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Posts Tagged ‘beets’

 

 

 

Slow roasted,

the beets

become tender,

sweet,

how I long

to do the same

to these hard,

red thoughts.

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To increase her appeal, Aphrodite ate beets.

I consider this as I rub the beets with oil

 

and wrap them in foil and slide them

into the oven to roast. They pulled out

 

of the garden soil so easily, round and red

and heavy with sugar. It’s not that I believe

 

the old stories, but I wonder if they perhaps

believe in me and guide my hands as I slice

 

the warm beets and drizzle dark coils

of thick balsamic vinegar. My hands

 

move with desire that is mine

and not mine. My lips turn increasingly

 

crimson, a crimson that cannot be washed away,

essence of the earth, extravagant with myth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Changing My Tune Midway

The beets are always disappointing.

I dream of beets densely red and robust,

beets that have weight to them,

beets that take effort to slice.

But this year, again, they are small,

puny, even, though there are a lot of them.

I suppose a better gardener would research

nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.

I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.

But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,

just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.

They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,

would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.

And someone would hum for him, or whistle,

and he’d play the tune back and then improvise

variations on their theme. What tune

am I whistling for the master? A song

of paucity? Of ingratitude?

And how might it carry on, one variation

after another? This began just a little whine,

or so I thought, a little melody for more.

But who is master of this score? Oh woman

who sees the glass half empty, do you really

still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,

this is not a poem about beets?

It’s about the way small things can last.

The beets are always disappointing.

I dream of beets densely red and robust,

beets that have weight to them,

beets that take effort to slice.

But this year, again, they are small,

puny, even, though there are a lot of them.

I suppose a better gardener would research

nitrogen and potassium and how to best amend.

I suppose a better Buddhist would not complain.

But I am not a Buddhist. And I am no great gardener,

just a woman with a bit of dirt to play in.

They say that Beethoven, when he could hear,

would ask people in the audience to give him a tune.

And someone would hum for him, or whistle,

and he’d play the tune back and then improvise

variations on their theme. What tune

am I whistling for the master? A song

of paucity? Of ingratitude?

And how might it carry on, one variation

after another? This began just a little whine,

or so I thought, a little melody for more.

But who is master of this score? Oh woman

who sees the glass half empty, do you really

still believe that there’s a glass? Don’t you see,

this is not a poem about beets?

It’s about the way small things can last.

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Though there are great oceans
to revere and spiraling galaxies
to venerate, there is also the humble
beet, served here sliced thin on a long white plate,
tousled with dark green arugula
and drizzled with sweet, thick balsamic.
This carpaccio could make a woman find
religion, especially when served
with a wedge of flatbread and pesto
with mascarpone. Dear God, I know
nothing about the ordering of the stars,
cannot fathom the intricate
paths in the brain, the palm, the spine,
but the beet with its rings, its red,
its stain, I can find you here, not
a god restricted to heaven, but one who understands
earth and dirt and bitterness turned sweet.

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