Stone Soup Croutons is a weekly poem I write using lines and impressions picked up from poems overheard from Stone Soup's open mic readers and features. I figure out a title (and sometimes the rest of the poem) later. You can read the other ones I've done since 2015 here. To paraphrase Lorne Michaels, this poem doesn't go up because it's ready, it goes up because it's Friday morning.
It was a good time this past Wednesday as Stone Soup took part in Fort Point's Holiday Stroll. A night of poetry, new faces and even tarot courtesy of April March Penn once again (not sure how that ties into a holiday event, but you should just nod for now). The resulting poem from that night isn't Jesus-y like a lot of my work, but it has a religious bent to it. That's because I worked hard to resist using a line that April Penn used in her first poem on the open mic. If I had used it, I would have given her credit, for sure, but would it be right? Ultimately, I decided the line was too good to even steal openly. It should be read in her original poem, not here. I incorporated some ideas from the line, but if you want to hear the line I enjoyed so much, you'll have to ask her read it next week when Suzanne O'Toole features. For now, we get the poem below. Thanks for reading.
These Bites
Eve escaped to her own story
right after she kicked Adam
in his orchards. Through this,
he gained more knowledge.
He cast out himself, went feral,
got older, started an inn
just to stay out of the rain,
lycanthropy banging his doors.
Now he takes in any were-men,
he finds, asks them only to stay
until they get back wherewithal,
can odyssey off on two legs.
He'd hire his last son in a second,
but there are no prodigals yet,
no corporate caesars for any to envy.
So Adam sits, invents bitter fruit.
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| James at the tarot table with April. |
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| We like to space out our slots at Stone Soup. |
Special thanks to April March Penn, Black Byrd, David Miller and James Van Looy.
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