Cast iron pan sizzles with fat.
Hard wet pavement fizzes with
passing traffic, fading in and out
in the background.
The yellow suns gather heat.
Their clear film gradates to opaque
whiteness, with a ruffling skirt that
puffs and subsides
in counterpoint crackling.
The toaster’s pop signals
an abrupt end to this small
observed miracle.
While traffic hisses by
we sit, contemplating our offered
feast of needed warmth which waits
to be pricked and pooled,
sopped up and savoured
this cold November morning.
GM, November 2008
how to survive suburban life 
November 3, 2008 at 5:53 am |
Hi suburbanlife,
Happy November… enjoyed your poem…
Wanted to get back to you about that Bookcrossings novel on Rwanda… (didn’t know how to email you)… the book sounds more wrenching than I’m feeling able to deal with right now. But thanks so much for the offer.
Regards
November 3, 2008 at 9:43 pm |
This poem is wonderful medley of sounds and aromas. A nice combination.
November 6, 2008 at 12:18 am |
G, Have you by any chance seen the beginning of the series called Dexter? It could be the raw material for a spoken word version of this poem. Lush and provocative piece.
November 6, 2008 at 7:39 am |
Fencer – Thank you! happy November to you too.
i can understand why you may not want to read the Gil Courtemanche book – seeing as a reprise of the situation seems to be arising in the Congo once again between the Tutsis and the Hutus. Unbearable to contemplate the madness that surfaces from time to time, all over the world. G
Christine – Thanks for your comment. G
Deborah – i am not a TV watcher, so don’t know from Dexter. Maybe there’s something in the air that causes such commonalities, times, culture…pretty tough to be wholly original. Me, I’m just jotting down what occurs to me. G
November 9, 2008 at 7:01 pm |
Perfect! Loved this visualization of November in your world. Have a WONDERFUL day!
November 12, 2008 at 3:53 am |
G, this is a sound sensation. And a savory one—pricked and pooled. My favorite piece of the poem. My youngest is a “pokey egg” fan. I’m not, but I love watching her eggs as she eats them.
November 14, 2008 at 9:11 am |
Made me positively hungry, reading your poem!
K
November 18, 2008 at 2:33 am |
I have not read a more excellent poem on the subject of frying eggs. 😉 This is a cohesive piece — every image, metaphor, line fits.
Hats off to your talented writing. I do hope to read more of your poetry. Cheers.
November 19, 2008 at 1:30 am |
Marsha J O’Brien – Thanks for your kind comment. iIdo hope you are getting around better these days. G
Ybonesy – the best part of sunny side up eggs is what happens when you poke them. There should be a Madame Lazonga who reads fortunes from one’s burst egg yolk! An egg is a miracle food, in my opinion. G
Lookingforbeauty – I know how much you love your eggs. Thanks for your comment. G
S.L. Corsua – I know eggs do not have any more commonality with daffodils, other than their yellow, but surely the Romantic poets could have waxed eloquent on the marvel which is a fried egg? Thanks for visiting and commenting. G