A Rocket

full of Pie
Thanksgiving 2019 | A Menu Poem
Guest of Honor : Michael Basinski

GH
BLAZEVOX[BOOKS]
Buffalo, New York
Thanksgiving Menu-Poem 2019, A Rocket Full of Pie
Copyright © 2019 by Geoffrey Gatza

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without

the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

BlazeVOX [books]
Geoffrey Gatza
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Kenmore, NY 14217

Editor@blazevox.org

p ublisher of weird little books

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Thanksgiving Menu
A Rocket Full of Pie

Approach

Red Onion Scone with Tarragon Gel

Foie gras parfait, apple
Fried fall vegetables with tomato chutney

Boulevardier

Entice

Clove infused potato, goat cheese, Tomato mousse, wine crisp

Duval-Leroy Femme de Champagne 1996

Exposition

Sweet potato & hazelnut ravioli, Wardynski smoked sausage

Seared shimeji mushrooms, Caraway Tuile

Stags' Leap Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 2015

Rising Action

Yuzu citron sorbet, Winter melon twists

 Climax

Goose cooked in the fireplace with roasted figs, pomme puree,

haricots verts with pickled chanterelles, Creamed madeira, crispy parsnip

Domaine du Pegau Chateauneuf-du-Pape Cuvee Reservee 2010

Revelation

Huckleberry ice cream crêpe with Bartlett pears, dark chocolate dipped gooseberry, pistashio powder

Inniskillin 2017 Niagara Estate Riesling Icewine

Adieu

Orange chocolate truffle

Cardamom cake with currents and quince
White sage beignet

Elegant Italian Espresso

Thanksgiving Poem
A Rocket Full of Pie
A Story about a Poem

IntroductionIntroduction

Hello and welcome to the 2019 Thanksgiving Menu-

Poem. This is the eighteenth incarnation of the Thanksgiving
Menu-Poem! Our guest of honor is the magnificent Michael
Basinski. This series began in 2002 with a Menu-Poem to honor
Charles Bernstein, and since then this series engages
Thanksgiving as the basis to celebrate poetry, poets and the
poetry community. Being a trained professional chef I have
blended my love of food and poetry into a book-length work as
a feast of words to bring everyone a tiny bit closer together.
This project is a conceptual meal served for the
thousands of friends I would love to have over to our home,
gathered around a table to celebrate Thanksgiving Day. Since it
is unavoidably impossible to even consider doing such a thing in
real life, I have designed an imaginary menu of foodstuffs that reflect upon the guest of honor as a person, a poet
and their poetry.
This year our guest of honor is Michael Basinski. I have had the wonderful opportunity to work with Mike
over many years. BlazeVOX has published several of his books, including Trailers, All My Eggs Are Broken and we
have a new book in the works, titled, Salvage.
Over the decades Mike has been a friend, a mentor, a supporter and guide towards my understanding of what
it means to be a citizen of the poem. I have long admired how Mike can interrogate a poem and find all the right
answers. Like a word that is spoken too often and lost all meaning, my belief in language falls out of existence in a
Basinski poem. I find comfort in the charisma and struggle pasted and Sharpie-drawn into his collage poems. And
his work in Fluxus leaves me feeling woozy. I hope that this menu-poem adequately expresses my appreciation for
Mike while creating a sense of harmony that interprets my understanding of his work.

The menu

The menu-poem series gets its title and general direction from the spoonerism, of sorts, from a line in the
Mother Goose nursery rhyme, Sing a Song of Sixpence, where a pocketful of rye plays a significant role. This rhyme
documents a 16th-century amusement, to place live birds in a pie, as a form of entremet, which is a surprise dish
served in between courses. In this case, twenty-four birds were placed in a baked piecrust and allowed to fly free
when the pie was cut open. It must have been an amazing spectacle, if not an outrage. But do be assured, our meal
has only imaginary farm-raised geese and they are slowly cooked in a fireplace.
The structure of the menu takes the form of classical prose architecture. And our story starts with the variety
of senses the autumnal season brings with it: aromas, temperature variations, mixed textures and flavor
combinations.

