The Long and Winding Road by Kim M. Baker
Spring has sprung, Poetry Pals! And in this ninth issue of Word Soup, we have a cornucopia of spring poetry bounty to offer. It is an honor to continue to publish the poetry of those poets who are willing to share their talent with us and willing to feed hungry people in their local communities. Thank you for submitting and thank you for reading. And please share widely.
In this issue, please enjoy the work of Martha Christina, who has a new collection of poetry forthcoming, and of Janet Reed, who is working on her first chapbook. Their generosity will feed folks in Rhode Island and in Nevada.
Our next submission period is open. I am making this an ekphrastic issue! I will publish as many stories you can tell our avid readers about the photograph on our "Submit" page and whatever you see, smell, taste, hear, and touch around and outside it. Go bold, art and poetry lovers! We can't wait to see what you have for us.
Spring gratitude,
Kim
Cultivating Joy by Martha Christina
Suppose Joy were a seed
I could order from Burpee’s,
like a morning glory
or a scarlet runner bean.
Suppose it could be
started in a peat pot
in the south window
and could be set out
once the threat of frost
were past: Joy’s cotyledon
unfurling and vining,
remaking the landscape
of my dark heart,
overgrowing grief
and nostalgia until
Memory’s pruning
could no longer
contain it.
Very Early Spring
Where snow muted
the landscape, crocuses
now brighten it,
today’s sky as blue
as the tarp covering
my grandson’s wagon.
Enough ice-melt
held there to make
a lake for his toy boats,
or wet the dry throats
of many thirsty children
with empty cups.
She Heats a Can of Alphabet Soup
Pasta letters sink and swirl,
resurface as she ladles a bowlful.
Madrid, 19--,
in the hotel dining room
the waiter practices
his English. . .
There are
stars in the consommé,
he says, then whispers:
Sopa romántica.
She spoons letters out, arranges them
on the rim of her bowl: Recuerdo.
Chocolate
1.
The new mother
nicknames her baby
“Chocolate,” covers
his delicious skin
with kisses.
2.
Every birthday
he asks for
the same
chocolate cake
tender and crumbly
bound together
with chocolate frosting.
3.
To celebrate
his return
from Iraq
she baked again
his namesake cake.
He wouldn’t,
couldn’t,
eat; threw
it against
the kitchen wall.
His dark
goodness
ruined.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities: A Mini-Mag of Minimalist Poems. Her longer work has been published in Bryant Literary Review, Crab Orchard Review, Main Street Rag, The Orange Room Review, Red Eft Review, and elsewhere. Her first collection, Staying Found, was published by Fleur-de-lis Press, and a second collection, Against Detachment, is forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press.
The Shopkeeper by Janet Reed
“By their fruits you will know them.” Matt. 7:16
Soon after sunup on July mornings,
the owner of Jenkins Grocery
steered her ‘55 Chevy into the lot
of a wholesale fruit market
and began her day’s work
picking fruit from bins of plenty.
A younger version of myself
sleepily watched her duel with
the crates of melons and Vidalias,
and choose tomatoes and beans
bursting from homemade stands
worn slick from the oils and skins
of greens that had stayed too long.
She thumped and sniffed,
casting a careful eye for bruises,
choosing what would best sell
today but still work tomorrow
Riding shotgun, selections stowed,
the morning wind rushing my face,
I smelled the sweetness of peaches
and cantaloupes mingling with stems
of freshly broken beans and wet dirt
still clinging to roots and grooves
of beets and carrots, the cornucopia
of her corner store, and learned the law
of natural selection and the rightness
of honest work. Later, I watched
her stand beside those choices while
her customers thumped and sniffed,
and looked for bruises. As her register
chimed their medley of provisions,
I saw that an eye for value,
a nose for boldness, and hands for work
made the shopkeeper’s character
the bones and heart of her store.
My Proustian Onyx Ring
Its black bed glistens like a portal --
a hologram through gold filigree,
bringing a past and person
I hunger for into clear focus
through its diamond eye.
It’s a mood ring of memories
of two lives lived, now gone,
and a girl who loved them both.
Given in friendship, love even,
the woman wore that black stone
on her bridal hand until the end.
On my finger, it’s a band of time
showing small moments:
a shared talk over a pop,
a baseball game on transistor radio,
a summer night on the porch
screening out the fireflies,
their flashing points of light
hovering in the air for a split second
marking the making of big differences
in a girl’s life. I see her brown eyes
encased by black-rimmed glasses,
and silver hair the color of tinsel
cuffing cheeks tufted with powder;
if I’m still enough, a scent of perfume
from a vintage bottle tickles my nose.
Vivid are Saturday nights at a dive
called Crank’s where gum-smacking
gals in blue aprons poured coffee
until closing, letting two old friends,
maybe lovers, give homilies to folks
I knew and never did, their tales told
over burgers and fries to a girl
tagging along and admiring the black
stone ringing the storyteller’s hand.
On those nights, the lights danced
with the diamond shape-shifting
the moment into a damsel’s fairy ring,
when the woman would pause and point
to the chocolate sundae on the menu,
a parfait glass topped with chocolate
syrup dripping down and puddling
in its center, clouds of whipped cream
holding a bright red cherry above
the fray, lean into the girl and whisper:
“You can have two scoops of ice cream.”
