10 June 07
Cynara: Historical Geography of an Artichoke
I sit and draw
the king of artichokes
I couldn’t eat
for pride—
consumed, now, by aphids
that are
herded by ants.
The mighty fall.
It can still maim, though:
the blood flows.
Flowed:
Al-Andalus,
honey and fruit and
artichokes
(and learning and
all that)—
fallen to greed
and stupid zeal, to
swine-eaters.
We don’t learn much.
I hear whispers
beyond the freeway and freights
of fountains, singing.
Past. Mint tea
and tiles and
lemon trees
that shaded
courtyards.
Gone.
The honeybees die
yet
without a thought
the artichoke
blooms.
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Lovely – both your drawings and the poem.
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Oh, this is lovely … and am reading it after having watched Pan’s Labyrinth!