Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Immigrant

My grandmother
baked honey cake
in pans bought
from a peddler
whose tongue stumbled
over English.

She skinned potatoes
into slivers,
and watched them dance
in an iron skillet.

I waited for them to cool.


Linda Watskin ©2010
PAD 5

12 comments:

  1. I can hear the crackle, Linda! Well crafted.

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  2. interesting. The idea of the honey cake is lovely, but I'm almost salivating over the hot fried potatoes. (my grandmother would have cooked hers in lard)

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  3. Lovely memories shared, Linda. I can picture both and 'wait' with you.

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  4. Ooh I can taste the expectancy!

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  5. You put so many sights, sounds, and feelings in a few words. I could smell the honey cake and appreciated where it came from. I could see the fries dancing and appreciated the patience it takes to get down to the eating. :)

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  6. Linda I love the memories in this!
    Pamela

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  7. Beautifully visual, your poem - honey cakes, potatoes dancing in an iron skillet, sweet and savory memories... for me too.

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  8. Lovely vivid memories of sights and smells and all of that expectancy,

    Elizabeth

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  9. This is simple yet so effective. A lovely poem.

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  10. it is good to remember... an excellent recipe... this brings so much to mind..

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