Janet Reed earned her Master's degree in English Literature from Pittsburg State University in Kansas. She now teaches writing, literature, and theater at Crowder College in Missouri, where she clings to the Oxford comma and refuses to accept plural pronouns with singular nouns. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals, and she is currently working on her first chapbook.
In this issue, please enjoy the work of Martha Christina, who has a new collection of poetry forthcoming, and of Janet Reed, who is working on her first chapbook. Their generosity will feed folks in Rhode Island and in Nevada.
Our next submission period is open. I am making this an ekphrastic issue! I will publish as many stories you can tell our avid readers about the photograph on our "Submit" page and whatever you see, smell, taste, hear, and touch around and outside it. Go bold, art and poetry lovers! We can't wait to see what you have for us.
Spring gratitude,
Kim
Cultivating Joy by Martha Christina
Suppose Joy were a seed
I could order from Burpee’s,
like a morning glory
or a scarlet runner bean.
Suppose it could be
started in a peat pot
in the south window
and could be set out
once the threat of frost
were past: Joy’s cotyledon
unfurling and vining,
remaking the landscape
of my dark heart,
overgrowing grief
and nostalgia until
Memory’s pruning
could no longer
contain it.
Very Early Spring
Where snow muted
the landscape, crocuses
now brighten it,
today’s sky as blue
as the tarp covering
my grandson’s wagon.
Enough ice-melt
held there to make
a lake for his toy boats,
or wet the dry throats
of many thirsty children
with empty cups.
She Heats a Can of Alphabet Soup
Pasta letters sink and swirl,
resurface as she ladles a bowlful.
Madrid, 19--,
in the hotel dining room
the waiter practices
his English. . .
There are
stars in the consommé,
he says, then whispers:
Sopa romántica.
She spoons letters out, arranges them
on the rim of her bowl: Recuerdo.
Chocolate
1.
The new mother
nicknames her baby
“Chocolate,” covers
his delicious skin
with kisses.
2.
Every birthday
he asks for
the same
chocolate cake
tender and crumbly
bound together
with chocolate frosting.
3.
To celebrate
his return
from Iraq
she baked again
his namesake cake.
He wouldn’t,
couldn’t,
eat; threw
it against
the kitchen wall.
His dark
goodness
ruined.
Martha Christina is a frequent contributor to Brevities: A Mini-Mag of Minimalist Poems. Her longer work has been published in Bryant Literary Review, Crab Orchard Review, Main Street Rag, The Orange Room Review, Red Eft Review, and elsewhere. Her first collection, Staying Found, was published by Fleur-de-lis Press, and a second collection, Against Detachment, is forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press.
The Shopkeeper by Janet Reed
“By their fruits you will know them.” Matt. 7:16
Soon after sunup on July mornings,
the owner of Jenkins Grocery
steered her ‘55 Chevy into the lot
of a wholesale fruit market
and began her day’s work
picking fruit from bins of plenty.
A younger version of myself
sleepily watched her duel with
the crates of melons and Vidalias,
and choose tomatoes and beans
bursting from homemade stands
worn slick from the oils and skins
of greens that had stayed too long.
She thumped and sniffed,
casting a careful eye for bruises,
choosing what would best sell
today but still work tomorrow
Riding shotgun, selections stowed,
the morning wind rushing my face,
I smelled the sweetness of peaches
and cantaloupes mingling with stems
of freshly broken beans and wet dirt
still clinging to roots and grooves
of beets and carrots, the cornucopia
of her corner store, and learned the law
of natural selection and the rightness
of honest work. Later, I watched
her stand beside those choices while
her customers thumped and sniffed,
and looked for bruises. As her register
chimed their medley of provisions,
I saw that an eye for value,
a nose for boldness, and hands for work
made the shopkeeper’s character
the bones and heart of her store.
My Proustian Onyx Ring
Its black bed glistens like a portal --
a hologram through gold filigree,
bringing a past and person
I hunger for into clear focus
through its diamond eye.
It’s a mood ring of memories
of two lives lived, now gone,
and a girl who loved them both.
Given in friendship, love even,
the woman wore that black stone
on her bridal hand until the end.
On my finger, it’s a band of time
showing small moments:
a shared talk over a pop,
a baseball game on transistor radio,
a summer night on the porch
screening out the fireflies,
their flashing points of light
hovering in the air for a split second
marking the making of big differences
in a girl’s life. I see her brown eyes
encased by black-rimmed glasses,
and silver hair the color of tinsel
cuffing cheeks tufted with powder;
if I’m still enough, a scent of perfume
from a vintage bottle tickles my nose.
Vivid are Saturday nights at a dive
called Crank’s where gum-smacking
gals in blue aprons poured coffee
until closing, letting two old friends,
maybe lovers, give homilies to folks
I knew and never did, their tales told
over burgers and fries to a girl
tagging along and admiring the black
stone ringing the storyteller’s hand.
On those nights, the lights danced
with the diamond shape-shifting
the moment into a damsel’s fairy ring,
when the woman would pause and point
to the chocolate sundae on the menu,
a parfait glass topped with chocolate
syrup dripping down and puddling
in its center, clouds of whipped cream
holding a bright red cherry above
the fray, lean into the girl and whisper:
“You can have two scoops of ice cream.”
Janet Reed earned her Master's degree in English Literature from Pittsburg State University in Kansas. She now teaches writing, literature, and theater at Crowder College in Missouri, where she clings to the Oxford comma and refuses to accept plural pronouns with singular nouns. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals, and she is currently working on her first chapbook.