Poetry and Bread

There are days that I love being a poet. What I do scares people. Yesterday afternoon, during some porch-settin’, one of my poet friends held forth about how English is an iambic language. It isn’t that we have a ton of iambic words, she said, it’s that we have a lot of single stressed words and articles that make a phrase like “the dog” become iambic. Who knew? I can’t cite a political fact correctly to save my life, but take that fans of the English language!

I thrive on melodrama. I don’t like real drama, it stresses me out. But taking tiny instances and making them into big deals for the amusement of others? This is how I live and blog! Can I make you feel the joys and difficulties of a marriage by describing how the bittersweet is inextricably entwined with my rhododendron and the lighter green brings out the darker green of the bush without mentioning my partner once? Transform my guilt over not doing yard work into a meditation on relationships? Yes, yes I can.

And it allows me to write pretentious titles of blog posts like “poetry and bread.” And if any of you care about my newfound bread obsession, I’m making “rustic white bread” and the recipe can be found here. So good.

What are you melodramatic about?


4 responses to “Poetry and Bread

  1. Oh Indy, you disappoint me. How could a woman as adroit and sensitive as you, mistakenly describe the pure sublime beauty of contrasting green in the new growth in your rhododendron as melodrama. Get a grip Indy. This is drama. As is my sighting, in the flowering rhodo (remember New Zealand is upside down) a pair of courting grey warblers ( get that cougar). Where some read Abraham Lincoln for drama, I read roman and English pastoral poetry.

  2. Sometimes real drama stresses me out but, mostly, I have more comfort with it than I notice in people around me. When I go on about the beauty of simple things and how they affect me, I can clear the emotion out of a room until all people seem to feel is the desire to shut me up or get away from me. That’s so unsettling.

    I get very melodramatic about betrayal in my poetry, so melodramatic that no one can figure out what I’m writing about.

  3. Sports. Yesterday I was reading my book while alternately screaming at the football game on the TV for all of the helmet-to-helmet hits and how much I despise millionaire athletes getting away with causing MAJOR FUCKING INJURIES to their opponents while being fined a mere $25K which is nothing, nothing!, to a fucker who makes $10M a year!

    Me and sports. Love and hate. Melodrama.

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