What is Poetry?

What is poetry some might ask?
It's two robots, moving tapes in unison,
A dance where neither touches it's partner.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's a lazy Saturday, nothing to do,
No concerns or regrets as time passes unnoticed.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the moment just before dawn,
The sun still hiding but painting the sky with fire.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the quiet of a forest meadow in spring,
Still but living, gentle but vivid, forgotten yet always remembered.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's a lover's touch in the night barely felt,
The waves of knowing and being known through the lightest touch.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the soft chill of the evening on a mountain pass,
The ground warm but the air with a gentle bite warning of the night cold.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the almost memory of a dream just passed,
Fading in detail but the feeling that for an instant you knew contented joy.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the last words of a beloved book,
The satisfaction of things concluded and the loss of all that's done.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's a melody half remembered and half gone,
The knowledge and feeling of all the notes dancing and then resolved.

What is poetry some might ask?
It's the pang of death and joy of birth,
All of life folded up and inward into one word.

What is poetry some might ask?
It is.

~What is Poetry? by Bethany Davis, November 8, 2015

The Smell of Fried Spaghetti

There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.

~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015