My granny did not care for my Rude Review of apples this week, internet (although I believe ‘did not like’ is perhaps a mild way of putting it), and she has challenged me to write an ode to apples that, in her words, “show[s] off your creative, cerebral and imaginative skills”.
Challenge accepted, Gran-mère.
Ode to Apples.
Where I grew up, there were apples
green and snarled
that fed the neighbour’s worms
amid the craggy branches of a malformed tree,
and where they fell they stayed
and watered their own tree with their meager life’s juices.
When I was small, I plucked those apples,
and took them to my great-grandmother’s
in hopes that she would transform them
or one of her coveted pies.
And my great-grandmother smiled,
and left my apples as an offering for the birds and the raccoons,
and took me to market
and showed me the granny smiths
and the blushing galas
and the jovially striped honey crisps.
and together we bathed their flesh in butter and spice
and put them to rest
and covered them with dough.
As our creation baked, the crabapples disappeared
giving themselves up to the woodland creatures
attracted by the strong scent of cinnamon
and roasting butter
and sweet apples.
and we had tea
and were none the wiser for the loss.
I took this prompt from a contest at FanStory.com.
Write an ode poem about any subject.
Ode to the bird outside my window, who sits and sings
in the early morning
when the light in the spring is like champagne;
bubbly and golden, tickling my back wall with irreverent fingertips.
Ode to the bird who’s built his nest of found and forgotten things
high in the branches of the maple tree that was planted a long time ago
for exactly this purpose.
Ode to he who has kept me cheerful company:
this lonely sparrow, who, miserly, lives away from his fellows in the backyard
and prefers the quietude of my window
to any other scene.
To he, who, above any other, is my companion,
Among seasons warm and cold
With his unchanging and lonely cry.
Who has safeguarded my cozy space
and kept away the blackbirds and the crows
who would otherwise crowd my window
with their black eyes
and unclean feathers.
Although he is not flashy, with his modest plumage,
he sings well,
and satisfied to bask on my windowsill
as I ready myself for the day,
he and I
share the space