The wines and beverages

The wines and champagnes are French and Californian with one exception, an icewine from the Niagara
region of New York, which is very near our home. It is plucky and sweet, slightly viscous and will be an even match
huckleberry ice cream crêpe with Bartlett pears and a dark chocolate dipped gooseberry. The main course is
accompanied with a mature Chateauneuf-du-Pape, which will be a delight with the slow roasted goose and figs. A
Boulevardier is a delightful aperitif that sets a relaxing opening to the meal. It is a mixture of bourbon, sweet
vermouth, and campari. Its creation is attributed to Erskine Gwynne, an American-born writer who founded a
monthly magazine in Paris called Boulevardier, which appeared from 1927 to 1932. It is red and lightly sweet,
bitter, citrusy and herby.
The poem

The poem is not a poem at all; it is a prose piece about a poem. As you will notice rather quickly, this story
features a family of rabbits as our protagonists, do not be alarmed. Michael Basinski is not genera loyal in his
method of exploring the poem, so I think this is a fitting piece for our celebration.
This story, A Rocket Full of Pie, is part of a collection of strange stories for wild children, titled The Albatross
Around the Neck of Albert Ross. It will be available in 2020 from Lavender Ink Press, located in New Orleans.
There are two illustrations that go with this story. They have been collaged from a sales catalog, ripped paper and
color pencil. It was a fun time creating this project and if you feel as I do, a bit of fun is needed at this moment in
time. Hurray!

I hope you enjoy this meal, the menu and the story. Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

Rockets, Geoffrey


B by Michael Basinski
Biographical Information

Michael Basinski is a Western New York-

based text, visual, and sound poet whose work is
heavily influenced by Fluxus, the interdisciplinary
avant-garde art movement that gained international
attention in the 1950s and 1960s for its emphasis on
chance operations, collective or anonymous
authorship of artworks, and ephemeral gestures.
Basinski performs his work both as a solo artist and
in conjunction with the performance/sound
ensemble Buffluxus. (In typical Fluxus fashion, the
collective's name has multiple variant spellings,
including "Bufffluxus," "Buff/Fluxus," and
"BuffFluxus.") In an introduction to his work on the Poetry Foundation website, Geof Huth writes: "Michael Basinski creates visual
poems that are colorful cacophonies of text and shape. His handwritten poems, which often serve as scores for equally exuberant sound poems, are filled to
the margin with broken lines of text that curl into one another, read from different directions, and are often filled with nonsense words of his own
invention."
In a particularly informative 2002 interview with the poet, Donna Longenecker observes: "Basinski's poetry is visual in form--text
merging with color, images, and symbols--collages that convert metaphor and myth into a landscape that begs to be touched as much as it is read. It also
incorporates sound--from the familiar sound of a squeaky sneaker to glossolalia. His work is meant to be explored the way one reads maps, at times relying
on a key to plot and decipher the journey. ... His tools are simple--magic markers, highlighters, colored pens, and copy machines. The work brims with
color, with clippings of medical textbook drawings, newspaper ads or botanical drawings, typographical symbols and his own renderings inserted into and
around the text much like breadcrumbs left for a traveler tramping his/her way through a mythological--or real--forest."
Basinski's own description of his artistic method is considerably less straightforward, as this characteristically playful, willfully
obtuse statement for a 2005 exhibition/performance amply demonstrates:
"Opems are my pomes, a forms of improvisational manuscript poeming with variable entry points and without time restriction or bondage that calls
for a concentration of performed poetic trajectories as they originate via the keys with any opem. Make them umbleuttphabite and others."
Basinski is a native of the East Side of Buffalo, N.Y. whose family has been in the area since 1879. He earned an associate's
degree in Chemistry from Erie County Community College and a BA, MAH, and PhD in English from the University at Buffalo.
He is the curator emeritus of the Poetry Collection of the University Libraries at the University at Buffalo.
 Among Basinski's many books of poetry are Poems Popeye Papyrus (Slack Buddha Press), Of Venus 93(Little Scratch Pad), All
My Eggs Are Broken (BlazeVOX) and Trailers (BlazeVOX). His poems and other works have appeared in many magazines including
Poetry, Rampike, Dandelion, Kenning, Lungfull, Lvng, Generator, Western Humanities Review, Vanitas, and Public Illumination. He
has also released an audio CD of his collaboration with musician Don Metz, entitled Funginii.
In a preview of a 2006 live performance of the latter piece, Geoff Kelly writes: "Funginii, according to Michael Basinski, ...
are part-fungus, part-genie. They are raucous, magical, woodland creatures who hide your car keys in strange places, hold incense in
Mayan structures, and inspire strange and compelling verbal and musical orchestrations that manifest entirely through
improvisation. If that sounds a little like elf-rock to you, you’re poking around under the wrong tree: Buffluxus is even further out
than that. The Buffluxus musicians—Don Metz, Karen Yacobucci, Douglas Manson, Matt Chambers, Basinski, Leah Muir, and
Chris Fritton—improvise music and sound poetry, Metz’s guitar work at turns holding earthbound or launching spaceward a choir
of words, near-words and sounds. ... Funginii features music by Metz and words by Basinski, as well as improvised video and
handmade film by Brian Milbrand and Tom Holt. Metz and Basinski are veteran strange agents, and Friday’s collaboration will
surely, as it has in past performances over the years, yield a unique, ephemeral wonder."
For examples of Michael Basinski's poems, visual works, and other writings, visit http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/basinski/.

