The title of this post is a quote from a poem by Muriel Rukeyser, the American Beat poet. I often start workshops or events with it and then a couple of years ago finally enshrined it in the poem below.
FOOD
An evening walk
To shake off work and home,
I strode unpeopled streets
a moon huge above
the hill our house sits on.
It spread its silver coins for those
who chose to lift them.
I filled my pockets
and brought home dinner.
They think I’m there all day for them
and want to chat.
This gets no writing on the page and only
feeds me greens and wine
when what I need is word protein
spicy flights of fancy
the sugar of phrases falling
in surprising ways and
book borscht with feta metaphor
that turns what I produce a vibrant red
and frightens me
then makes me laugh and
feeds the world.
With this nutrition I could forgive
those proper Charlies who want a piece of me.
Verily I say unto you:
the world is made of stories
not atoms.
Words are the food of life
and nothing else matters.
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