On Poetry and Steamed Buns
I. Thoughts On Chinese Steamed Siopao
100 whacks across the
Austere metal
Kitchen counter
Strong hands wield dough
Masculine and ear splitting
Decimals vibrate my eardrums
Meanwhile
Twisted fingers
Gently pinch close
Supple yeast filled dough of
Chinese siopao bun
Inside: yellow camote
Like pleated white rose petals
Ready to paint
Blossoming and feminine
Delicate yet strong
II. We had a poet come in to speak the other day, followed by a cooking session on how to make Chinese siopao, a steamed bun with filling. Typical siopao usually has some sort of meat combination and boiled egg, but here at the monastery, we cook everything vegetarian, and for the most part, vegan! Siopao was the last meat item I ever ate, on March 29th when I first journeyed to the temple by way of bus and ferry. It was gross and disgusting to me. I like vegetarian siapao much better. Just for fun, we played around with words while we learned how to make it. Mostly becoming sensual in nature. Who knows what you’ll get when depraved young adults admit themselves into a monastery, especially when it comes to buns. “I’ll make a poem out of this!” I ass-ured.
I used to write poetry. Like a lot. I was on fire with the thoughts and ideas flitting about the pixel page. My muse entered when I newly became single. Lately, it seems to have died. People told me I was a good poet, which I never believed about myself and never associated with the label. It was hard to wear a new hat as “poet” considering I don’t even get poetry or read the stuff. It’s still hard to consider myself a poet, especially when my muse has been quiet. I’ve been frustrated with this blog and on writing, wondering what the “direction” is and where to take it. I don’t really know what to write anymore, lacking inspiration, and feel this, and maybe by extension, my life, a waste of space. There, I said it. You caught me in one of my funks. I fear this, I, me, is a waste of space. That’s silly, of course, and I know I’m better than that but let me just acknowledge the imperfections of my day-to-day.
I used to go to poetry slams, where I used to live. Back before my life turned completely nomadic, and was only semi-nomadic by way of 1) moving out of a house that I had co-owned with an ex (bad idea) in Small Town, population: 10,000 to Big Town population: 85,000 2) Joint move with two gay roomies (the most gloriously wonderful bearded gay couple ever) about 8 months later across town to Downtown (a wonderful spot). Downtown was the place to be. I only lived there four whole months but it was bliss. A sushi restaurant I never did get around to trying just across the street to the east (the novelty of the option to go there was enough for me). A health food store across the street to the south that I often frequented for bite-sized meals. A billiards lounge and fancy martini bar with a fabulous $5 menu and to die for red velvet cake southeast and… I could go on and on. The point is, I used to go to poetry slams, and right in downtown, I could easily walk there. And, the not so other point is (if you can read between the very obvious lines), maybe I miss that place.
The poetry slams were mostly a spectator sport. I came to watch poets, not to be a poet. I remember one particularly sexy poet named Trabajo. Who knows if that was his real name, because if you don’t know (and you should, because that’s one of those easy words that EVERYONE should know like ¡hola!), that actually means work in Spanish. Trabajo had the most beautifully toned and natural biceps I’ve ever seen, and he probably knew it too, by how he always wore sleeveless shirts, even in Autumn. That accent… It was a mix of Latin lover and Exotic. The kind of yummy accent that rolls on your tongue and maybe even melts in your mouth. Scrumptious. I wondered if it was possible for poets to have groupies, and if I could be one. But Trabajo soon left for Jaimaca, and bigger and better things than the town of Bend had to offer. There are just some people that outgrow their surroundings and Trabajo was one of them. Maybe I was too.
Someday, I guess I’d like to be a poet. I mean, not just any poet. A poet up on stage, slamming. I guess I should put that on my bucket list. #82 (I’m just picking an arbitrary number): Join a poetry slam. Who the hell am I kidding though? I’m not a poet. Not a real poet. And certainly not the kind of poet who can speak in front of crowds, rapping rhythms. Which probably makes it just the kind of thing to add to my bucket list. Who says I can’t? Who’s stopping me? Nothing short of Fear. The ever constant companion.
III. I joined this thing. This creative challenge thing. It’s over on my sidebar and it’s purple. You can’t miss it. Every day for 21 days, I’ll write 800 words. This can be anything from blog posts, business plans, poetry, personal journal entries, stories, anything. 5x a week, I’ll be doing yoga. And there’s a whole community of bloggers doing this. Creative challenges are for lazy-asses like me who can’t do anything on their own. I’m always up for a good challenge. Especially if it involves writing + yoga. Love.
Maybe you’ll be reading more of me. Maybe.
