Poetry Friday: "Ode to Chocolate" by Barbara Crooker

Each morning, before I let in emails, peek at texts, hold my breath for the news, or face the general insanity of our current world, I let in poetry. 

Sip of black coffee, a poem. Another sip, and another. Two more poems. I sip my way through a collection, savoring, rereading, soaking in language, reflection, truth. Poems steep me in laughter, angst, recognition, melancholy, nostalgia, determination, resolve, appreciation. Humanity. 

Through poetry, I am steeped in humanity. 

I just finished Naomi Shihab Nye's Grace Notes and now I'm revisiting Barbara Crooker's Some Glad Morning. It's packed with goodness, so do buy it. (It's National Poetry Month — buy all the poetry you can.) The poem I'm sharing today isn't in this particular collection but odes to chocolate are evergreen, universal, and as necessary as air. ("Ode to Chocolate" appears in Crooker's book More.) Swoon with me, won't you? 

Ode to Chocolate
by Barbara Crooker

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds
of cream diluting the dark night sky,
don't want pralines or raisins, rubble
in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee
black, my beer from Germany, wine
from Burgundy, the darker, the better.
I like my heroes complicated and brooding,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

You might also like this conversation between Crooker and Elizabeth Berg, from 2021: 

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The Poetry Friday round-up this week is hosted by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem. 

Photo courtesy of StockSnap at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: When a poem gobsmacks

It's surprising sometimes, the way Poetry Friday just works. You think of a poet, and you're drawn to that person, their poem, that moment. And it's the perfect poem for that imperfect day. 

This morning, coming late to the Poetry Friday party, I thought, "What shall I throw into the mix? What about some Barbara Crooker? What about that one mentioning glorious things around us?" These are days when I find myself looking for glorious moments in the smallest of things. 

I found the poem and was gobsmacked. I'd completely forgotten that this poem swerves into mention of her mother, medically struggling day by day. I looked at the screen, blinked, looked left, then right, as if I'd see the source of this coincidence. I didn't see anything, but I feel it. All around us. 

Later today I'll go to the hospital where my mother, too, is having more bad days than good, where I, too, will look around and try, try fervently, to remember all that is glorious around us. 

All That Is Glorious Around Us

is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a café warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,

....

(Read the rest of Barbara Crooker's poem here.) 

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Wonderful, talented Susan Thomsen is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Chicken Spaghetti. 

Poetry Friday: In the Middle, by Barbara Crooker

The leaves haven't fallen, as Crooker's have in this poem, but a season is turning at our house. 

Atticus has a meeting for school today and returns to work next week. How does August barrel in at such an alarming speed every year? Couldn't it, just once, take its sweet time and meander into town, instead of plowing through and uprooting everything? Time is that strange, wibbly-wobbly* thing and we are somehow always in the middle of it. In honor of Barbara Crooker, this poem, and the arrival of August, maybe today would be a good day to steal some hammock time from Time. 

In the Middle 

by Barbara Crooker 

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's, 

struggling for balance, juggling time. 

The mantle clock that was my grandfather's 

has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time 

to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still, 

the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window, 

green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen, 

...

 (Read the rest here.)

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Be sure to catch the entire Poetry Friday round-up this week at 

A(nother) Year of Reading, where Mary Lee is adjusting to August and the passage of time 

in her own way, as a newly-retired teacher. 

(Photo thanks to Pixabay.) 

*Thank you, Tenth Doctor, for "wibbly-wobbly": 

Poetry Friday: Some October

After resurfacing last week with news of Atticus, cancer, and the smudgy blur that was the beginning of our school year, I'm back this week with some lines from Barbara Crooker which feel achingly appropriate. I know so many of you can claim the same kinship:

Some October 
by Barbara Crooker

Some October, when the leaves turn gold, ask
me if I've done enough to deserve this life
I've been given. A pile of sorrows, yes, but joy
enough to unbalance the equation.

(Read the rest here.)

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Barbara Crooker. She's just one of those lovely gifts to and from the universe.

She writes of the ordinary, painting it with extraordinary color and depth. She makes me think, and sigh, and laugh. I always associate her with autumn, for some reason. Crisp and lovely, golden hues, endings and beginnings.

If you've never read her, you can find her books here.

And go here for a little Poetry Friday bonus, Crooker's Poem of the Month, "Halloween."

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The Poetry Friday round up is at Friendly Fairy Tales.