It is often said -ideas exist in things, and so we have around us an almost infinite range of possibilities for writing. Emily Dickinson wrote of possibility when she stated, -'I dwell in possibility- a fairer house than prose.'
For a poet, anything and everything is potentially treasure. Something that might seem unworthy of attention can be re-imagined by a poet's careful use of words. Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, urged us to notice the small, the inconsequential things in our world. He demonstrated his awareness of such things in his anthology, 'Odes to Common Things.'
When we begin to pay attention to the small and inconsequential, we unleash the potential for creating something that might be seen as quite grand.
Noticing things in our everyday world, improves with practice and close observation. This action, coupled with careful word choice, raises something initially thought of as ordinary, to a position of reconsidered value.
With all these thoughts swirling in my head, I felt inspired to write when I happened to come across some spring onions (scallions) well past their use by date, hiding at the back of the crisper. A small, event in my day, but a moment worthy of a poet's attention. So, I stopped to acknowledge this 'thing' I had experienced. The scallions didn't survive, but the moment has been captured...
Sit still, look around you, and imagine the wealth of poetic possibilities in the things right in front of you.
The Passing of Spring Onions
I approached the refrigerator
In the clear hope
Of opening the door
To a bounty of lunchtime inspiration.
My mind absorbed with the prospect of
Nutritious possibilities.
Instead, my eyes fell upon
Three spring onions
Huddled at the rear of the crisper
Limp and wilted,
Close to death,
Victims of neglect,
-So far removed from their initial firm, freshness.
Now, trapped in an eight degree plastic coffin
-Undeserving of such a fate
So keen to join the ranks of salad ingredients,
They were.
-Dreams dashed now.
What irony, these once snappy scallions should meet their end
In a crisper.
Alan j Wright
Oh, my. Poor little onions. What troopers for giving their lives for such a delicious poem...not even tongue in cheek but literally. I may need to take a moment to mourn.
ReplyDeletePoor little onions indeed, Linda. They are at least immortalized in my poem.
DeleteYay for ordinary things and your poem's poor onions' dashed dreams... and yes to possibility!
ReplyDeleteI'm with you on celebrating ordinary things, Irene. Those poor spring onions denied their dream...
DeleteAlan! Did you know that you can trim off the wilty green ends and submerge the rest in a glass of water and they will regrow? :) --- wish I had some scallions for my salad garden this summer!
ReplyDeleteYou have added to my knowledge and chipped away at my ignorance. I am grateful for this tip.
DeleteOh, boy...I could add to your poem with an ode to the tarra-gone-bad! Good reminder (from both you and Neruda) to find poetry in the everyday. Thanks!
ReplyDeleteLove your wordplay Mary Lee. As you are aware, poetry is right there waiting to be discovered...
DeleteYeah, I don't know if "crisper" is really the right term for that drawer...and those scallions look like the ones I trimmed and stripped and chopped up for our stirfry last night--not too far gone for ME at all! I hope yours at least had the final glory of being composted. I like "the eight-degree plastic coffin."
ReplyDeleteMaybe crisper is an oxymoron. I am an avowed composter, Heidi. Glad you liked the coffin reference.
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