Day Five

Today, a “golden shovel” poem, inspired by the Day Five optional prompt at NaPoWriMo.net, and using the words of one of the suggested poems, this one by Charles Simic:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas

On the fruit stand.

We eat the smile

And spit out the teeth.

- Charles Simic

The nifty challenge is this:  You can read his poem by reading the final word in each line of my subsequent "golden shovel" poem.

I liked this prompt so much that I kept on with it, using the exact same poem to stretch my imagination several times in different directions.  I found ‘spit’ to be the most challenging word to incorporate, but isn’t it the necessity of an acute problem that pulls for the most creativity ?

Here are four versions, in order of their emergence, driven by the same ending words for each line.

Saying grace for a lovers’ picnic

Paths that wind through bursting green

traveling silent as buddhas

the feather-soft of trails we’re on

disturbing not a one, to taste the

shimmer song of tandem fruit.

Lush as down, in an open stand

single file through the archway we

sigh a blessing, kneel to eat

through pores and passages the

many visions of your smile.

Delving newly into familiar and

luscious ground, leaving traces glazed with spit

no pinkie lifted, no slurping left out

this is the last supper, the

christening of love, sliding over tongue and teeth.

First Mate

you liked them green.

“unspoiled buddhas”

you said.  sex with the lights on,

not so hard to get past the

hard shell to the fruit

and leave them in a thoughtful shoulder stand.
as if you hadn’t -- we

hadn’t had enough to eat

in days of good fortune, the

ease of getting by on a smile.
just my luck, and

here I am, trapped eddying behind the spit

that formed from your love siphoning out

while you danced with the

excellent rose between your teeth.

Embarrassed

rows of green

figurines, laughing buddhas,
with a smile permanently turned on.

you take your time selecting the

most right identical one, as if it were fruit,

and I do my best to stand
far away from you, not a part of ‘we’

because my pride is that hard to eat,

and there are real yoginis here, flashing the

epitome of that smile,
but it’s live, and genuine, and

it makes me so jealous I could spit

so instead I dash awkwardly out

jangling the peaceful strand of bells, the

tiger showing all its teeth.

The Recipe

jealousy is coloured green

forbidden to buddhas
but precisely what turns me on

is maybe, probably, the

lure of forbidden fruit.

it’s not a one-night stand
but a long-term, ill-fated sense of ‘we’

that yields nothing to eat

while the honor drains out of you, the

impetus for your smile,
the tastiness of “I can’t” becomes “tomorrow again” and

we are roasting on a spit

of waiting to be found out

or if not that, the

digging in of innocent teeth.

 

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