Kitchen Poem
By Francis Scarfe
In the hungry kitchen
The dog sings for its dinner.
The housewife is writing her poem
On top of the frigidaire
Something like this:
‘Hear in the kitchen
The crows fly home
Into the red-robed trees
That walk across the sky.
Hear under the floor
The three fountains rising and
Trickling through the bridge
Into the sea of poems.’
In the kitchen the housemother
Pours soup for her thousand children
As her man eats his silence
And the dog swallows its poem.
In all. the kitchens of Europe
The radio shouts good news:
‘Millions have had no accident today
All wars have come to an end
An honest politician
In another country
Wants to become a plumber
All men will be equal, next year
Volcano vomits ice-cream
A silent poem has been invented.’
In my holy kitchen
I draw the blinds of night
On the homes of sleep.
I hold the world in my palms.
Now that I am old
I can measure life with words.
There’s a nightingale in my coffee.
My bread is buttered with memories.
Since the old woman died
I have two souls.
