Chimes

Innocuous enough, Thanksgiving is the most appropriate means to hold this kind of thing. That thing is an odd blending of cuisine and poetry. I am a chef in my day job and how I come to understand art is through this first love. Cuisine has a natural ease to bring out many complex ideas. From seemingly simple foods delightful combinations create, on the palate, sensation that are unlike any experienced previously. And a dinner party, virtual or not, poetry or food, is a as meaningful a gathering for any group of people to honor anyone! Poetry like bread, grows stale if left on the counter overnight.Love is not easy. This began as a farewell toast to Charles Bernstein on his leaving from Buffalo. He always recalled my profession and I could think of no greater thing, than to cook for him and all who would attend such a thingAfter the positive responses of this menu poem, I decide to continue and choose Forrest as the guest of honor. He came to read in Buffalo that October. His poetic presence overwhelmed me and I was so taken with his work that it seemed natural. Both of these writings also occurred because I did not have the money to either invite them a wonderful restaurant, or to my home for a quite dinner. Thinking of it I still cannot. Kent Johnson treated my partner Donna and I to dinner just the other day. Well poverty has its finer points and these poems, for better or worse, are the fruits of these thorns. Nothing would make me happier than to have you over and whip up a meal. If resources were inexhaustible, I would, and can, cook the meals presented. They each are tailored to that particular poet. For instance, Forrest Ganders meal incorporates regional dishes from all the areas in which he lived. Ozark pudding is of course to celebrate his wife, C. D. Wright. Each series is decidedly different in approach and manner. In my growth as a poet I was able to explore the influence / confluence of the many poets who came into and out of my life. Robert Creeley is no more a brighter star in my being than Kent Johnson and these small poorly written poems are in no way the wonderful tribute I would be able to present, if I could only cook these out. Render these words down into the rashers of that feeling that says, holy fuck, that action this writer performed in their meaningless task as poet in a time when the world cares nothing for poets this poet means everything to me! This is my thanking Charles, Forrest, Kent, Bob, and John for everything. Which means nothing, as it is hard to convey everything that one can honor, is it not? Now pass the potatoes Ever & Affectionately,Geoffrey.