Hi, hello, how are you?
And welcome to Cake & Poetry! I’m glad you’re here.
Back-to-school seemed like a good time to start, but of course I dragged my feet (I always have been a little reluctant, and getting good and ready does take time), and now it’s midterm (!) in my world, and I’m doing my first post on Ye Olde Substack.
Anyway! Hi!
Remember the good parts of school? Oof! No? Too bad! But I hope “no” is not your answer if you’ve ever taken a class with me. Because I always say, and truly believe, that we better have fun at least sometimes or else I’m not doing it.
Cake & Poetry will be like that: the good parts of school taken out of the classroom and transformed — ta da! — into this nifty newsletter.
I like to keep things moving when I teach. So, same here. A little of this, a little of that.
Hope you find what you need.
Now let’s get going.
First things first, it’s October, so I’m thinking of John Keats. You too? I knew it! Let’s remind ourselves how good this poem is. If you want to learn about the music of poetry (indeed, how poetry is music), this poem is an excellent place to start.
TO AUTUMN John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
That poem feels like Fall, doesn’t it?
And the bees have definitely been busy in my garden. I’ve become their photographer. It’s good work and I enjoy it.
In a later post, I’ll talk some about my attempts at creating a cutting garden and, especially, about dahlias, one of which (bottom right corner) is pictured here.
Speaking of dahlias and autumn and the poignancy of endings, I always forget about this poem of mine. I don’t think it’s been published anywhere...
AUTUMN Mary Ann Samyn Poignancy of fruition. Dahlias at last. Resting here for a moment, like the bee asleep on the sedum. Notice, each life has its own length. Does anyone else remember Holly Hobbie? I had the dolls, big and little; I had my head in the game then, could climb the gate if need be. Now, peace is intoxicating. A neighbor says she’s perfectly satisfied. Me too, I tell her. A memorable day, we can agree. Think about a time you didn’t know was the last time. "Funny Money" was what my mom won and spent those final years. When she died, it went back to being worthless. Some changes are forever. I wrote that, once. Now, you can blur your background on Zoom. I don’t bother but notice who does. Altitude is our friend, says the would-be pilot to anyone who will listen. In the airport, the sorry—excuse me song plays on repeat. A children’s song? Or just like one, on purpose? But maybe they will is a younger me, still hoping, the sky right there anyway—look!—through the leaves.
Oh, Holly Hobbie! Here she is, far right, freshly laundered after, oh, 40 years or so in the basement! Is that Amy on the left? And little Holly and little Amy? Hmmm. . . not sure. Anyway! Love them! Obviously.
What about you? Writing much? Here’s a prompt, if you want one:
Begin with three literal images you saw / heard / tasted / touched / smelled today.
Add one — just one! — abstraction. An idea or feeling. The one you’ve been mulling over. Just say it. Be direct.
Add one memory and one wish. Holly Hobbie comes to mind again for me. She’s a memory and a wish.
Say something about the weather, even if you already have. The weather is our friend!
Ask a question.
Answer a different question than the one asked. (Poets know: this is key!)
There! You should have about 8-12 lines. Don’t know what a line is? Keep at it and you will, in time.
Read your poem aloud. Always. Many times. Memorize it, if you can. Not forever and ever, maybe, but for today. Can’t? Well, that’s good info, isn’t it? The music might need some attention. A good line latches on.
Did you surprise yourself? The best poems are full of surprises, especially for the poet. My beloved teacher Charles Wright once told me that of our own poems we love best those that continue to surprise us. To elude us.
Now, go back and make one small change to improve your poem.
The littlest thing could make a big difference and often does.
Step back to see.
In case you really want to relive your school days, my students at WVU and I are reading lots of good things. In a topics in creative writing course, our topic is story: how it works, why we’re drawn to it, and how, as writers, we can create more compelling stories, across genres. So far, we’ve read The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, a book that never fails to move me as a reader and impress me as a writer. Worth reading and re-reading.
Now we’re reading A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, which includes this exchange that certainly got my attention:
"... Why do you want your father?" "Didn't you ever have a father yourself," Meg demanded. "You don't want him for a reason. You want him because he's your father."
