A Poem for Irene

The Battery Rooftop Gardener did all he could to secure the garden against Irene.  There is no word yet on how the garden has fared, and a post will follow early in the week with post-hurricane photos and a damage report.  In the mean time, riding out the storm up here in the Hudson Highlands, I came across the following rather strident poem by D. H. Lawrence, which I thought might provide food for thought for other locovores trapped indoors on a stormy Sunday morning:

MYSTIC

They call all experience of the senses mystic, when the experience

          is considered.

So an apple becomes mystic when I taste in it

the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth

and the insistence of the sun.

All of which things I can surely taste in a good apple.

Though some apples taste preponderantly of water, wet and sour

and some of too much sun, brackish sweet

like lagoon-water, that has been too much sunned.

If I say I taste these things in an apple, I am called mystic, which

          means a liar.

The only way to eat an apple is to hog it down like a pig

and taste nothing

that is real.

But if I eat an apple, I like to eat it with all my senses awake.

Hogging it down like a pig I call the feeding of corpses.

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2 Responses to A Poem for Irene

  1. rick hamlin says:

    Singing “Goodnight Irene” here and hoping she was kind to the rooftop garden, from one mystic masticator to another…

  2. myrette robertson says:

    Hi Fred
    Delighted to read Irene did your garden no harm. We were all thinking about you as we read about subway closings. winds and flooding.
    On Stewart’s island we were watching all the yellow warblers preparing for their southern sojurn
    and wondered if any stop at your “restaurant” on their way south.
    Your photos are marvellous..
    Best regards
    Myrette Robertson

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