The Poetry Of.
Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Nasturtiums
I am thinking poetry....
The phones for once are quiet,
and there are long shadows
inside my room.
At an open window
curtains quiver.
On the hillside
nasturtiums bloom.
Through sense memory,
or euphoric recall,
I am reminded
of their peppery taste.
Nasturtiums,
also known as "Indian Cress,"
cousins to the radish,
fill my wooden bowl
with their asymmetrical
celadon leaves.
Scattered on top,
a bright profusion of flowers,
mostly orange, but some bright yellow,
or the muted colour of Devon cream,
others in total contrast,
a velvety, dark, burgundy hue,
tantalise, tease,
with their piquant promise.
I used to always cook with flowers
when my life was simpler
and my thumb greener.
Squash blossoms
fried in a cornmeal batter were a staple
at my dinner table.
On lazy, sun drenched mornings in Mellery,
roses, boiled with sugar cane,
and reduced to a thick, sweet, ruby red syrup,
was dripped, from Georgian silver spoons onto Belgian waffles.
Rose petal coolers were sipped in summer
beneath the majestic magnolia trees
as bees hummed their drone-like litany.
The tiny blue flowers
of the rosemary,
the pink and purple blossoms
of the thyme and sage,
dotted the bottom
of a large, brown, glazed Mexican bowl,
as we drizzled fruity,
hot, virgin, olive oil
from a copper saucepan
over them,
then added more chopped herbs
to steep,
sending up an aromatic prayer
to the kitchen gods.
Then we poured this scented oil
into another bowl
overflowing with cooked pasta shells.
Once anointed,
we carried them,
ceremoniously, through
the catacomb of alabaster,
white, sun bleached rooms
out to the verandah,
to our waiting guests,
who, with forks raised,
and starched, white linen napkins tucked
into blue collars,
or rib-necked sweaters,
awaited this magnificent feast,
the ultimate gift
from Mother Earth
The Ginger Jar
After you left,
Peter found
a large, glazed,
antique,
kaolin,
Chinese ginger jar
while rummaging
in the attic
next door.
With his long,
spidery,
flamenco fingers
he "gingerly"
passed it down
the ladder
to me.
Beneath the glaze,
painted orchids
grow on thin stems,
while butterflies danse
an erratic
pleine aire ballet.
Three handles
protrude,
sculpted,
then coiled
in the image
of three golden snakes,
guarding
some ancient treasure
From the imitation,
cut crystal vase,
I moved your bouquet
of fragrant freesia,
mixed in with
the serrated,
glossy
green leaves,
on sturdy stalks,
and the feathery,
small white,
(as yet)
unidentified
blossoms,
into the ginger jar
I tenderly
rearranged them
then placed it
"feng shui"
upon its own
inverted image
on the polished,
Louis quatorze,
mahogany table
where we three
had shared
so many
candlelight,
exotic,
gourmet,
midnight
meals.
They make
a whole new statement.
I wish
he had found it
before you left.
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