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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391962" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Kitchen Poem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">An Elegy for Tristan Tzara </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the hungry kitchen<br>The dog sings for its dinner.<br>The housewife is writing her poem<br>On top of the frigidaire<br>Something like this:</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 'Hear in the kitchen<br> The crows fly home<br> Into the red-robed trees<br> That walk across the sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Hear under the floor<br> The three fountains rising and<br> Trickling through the bridge<br> Into the sea of poems.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the kitchen the housemother<br>Pours soup for her thousand children<br>As her man eats his silence<br>And the dog swallows its poem.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In all. the kitchens of Europe<br>The radio shouts good news:<br>'Millions have had no accident today<br>All wars have come to an end<br>An honest politician<br>In another country<br>Wants to become a plumber<br>All men will be equal, next year<br>Volcano vomits ice-cream<br>A silent poem has been invented.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In my holy kitchen<br> I draw the blinds of night<br> On the homes of sleep.<br> I hold the world in my palms.<br> Now that I am old<br> I can measure life with words.<br> There's a nightingale in my coffee.<br> My bread is buttered with memories.<br> Since the old woman died<br> I have two souls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I was small we had a lucky black cat.<br>We had a magic horse-shoe on the wall,<br>It was rusty and brought no luck<br>But fetched the fields into the kitchen<br>And made us not forget horses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you are old you make your own magic.<br>You speak oftener for the dead.<br>You move free in the wonderland of the past.<br>You invent a future on the other shore of death.<br>You must speak for the dead,<br>You are their rusty horse-shoe<br>In all the kitchens of the world,<br>Not the mug on the radio<br>But a thought rescued from the past.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> (There was love in the thin soup<br> A bone some lentils and great love.<br> My mother's hands were clouds.<br> There was a bluebird in the gasjet<br> When she bathed us by the kitchen fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> There will be no such soup again<br> Nor such transcendent poverty.<br> I have lost the treasure of poverty.<br> The old woman is dead and buried<br> In her wonderland of oblivion,<br> But lives in my kitchen poem<br> In this 'sentimental' aside.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now that I am an old man, I think in bed.<br>I think nothing. I think poems -<br>The metronome of sleeplessness and death,<br>The art of being deliberately alone and yet<br>A centre in the vortex of the world,<br>Feelings stretched drum-tight on the grid of thought<br>As your decaying flesh taut on its bones,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sensations phantom ideas dreams, pinned bugs<br>On the living conveyor-belt of experience,<br>While in the poem you are everybody else,<br>Each poem merging into another construct,<br>All poems rationally absurd impermanent<br>------------------DADA------------ ------<br>There being no poem ever, no poet ever.<br>An old man in a kitchen, cooking words.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I am no poet I am<br> Lived by unfinishable poems,<br> The horse-shoe hammered<br> On the anvil of my brain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I think nothing. The poems think me.<br>I do not often write them down,<br>Being a structuration of the unknowable<br>That dies upon the page,<br>My inward poems whispered for the dead<br>While the living bury the living<br>With foul political slogans.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> An owl is hooting in my poem<br> Which sleep will end.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Good night, poet of life,<br> Be with me always.<br> I give you my kitchen poem,<br> Immortal TRISTAN.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Francis+Scarfe">Francis Scarfe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391962" data-title="Kitchen Poem de Francis Scarfe" data-description="An Elegy for Tristan Tzara In the hungry kitchen The dog sings for its dinner. The housewife is writing her poem On top of the frigidaire Something like this: 'Hear in the kitchen The crows fly ho..."></div> </div> </div>
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