The first (subscribed) junk email I get is called A Word A Day and I've been receiving these daily emails for years. I often read them quickly, however, I don't think I spend enough time with it to let the meaning of the word sink in, so I file it away and figure I'll return to it when I have more time. Which is unlikely any time in the near future. So, there they sit, in my email box waiting patiently for their knowledge to be absorbed.
The second one I receive is a relatively new source for me called The Writer's Almanac, created by Garrison Keillor. The email contains a poem followed by the mention of the birthday of notable writers and a brief synopsis of their life and/or noteworthy events in history that happened on the day. I only slightly admire poetry and quite honestly, I tend to skim over the poems in this email. But every now and then, one stops me and I think that it is too good not to share. I've posted a few poems on this blog from this source and today, I have another one. It's about my favorite pastime. Chocolate. And I could not have said it any better than how this poem does.
Ode to Chocolate
I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,
James Dean in oiled leather, leaning
on a motorcycle. You know the color.
Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars
of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten,
pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave's
interior, when all the stars
have gone to sleep.
Chocolate strolls up to the microphone
and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow
notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters
down the runway, slouches in quaint
boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi.
Chocolate stays up late and gambles,
likes roulette. Always bets
on the noir.
"Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker, from More. © C&R Press, 2010. Reprinted with permission.
