That's not sex -- it's just potatoes and gravy . . . . or, "Do these thoughts make me look fat?"

  

It's a wet and windy April 1 in MN today, 

and that's unfortunately not a joke.  

The kind of April day only a Minnesotan could love . . . 

because it's not snow, of course!

Definitely a day for potatoes and gravy, now that you mention it . . . but that's not why that particular delight showed up in the title.

You may remember this piece 

Hannah gave me for Christmas:

Do These Thoughts Make Me Look Fat?, Hannah Hinckley, 2010

I've been thinking about art and what it reveals, or doesn't reveal, about its maker . . . and whether those revelations can be truly understood, or even trusted, by the viewer.

These thoughts came about as a result of my Magpie Tale contribution this week (yesterday's post), which was a poem about the Mona Lisa that wasn't actually about that painting at all.  In fact, that poem popped out on a piece of scratch paper while I was busy stitching a cow (loosely identifiable as a Texas longhorn, to be exact) earlier in the week --

an illustration of the fact
that while we're in the 
kitchen making muffins, 
our minds are often busy cooking something else entirely
for dinner. 

And that's probably a puzzler for someone 

with professional training to examine . . .

I had tucked the poem away in my stash, but when I clicked over to Magpie Tales to see what the weekly prompt was . . .  and then layered those words on top of the Mona Lisa . . . I knew the two would dance perfectly together -- I was absolutely delighted by the layers of meaning that were added to my poem when superimposed on an unrelated image.

He was the keeper of her secrets --

all the bright and dark

spots she had buried deepest

he found with ease

his arms long, his fingers

in everything, nimble

and good with knots

his words carefully shaped, a ring

of old keys working their way

through rusted locks like magic

-- smh

Kinda makes you wonder about the relationship 

between the painter and the painted, doesn't it?  

Except that it wasn't written about that relationship at all . . .

It reminded me of a poetry workshop years ago at the University of Utah in which the professor wouldn't shut up about all the sexual imagery in my poem.  I was mortified.  I felt EXACTLY like Michael Bluth felt when he suddenly found himself singing "Afternoon Delight" as karaoke with his niece at the company Christmas party . . .


Because the poem was one I had brought to the workshop on a "cheat" -- hadn't had time to do anything, so I'd grabbed something old and typed it up anew (for which I guess I deserved to be punished, and was.) 

And the poem was about 

my experiences at Y Camp

as a fourth grader.

Let me assure you that the only sex going on that year at Camp Roger was probably among the counselors, and as a fourth grader, I was blissfully unaware of any such drama.

Of course, looking at it now there WAS a bit of eyebrow-raising imagery in that poem, but I assure you it was purely coincidental.

In the ensuing years, I've had to make peace with the fact that my poetry often "reeks of sex and pleasure" . . . (a line we saw years ago on a London bus stop poster advertising a play of some sort.  The line immediately lodged in our family's permanent lexicon.)


I have no explanations for this phenomenon.

I guess I'm just drawn to sensual words and images,
and if you use enough of those,

. . . potatoes and gravy can sound just like sex.  

Let's revisit my very first Magpie Tale:

Blue Willow

Something hidden.

I want to lick off drips

of gravy, love

ladled on brown

and thick, an ooze

around my meat

and the potatoes

crisp skinned

creamy fleshed and white,

a deep pair

of pockets ready to hold

whatever comes.

As I eat your pattern

is revealed --

a lovely memory

full and so satisfying.

--smh

After this one popped out (and my husband's eyes nearly popped out when he read it) I toyed briefly with the idea of writing a book of erotic food poetry. Looks like it comes pretty naturally to me, and I think there'd be a market.

Imagine what I could do with melted chocolate:
poured hot over ice cream, dripping, thick,
the slip of  its own melting, eager for the slide of the spoon . . .
got you thinking about sundaes, right?!









And maybe I just like potatoes and gravy more than most people.
But I really didn't think I had any particular affinity for YMCA Camp,
all of which which leads me to 

. . . question everything I've ever assumed 

when I looked at a piece of art.

When that poem was written, 
two people knew what it meant -- 
God and Robert Browning.  
And now God only knows . . .

 -- Robert Browning (apocryphal)

God and maybe 

the Mona Lisa.

ps. Looks like I'm a guest blogger over on TAFA today.

pps.  Yes, I had potatoes and gravy for lunch . . . (busted).