Wow. Yes. I get that. I am not a sci-fi/fantasy fan and never read this book as a kid, but now I know plot is one thing and story is something else, something bigger and deeper, more necessary and more lasting. If you’ve not read this book, I recommend it.
Cake & Poetry began, as I describe in the About page, as a homemade cookbook that I shared with my sisters and sister-in-law. It was much like what you’re reading now: poems, writing prompts, seasonal whatnot, nostalgia (I’m always up for that), and, of course, recipes. I won’t claim to invent recipes out of thin air, but I do try to add my own flair.
For the very first recipe here, I’m going to share one of my signature bakes, as they say, and I hope you’ll add your own touch, too. Oh, and I consider this A Very Michigan Cookie because, of course, of the dried cherries. And if you know me, you know how much I love Michigan. All in all, this is an excellent cookie. Bake some and find out.
Two versions here: one (left) with the full amount of oats, and one (right) when I was running out of oats (but did have white choc chips to add in) and ended up with a thinner cookie. Both delicious!
TRIPLE CHOCOLATE-DRIED CHERRY-COCONUT OATMEAL COOKIES adapted from The Lake Michigan Cottage Cookbook by Amelia Levin Note: last time I made these — just last week! — I added white chocolate chips, so these could also be Quadruple Chocolate... but "triple" is a nicer word, so I'm sticking with that. 1 ¼ cups unsalted butter, softened (that’s 2 ½ sticks-!) ¾ cup brown sugar, firmly packed (I like dark brown) ½ cup granulated sugar 1 egg 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground cloves ½ teaspoon salt 2 ½ -3 cups old-fashioned oats 1 cup dried tart cherries 1 cup mixed chocolate chips (milk, semi-sweet, dark) ½ cup (or more) coconut Preheat the oven to 350. Beat together the butter and both sugars until light and fluffy. Using a KitchenAid mixer is easiest. Add the egg and vanilla. In a separate bowl, combine four, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, and salt. Add to the mixer and beat until dough is blended. Using the mixer and/or a spoon, add the oats (I add ½ cup at a time), cherries, chocolate chips, and coconut. Line a baking sheet with parchment. Using a ice cream scoop or ¼ measuring cup, drop batter onto the sheet, three inches apart. Do not crowd! Bake 12-13 minutes until the cookies are golden brown. Let stand for a few minutes before cooling on wire racks. Makes about 24 cookies. These cookies freeze well for future emergencies (know what I mean?).
And here’s a seasonal version: Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies, made just last week using this recipe. Delicious!
I can’t end this post without thanking
of The Creative Shift for a very motivating Zoom last week, hosted by . I think this photo, which I took while listening to the Zoom session, captures my approach to all things school and work and Substack-related: a little serious note-taking + a little serious organizing of M&Ms. A good mix, no?
What’s to come? I’m glad you asked. The answer: good stuff: more poetry, writing prompts, announcements about readings and workshops (early planning stages right now for something in Northern Michigan in 2024). . . plus, a discussion of paper dolls (yes, really), growing dahlias and what I’ve learned (mostly, patience), cake and quick bread and soup recipes. . . and maybe an opportunity to get some feedback from me on your work if I can sort out the logistics.
Stay tuned! And if liked what you read and want to be a subscriber, that would be fun!
It feels like there’s something I’m forgetting to tell you, but isn’t that often the way? And there’s always next time. The plan is to post about twice a month. Could it be more? It could.
For now, let’s end on a bit o’ thinking about poetry. For several years, I’ve been keeping a list of deep-ish thoughts about poetry and writing and teaching after 30 years of practice. I’ll end each post with a nugget or two, ok? So, here goes:
We use metaphors -- that is, we go to them -- all the time. But they work their magic, lightning quick, when we really need them. In a flash, we see what we otherwise couldn't. * The danger of placeholders in poetry is that you might believe them.
Thank you again for reading! Talk soon! Take good care.
Yay! Thanks for the kind mention.