I blame this one on David.
Then again, I could say that about so many things, foremost amongst them my occasional tendency to sit down and write with a sense of purpose. Entirely his fault.
Today, towards the tail end of a leisurely summer evening run, our conversation turned towards our combined body of unpublished work and its relative merits. Suffice it to say that the totality of this work, if set alight, could go a long way towards alleviating our dependence on foreign oil. David asked "Have you taken a look at any of it lately? You should at least post it on your blog or something".
I've had friends like this before. "C'mon. How cold can the water be? Here, have another beer"
Or "Of course we can fly your tent like a kite in this freak windstorm. What could possibly go wrong"?
And so I found myself tonight with my wife and kids safely on the East Coast as I dug through the file folder labeled ominously "JSR Personal". And there, amidst the letters and baby pictures and inexplicable relics, I found a sheaf of poems that I hadn't seen in years. This is one of them.
Thanks, Quigg.
The Cook's Prayer
"The true fine arts number five: Painting, sculpture, music, dance, and architecture – the foremost branch of which is confectionary".
--Careme
God, let me be foremost a painter
That I might capture on a single plate
The languor of a summer afternoon.
Grant me as well a sculptor's eye, to see
Each object's dormant inner form, that I
Might draw potential out with practiced hands.
And like an architect, who balances
The usefulness and beauty of a thing
Grant me the knowledge of a golden mean.
Teach me to sense, as true musicians do
The time to blend in seamless harmony
But also when to soar on high, alone.
And like a dancer, grant me simple grace
To fully realize my every move
Such that my very passage through a space
Embodies the transmission of great love.
