sweet margareta
dreamy taste of summer, smoke
much exclamation!
So I'm no poet. Here's one by Billy Collins who inspired my own attempt. He mentioned that about one in thirty haiku are successful. This is one of his:
Awake in the dark—
so that is how rain sounds
on a magnolia.
It's okay but does it mention Nomad Pizza? No.
Jamie drove down to join me at the Dodge Poetry Festival on Saturday and we spent the afternoon and most of the evening listening to readings (and a storyteller) with hundreds of other pilgrims at Waterloo Village. It was inspiring and exciting to see the breadth and talent of those who practice this art form.
Poetry nourished our souls that afternoon and left us with ravenous appetites for the evening line up under the big top. And we were hungry. Barbara had told of the amazing brick oven pizza truck at the festival this year and we found it, a modified '49 REO Speedwagon (Dad, are you reading this?), shoe-horned between jerk BBQ, deep-fried oreos, funnel cake and corn dogs.
What a sight! There actually is a brick oven built into the truck with a roaring wood fire inside. There was a long line but it moved along nicely as pizzas were pushed in and pulled out with surprising speed. Once inside, the thin dough puffed up and baked quickly, emerging lightly charred. These were beautiful pies! Of the two types offered we chose Margareta over pepperoni. Each flavorful bite contained the taste of fresh tomatoes, basil and the woodsy light-as-air crust.
Artichoke by Robin Robertson
The nubbed leaves
come away
in a tease of green, thinning
down to the membrane:
the quick, purpled
beginnings of the male.
Then the slow hairs of the heart:
the choke that guards its trophy,
its vegetable goblet.
The meat of it lies,
displayed
up-ended, al-dente,
the stub-root aching in its oil.
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