WEEK 1 (2 poems): "I Like to Plan Parties" and "The Persimmon"

I like to plan parties

Not the kind that require you to climb onto ladders
to pin up streamers and balloons,
or the kind that makes everyone sick because
the boy next door spit on his
birthday cake. It’s not the kind suited for
tuxedo-wearing caviar-eaters who like to
light up the night sky with bright popping
willow trees, nor is it a day at Disneyland that burns
your entire paycheck.

It’s the kind of party
that requires my guests to step out of
their shoes and into my home, sip a glass of
sparkling wine, turn a shade of red
or pink, and exchange words
- about that girl at work who sings
Christmas songs in the cafeteria in
July, or about that 24-year old
who still insists his mother dictate
his beliefs.

Take another sip, tell me about
your stupid boss firing you, about
your boyfriend leaving you, about
how you crashed your car into the center divider.

Yes, it’s the kind of party that allows me
to keep filling the glass. Play telephone from the spout
of the bottle - to the shaking glass - to my quivering
tongue. Fall into the glass like wine. Keep
pouring, whether it’s mine or yours
it’s still my party even if it’s only one glass
I fill.

* photo from my 23rd birthday party.
Theme: Murder, Mystery, and Wine - one of the biggest party productions ever!!! (and most successful!)

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I have this fascination with persimmons lately. I plan on making a persimmon recipe soon. Go figure:

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The Persimmon
by: Rochelle Perry

My grandmother walks like
she is stepping on clouds,
to the store, hoping to buy some
persimmons for the man next door.

Those feeble teeth bite into the sunset, sweet
and crunchy, fresh like days in May
in Japan, when cherry
blossoms bloom, streaking our eyes
with pinks, whites,
a flower plants a kiss on
the land for the first time. Mount
Fuji backdrop, capped with snow,
recalls the crispness of
yesterday's winter world.
'Yamagata,' he breathes into the
fruit, 'a memory I can never forget.'

The man next door closes his door
behind my grandmother. Baby teeth dive
into a fresh persimmon too. I ask my
grandmother if she can take me to Japan.
She grabs the fruit from my sticky
palms, bites down, two teeth missing.
'One day,' she says, 'you will
go, eat all the persimmons from trees
in Yamagata.'

* photo from wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persimmon

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