I've been exceptionally lucky in the company I keep. My friend Julia, a fab poet is also a poetry tutor. As it turns out she is not only an excellent friend, she is an excellent tutor and when I said that I had stopped writing and started trying to coax life back into my creativity, she set me a goal: write a poem a week. Bless her, she's been fielding my feeble attempts since then, with great humour and even greater encouragement. Not only that, but she has also been sending me poems to get my juices flowing again.
What can I say? It works. I am finally beginning to feel like myself again. Properly myself. I wanted to share one of the poems that Julia sent through. When I first read it, I got goosebumps, honest to goodness goosebumps.
‘Thirteen Ways with Figs’
1.
Silence the village gossip
with nutty figs
rolled in crushed peppercorns.
Layer the fiery fruit in a jar
between bay leaves.
Store in a dark place for
three days.
Leave your offering on her
doorstep.
2.
Sweeten your mother-in-law,
a small, crepey woman in a
black dress
smelling of mothballs,
with stuffed quails roasted in
thick balsamic sauce,
followed by ricotta-rose
cheesecake and marzipan-filled figs.
Spill velvet-pink petals over
her plate.
3.
Soothe inflamed ulcers and
lesions
with a steamed fig, slippery
elm, flaxseed poultice.
Wrap around the weeping skin
in a muslin cloth.
4.
Pick a ribbed fig from the
tree at twilight.
Split the dark cocoon in two.
Rub the wart with amber pulp
and seeds.
Tie the halves together again.
Bury them in the flinty earth
under the waning moon.
5.
Cure fatigue, insomnia or
nightmares
by boiling milk poured in a
pail
with sun-baked figs and
turmeric.
Add lavender honey to taste.
Drink slowly.
6.
Bind three white Cilento figs
with a crimson ribbon for
dreams of love.
Place the fruit under your
pillow.
In the morning,
loop the ribbon around your
waist.
If your heart is in your
mouth,
sear it, eat it with figs.
Beguile your partner with
fig-leaf absolute
dabbed along the curve of your
neck.
Wear almond blossoms in your
hair.
Dance on a terrace with a view
of the harbour,
to the flashing grin of an
accordionist
who smells of sulphur and
plays like the devil.
Clap your hands. This is no
time to tiptoe.
8.
On a balmy midsummer evening,
wrap up your al fresco meal
at the warped wooden table
under the plane tree
with blistered grilled figs,
spoonfuls of soft mascarpone
drizzled with orange blossom
and rose water.
Smell the mimosa.
Don’t wipe the sugary smudge
from your chin.
Carry the sated silence to
bed.
9.
Arouse your lover with plump,
purple figs in a cool bowl of water.
Break the thin, moist skin
with your fingers.
Close your eyes. Listen to
your breathing.
10.
On a windy day welcome your
new neighbours across the pasture.
Make them feel at home with capocollo,
a sausage of figs, almonds,
pistachios and cinnamon.
Fold in leaves
left in a basket on the porch.
Follow the dung
trail home, a wasp
hovering at your shoulder.
11.
In autumn, line your pantry
shelves with jars of fig jam
scented with cardamom pods.
Seal in the sunshine
with smooth wax discs and
screw-top lids.
12.
Feed a hungry family
with slow-cooked pork loin and
Adriatic fig stuffing.
Serve with golden polenta.
Garnish with watercress.
Open bottles of the full
bodied local wine.
Taste the olive-wood smoke,
the measure of November’s
indulgences.
When the sky pops and hisses
with stars,
celebrate the year’s trailing
tail.
Prepare fig fillets stuffed
with amaretti biscotti
and smoky chocolate slivers.
Serve with steaming espressos
before midnight.
Va bene.
Michelle McGrane
Update: Julia has some incredible news, her new poetry collection called Bird Sisters will be published next spring. Please pop over and say congratulations! [click here]
I never tire of this poem. x
ReplyDeleteIt is just so....sumptuous.
DeleteIt is now in my 'book'.
xxx