For the Mission Chamber Orchestra's 2015 Noteworthy Desserts benefit, I was charged with writing a poem incorporating both mandarin chocolate ice cream and the fourth movement of Brahms's Piano Quintet in F Minor. The poem's three sections mirror the structure of Brahms' finale: a contemplative opening, a vigorous bridge, and a tug of war between them. Amazingly, the MCO replaced the traditional four strings with woodwinds--quite a feat! Thanks to both the MCO and the Willow Glen Poetry Project for inviting me to participate in this delectable event. "Finale" can be found in Ice Cream Poems (World Enough Writers, 2017).
Finale in Marianne’s Mandarin Chocolate
1. Satsuma
Lonely self-pollinator, your white blossoms
give themselves to no one: you of all citrus
know the sweetness of being one’s own.
When winter threatens, your leathery purse grows
big with its small fortune. Virgin fruit, hesperidium,
perhaps you are missing your entourage, those nymphs
who guarded your gold at the far shores of the world.
You traded them for the sensation you made
when you came to America, arriving across frozen plains
in whole box cars painted orange. Treasured globe,
you fill the toes of Christmas stockings and spill
across New Year’s tabletops. We keep you
in circulation, a juicy gesture meaning
for you all things abundant and good.
2. Cacao
Chocolate is a machete hacking the blushing, fulsome fruit,
fingers prying ripe kernels from their inner cob. It is work,
the beans broken, the nibs roasted and ground, refined,
conched, smoothed, kneaded, tempered, heated, cooled.
It is carriage wheels clattering down rain-streaked lanes,
a sealed letter requiring delivery posthaste and leading
to creased satin, bruised skin, a tropical heat being stirred
with a long metal spoon, a shaken pan, a sonata on the tongue,
a song that sings only of its own longing to be sung.
3. Brahms
Emperor of Penny Candy,
which you passed out to children on your walks,
equally attentive to adults, you once begged the pardon
of anyone you had neglected to insult.
Wanting to heat your listeners from the inside out,
like Chekov, perhaps, you vowed to be more cold.
So your strings keen through mountain passes,
send down an avalanche of ivory keys,
scour the rock face clean. Loyal Sherpa,
you’ve hauled these notes to the snowy crest,
unpacked them at the feet of Himalayan gods.
Now rest. Watch the emulsion of sky
and clemantine sun. With your chilly mind
make hymns to strife; with the milk
of your talent, churn songs of delight.
Finale in Marianne’s Mandarin Chocolate
1. Satsuma
Lonely self-pollinator, your white blossoms
give themselves to no one: you of all citrus
know the sweetness of being one’s own.
When winter threatens, your leathery purse grows
big with its small fortune. Virgin fruit, hesperidium,
perhaps you are missing your entourage, those nymphs
who guarded your gold at the far shores of the world.
You traded them for the sensation you made
when you came to America, arriving across frozen plains
in whole box cars painted orange. Treasured globe,
you fill the toes of Christmas stockings and spill
across New Year’s tabletops. We keep you
in circulation, a juicy gesture meaning
for you all things abundant and good.
2. Cacao
Chocolate is a machete hacking the blushing, fulsome fruit,
fingers prying ripe kernels from their inner cob. It is work,
the beans broken, the nibs roasted and ground, refined,
conched, smoothed, kneaded, tempered, heated, cooled.
It is carriage wheels clattering down rain-streaked lanes,
a sealed letter requiring delivery posthaste and leading
to creased satin, bruised skin, a tropical heat being stirred
with a long metal spoon, a shaken pan, a sonata on the tongue,
a song that sings only of its own longing to be sung.
3. Brahms
Emperor of Penny Candy,
which you passed out to children on your walks,
equally attentive to adults, you once begged the pardon
of anyone you had neglected to insult.
Wanting to heat your listeners from the inside out,
like Chekov, perhaps, you vowed to be more cold.
So your strings keen through mountain passes,
send down an avalanche of ivory keys,
scour the rock face clean. Loyal Sherpa,
you’ve hauled these notes to the snowy crest,
unpacked them at the feet of Himalayan gods.
Now rest. Watch the emulsion of sky
and clemantine sun. With your chilly mind
make hymns to strife; with the milk
of your talent, churn songs of delight.
