pouring out
to a chassis, nakedly derisive
I refill my jar, slower than before.

Beads of moss cling to the insides
as if they never wanted
to let go, in the first place.

Tiny hands, tiny feet –
star spangled woven
in their hem of beams:

why do you cling,
who do you cling for
and how do you do so

even after you’ve lost
to the complacency
of moonbeams?

© Zelda Reville


Day 23. Contemplation as I gaze into the abyss of a white computer screen.

NaPoWriMo #22 – Porcelain Butt

medieval_illustrations_17
I wish they’d put stuff like this in my textbooks as a kid

Dear Overly Bored Student,

I am a much better
employer of script and ink
than your weak, trembling hand.

Watch my prowess as I weave
Delphic ribbons, tadpoles
and delicate rusty trumpet horns,
excess flatulence and last night’s blueberry dinner

with baroque flair.

My superb peristaltic skill
and bowel movements
will put your teacher’s Latin handwriting
to shame.

P.S. I’m always available for a perk-up in the afternoons (if I’m needed).

Yours sincerely,
Mr. Porcelain Butt

© Zelda Reville


Day 22. Using the ekphrasis prompt – a poetry piece inspired by a piece of art; in this case this involves the specific subject of questionable marginalia artwork in medieval manuscripts.

NaPoWriMo #21 – Assorted Biscuit Tin

Chocolate wafers snap
at the shortbread’s body odour
that takes up precious space

and sugar biscuits mete out
a punishment of diabetic dandruff
for the cookies’ gooey insouciance.

Raspberry tarts tittle and tattle
with fellow butter Maries
on the scandals of common digestives,

while iced gems wear their
colourful caps proudly. Don’t lose
your hats now, little boys.

We belong to nowhere,
but the littlest fingers.

We belong to nowhere,
but the most comfortable
black hole –

© Zelda Reville


Day 21. No prompt, only biscuits and a nice, full stomach…

Prose – Terry Tempest Williams, “When Women Were Birds: Fifty Four Variations On Voice”

hand-holding-seashell-water
Photo by Biel Morro

“Why this relationship to Mother and water?

Breaking waters. We are born from what is fluid, not fixed. Water is essential. A mother is essential. The ocean as a mother is mesmerizing in her power, a creative force that can both comfort and destroy. My mother and I came to trust each other on the beach where we sat. Between the silences, we played together. We entertained ourselves. On the edge of the continent, looking west, we came to an understanding of the peace and violence around us. Power is the sea’s thundering voice, the curling and crashing of waves. Water is not nothing if not ingemination, an encore to the tenacity of life. And life held in the sea is surface and depth, what we see and what we imagine.
We cast a line, we throw out a net, what emerges is religion in the form of fish.

My mother’s trangression was hunger. She passed her hunger on to me without ever speaking a word. Solitude is a memory of water. I live in the desert. And everyday I am thirsty.

When I opened my mother’s journals and read emptiness, it translated to longing, that same hunger and thirst Mother translated to me. I will rewrite this story, create my own story on the pages of my mother’s journals.”

– Terry Tempest Williams