A couple of months ago I received an invitation to submit some poems, each no longer than 32 lines, to an anthology whose theme was "collecting." I collect words, so why not try to write some poems collecting words I like. I stood in the kitchen, thinking about how badly my house, especially the kitchen, need some elbow grease, as my mother used to call it. On the kitchen counter spread my out of control spice collection. Hmmmm. I was also reading Chitra Divakaruni's novels; Mistress of Spices is perhaps her best known, since it was made into a movie. I like them all, but I have to say that Sister of My Heart and
The Vine of Desire is where to begin if you don't know her work. She's also a poet and it was as a poet that I first came to know of her. As I fiddled around with the names of spices, I kept thinking of Chitra, some of the recipes she'd posted on her blog, and so ended up thinking of this as her poem.
SPRING CLEANING
for Chitra
I take stock of the spices
I've kept for too long--
coriander and cumin,
that catch-all called curry,
and paprika, accent
that's always the first earthy
syllable, rich as Hungarian
sod swirling into the gulasz.
Masala and tandoori powders
a drooping wife might sniff
to kindle her passion
for waking back up again,
turmeric turning her fingertips
golden, a pinch of it
under her lip
like my grandmother's snuff,
balm for aching wrists
after the grinding of nutmeg
and cinnamon. Cayenne
for cleansing the sinuses.
Gesundheit! my grandmother,
framed on the wall by my pantry
exclaims! Dump them
simply because expiration
dates say so? Gourmet
magazine sneering "Off with their
lids, down the drain"?
I won't do it. Just let me
stay here a little while longer,
inhaling their presence. Their names.
This painting by Cindy Davis, one of her Twenty Somethings, captures some of the imagery in Chitra's work. I love the way Cindy works with trees and their roots. I soon will have a house full of her paintings.
