Welcome to where I am, where my kitchen's always messy, a pot's (or a poet) always about to boil over, a dog is always begging to be fed. Drafts of poems on the counter. Windows filled with leaves. Wind. Clouds moving over the mountains. If you like poetry, books, and music--especially dog howls when a siren unwinds down the hill-- you'll like it here.


MY NEW AUTHOR'S SITE, KATHRYNSTRIPLINGBYER.COM, THAT I MYSELF SET UP THROUGH WEEBLY.COM, IS NOW UP. I HAD FUN CREATING THIS SITE AND WOULD RECOMMEND WEEBLY.COM TO ANYONE INTERESTED IN SETTING UP A WEBSITE. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT MY NEW SITE TO KEEP UP WITH EVENTS RELATED TO MY NEW BOOK.


MY NC POET LAUREATE BLOG, MY LAUREATE'S LASSO, WILL REMAIN UP AS AN ARCHIVE OF NC POETS, GRADES K-INFINITY! I INVITE YOU TO VISIT WHEN YOU FEEL THE NEED TO READ SOME GOOD POEMS.

VISIT MY NEW BLOG, MOUNTAIN WOMAN, WHERE YOU WILL FIND UPDATES ON WHAT'S HAPPENING IN MY KITCHEN, IN THE ENVIRONMENT, IN MY IMAGINATION, IN MY GARDEN, AND AMONG MY MOUNTAIN WOMEN FRIENDS.




Thursday, September 15, 2011

BASIL

When I was a young thing, wanting to be a poet (why would I?  who would care?  who reads poetry anyway?) I met Gibbons Ruark.  I was a student at UNC-Greensboro and he took an interest in my work.  He and his wife Kay had two adorable little girls.   He wrote poetry about his family, his place,  his lost father.  Later he and his wife lived in Italy, thanks to a grant from which foundation I can't remember.   This poem from that time is one of my favorites.


We think of basil as Italian, but it orginated in India, as did so many of our herbs and spices.  Maybe basil is how Krishna seduced the gopis?  No matter.   Basil is definitely an erotic presence in this poem.


BASIL


There in Fiesole it was always fresh
In the laneway where the spry grandfather
Tipped you his smile in the earliest wash
Of sunlight, piling strawberries high and higher
In a fragile pyramid of edible air.
Light down the years, the same sun rinses your dark
Hair over and over with brightness where
You kneel to stir the earth among thyme and chard,
Rosemary and the gathering of mints,
The rough leaf picked for tea this summer noon,
The smooth one saved for pesto in the winter,
For the cold will come, though you turn to me soon,
Your eyes going serious green from hazel,
Your quick hand on my face the scent of basil.



----Gibbons Ruark


Oh, but I am not in Italy.   I am here at home in the Appalachian mountains, picking the last of our basil, having neglected it during weeks of worry about a parent's illness.  My hand are laved with the scent of basil.  The scent floats through the kitchen, the living room.  I rub my nose with it.  I rub it in my hair.   I would make ink from it and write my own poem with the scent of basil.



4 comments:

Vicki Lane said...

Such a lovely poem! Yes, the scent of basil, like that of lavender and of Italian parsley, is quite intoxicating. But before you rub it all in your hair, dear Kay, save out a leaf or two to add to a pimento cheese sandwich (along with a slice of tomato) for what one of my blog friends calls that certain je ne sais quoi. It was her idea and it is delicious...

Kathryn Stripling Byer said...

Oh my, basil and pimento cheese. I lust after pimento cheese but I haven't had it in a long, long time because I've been trying to be good about my diet. Phooey. I'm ready for some real pimento cheese. The best I ever had was years ago at City Lights Cafe when Joyce was still the proprietress. It came with some fabulous pasta salad, too.
But it didn't have basil.
I think I'll make some for lunch tomorrow.
We had pesto tonight, which wasn't half bad.

The Gooseberry Garden said...

seasonal and delicious poetry.

The Gooseberry Garden said...

welcome sharing your poetry with us today,

first time participants can link in 1 to 3 random poems, you can also write for our challenge.

keep up the excellence.