From the Burchfield Penney Art Gallery

Books by Michael Basinski

Mooon Bok. Leave Books. 1992.

Red Rain Two. Run Away Spoon Press. 1992.
Cnyttan. Meow Press. 1993.
Flight To The Moon. Run Away Spoon Press. 1993.
Vessels. Texture Press. 1993.
Odalisque. Word Outa Buffalo. 1995.
SleVep. Tailspin Press. 1995.
Barstokai. Meow Press. 1996.
Empty Mirror. Non Compos Mentis Press. 1996.
Heebie Jeebies. Meow Press. 1996.
Idyll. Juxta Press. 1996.
Un Nome. Run Away Spoon Press. 1996.
From Wooden Unguent-Spoon In the Shape of a Girl Swimming and Reaching Out to Touch a Duck. 1998.
Book of Two Cartouche. 1999.
Fine White Out Lines. 1999.
By. House Press. 1999.
Beeseechers. Light And Dust Books. 2000.
The Doors. House Press. 2000.
Mool. Writers Forum. 2000.
Mool3Ghosts. Writers Forum. 2000.
Shards of Shampoo. Writers Forum. 2000.
Heka. Factory School. 2001.
The Lay Of Fraya Wray. Xtant Books. 2001.
Song Of Yetti's Dream. 2001.
Strange Things Begin To Happen When A Meteor Crashes in the Arizona Desert. Burning Press. 2001.
Poemeserss. Structum Press. 2002.
Abzu. Run Away Spoon Press. 2003. ISBN 1-898497-18-4.
Idyllic Book. Michel Letko, Houston, Texas. 2003.
It's Alieve. 2004.
Poems Popeye Papyrus. Slack Buddha Press. 2004.
Frogs. 2005.
Fluxus Play Book and Performance Poems. 2006.
All My Eggs Are Broken. BlazeVox. 2007.
Of Venus 93. Little Scratch Pad. 2007.
Welcome To The Alphabet. Redfoxpress. 2008.
auXin. Amphibole Books. 2008. This is Visual Poetry. Chapbookpublisher. 2010.
Museless Now Fay Wray. Argonist Ebooks. 2011.
Trailers. BlazeVOX Books. 2011.
Learning Poem About Learning About Being A Poet. PressBoardPress. 2012.
Piglittuce. Least Weasil / Propolispress. 2013.
In Buffalo Poems of a Polish-American Boy Poems. FootHills Publishing. 2016.
Combinings. (with Ginny O’Brien) Red Fox Press. 2017.
Lot Sa Nots O. La Farge. Xexoxial Editions. 2017.
Unexplained Noises. Buffalo Ochre Papers. 2017.
Opems. Burchfield-Penney Arts Center. 2018.

Interesting Links

Poetry Foundation:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/michael-basinski

Basinski for Dalachinsky, Big Bridge

http://bigbridge.org/BB17/visualpoetry/Michael_Basinski.html

The opem; Jacket2

https://jacket2.org/poems/opem

1 Poem; Peach Mag

https://www.peachmgzn.com/michael-basinski

5 Pieces; Dispatches from the Poetry Wars

https://www.dispatchespoetrywars.com/dispatches/5-pieces-by-michael-basinski/

UBU Web:
Parent + Child Heebee-Jeebies - Natalie + Michael Basinski (US), :55
From the CD Sound Poetry Today: An International Anthology

Four Pieces, Eoagh

https://chax.org/eoagh/issuetwo/basinski.htm

Sugar Manuf, Riding the Meridian

http://www.heelstone.com/meridian/basinski4.html

THE COMING OF CIRCLES, Biennial VI

http://www.thing.net/~grist/l&d/biennial/b-mb.htm
A Rocket
full of Pie
A Story about a Poem
 Approach

Red Onion Scone with Tarragon Gel

Foie gras parfait, apple
Fried fall vegetables with tomato chutney

Boulevardier
A Rocket Full of Pie

“Thank goodness for Uncle Edward!” I said to my mother.

The fur on her neck stood upright the instant I mentioned

his name. Her left ear drooped, and her whiskers stiffened. She

stopped tidying up the warren, stood back on her hind legs, and

folded her front paws.

My mother, who is a beautiful brown bunny, cocked her

head to the side and stared at me directly with her right eye. I

felt like she was appraising me, measuring me from feet to ears,

to see if I was testing her patience or merely being foolish.

Some people, especially my mother, think Edward is a

lazy know-it-all jerk. But I adore him and his grizzled white

whiskers. Edward is a clever rabbit and quick to help me out of sticky situations. Even though he often creates more

trouble than you might expect from an old bunny like him.

“I worry for you, Freddie,” Mom said, and shook her head slowly.

Now, I am not the smartest of rabbits by any stretch of the imagination. But I am quite good at quite a lot. At

school, I'm an average student and a popular bunny. I can hold my own on the best of days in burrowing, hopping

games, and reading. I am an excellent cook and have been in charge of the family herb garden for several years.
 “Why do you worry?” I asked my Mom.

“That rabbit is a menace,” she said, and went back to her cleaning, muttering wild oaths.

It’s true. Edward is a handful. But so am I.

I have been known to make many silly mistakes around the warren, such as putting salt in the Kool-Aid

instead of sugar. Or when I pulled out those ugly weeds from the garden only to find out, they were my father's

prized wildflowers. These mistakes, though small in themselves, add up. And in my opinion, they seem like a lot

more than they are. But, no matter how much I mess up, my family always loves.

Which is not necessarily the case with Edward. If he weren’t Dad’s favorite brother, well, Mom would never

let him cross the threshold again. Ever.

Edward is family, and that, as Dad says, is that.

So, Edward lives with us, along with my eight brothers and sisters. Well, not with us exactly. Edward has his

warren just over the hill.

“It’s close enough for comfort but not so close as to trip over little ones,” Edward would often say.

He was so comfortable with this arrangement he would often stay at our warren quite a bit. Mother would

say a bit too much, but Edward knew, or rather, would explain, “This is her way of speaking; she says things in

reverse, you know. It’s her way of saying, come over more, we love having you over.”

And so he did. Edward would arrive for breakfast every morning since our warren was right at the end of his

morning hop around the pond. At lunchtime, he would check on Mom on his way to market, and always collected

her list of needed groceries. On his way home from the market, he would meet Dad on his walk home from the

carrot farm, and we would all have a nice dinner together.

 In the evening, we would gather around the fire, and Edward would tell us the most fascinating stories of his

travels. These entailed rather elaborate adventures with frequent run-ins with odd fellows of the forest, as he calls

his acquaintances.

The places he visits are not really in a forest. It’s not even his for that matter. Edward exaggerates all the

time, and what he calls his forest, he means the wooded overgrowth by the drainpipe. Since we live in a green space

near the park, we aren’t in a forest at all. We are in the middle of a nice suburban neighborhood, just a bit north of

the city.

Dad thinks it's charming, although Mom wants to go back to the country. She grew up on a dairy farm and

finds suburban life a bit tiresome and loud. She often says the same things about Edward, so I am not sure which

she wants to move away from, the city or Edward.

Mother does love Edward; as she often says, “You can’t get rid of family. And even if we moved to the

country, I am sure Edward would insist on coming with us.”

Edward is thoughtful like that.

He is so thoughtful that he even helps me with my homework. And he often helps me with a great deal more

than just schoolwork; he understands the problems that arise in a young rabbit’s life.

“I’m a rabbit of the world, my boy,” he would snort. “Most of life is not taught in school, and it is my job to

see you right.”

Edward is an excellent listener and has great advice on a variety of subjects. I can talk to him in ways I can’t

with Dad. It’s not that my father can't help me; he’s just swamped at the farm. And when he comes home he always

tells me how tired he is.

Once I asked him, “Hey, dad? Why does the word ambiguous only have one meaning?”

“Do you know how many carrots I had to tend today, Fredrick?” he grumbled at me.
 “Um, no,” I replied.

“When you find out, you can come and ask me silly questions. But until that time, go ask Eddie.”

So, I go off to talk with Edward.

 Entice

Clove infused potato, goat cheese, Tomato mousse, wine crisp

Duval-Leroy Femme de Champagne 1996

 * * *

After school, I hopped toward the pond where I pictured in my mind Edward drinking lavender tea from his

black clay teapot, in a scene of peace and serenity, seated among friends. He was, in fact, having a heated

conversation with a water beetle about the state of the pond, due to the poorly run community council.

Politics seems to bring out the oddest reactions in people, so I try to stay away from the whole strange

business. I stayed back a bit, near a fern, until an opportune moment arose to announce that I was there.

It was a few minutes of rather moving discussions, using many words I didn’t understand. And for a minute,

I thought they would come to blows. Instead, laughter broke out, and a pleasant chirping meant all was right in the

world again. From where I stood, it sounded like they agreed on one thing only, to hold off their argument until the

same time tomorrow.

I cleared my throat with a loud ahem, as I hopped up to them, and after the usual greetings of hello and

good day, I told them, it was not a good day at all.

“I have a weird math problem, and I need your help,” I said to Edward.

“Read it out to me, Freddie,” Edward said, as he waved goodbye to the water beetle hopping onto a nearby

cattail.

“OK,” I said, reading out from my textbook. “How many shoes would a centipede need to run a two-kilometer

race?”

“Well, you’d need one hundred and twenty, wouldn’t you?” Edward said definitively. “One hundred shoes for

the runner and twenty extra, just to be sure your runner would have a spare.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

 “In case of the odd flat tire, eh!” Edward slapped his knee and laughed and laughed. “And if your centipede

were going dancing, instead of a jog, that would be another matter entirely. I think he should take only fifty pairs of

shoes for dancing, that is.”

“I’m not sure that’s right,” I said to him.

“Of course that’s right, Freddie. In a race, you need to be prepared, anticipate problems. At a dance, you just

need to be delightful.”

“The question is not about charm,” I said.

“Well, of course, it is. You should always be charming, or no one will want to dance with you.”

“No, I mean about the centipede. I think the answer is just one hundred.”

“Well yes,” Edward said, scratching his cheek. “One hundred shoes are fifty pairs. So when your centipede

friend goes dancing, that's all he’ll need.”

“The centipede isn’t my friend, he’s a math question,” I said, trying to gain some control over Edward.

“You should make friends with him. Some of my favorite moments were spent in the company of centipedes.”

“I think the centipede needs only one hundred shoes,” I said. “He’s got one hundred feet, so it fits. I’m going

to write that down.”

As I adjusted the pencil in my paw, Edward asked slyly, “What if he has more than one hundred feet?”

“Well, a centipede has one hundred feet,” I said, “There is a clue in its name. Centi, means one hundred and

pede, means feet. Ms. Jasper told us that the other day.”

Edward smiled in a way that I seldom see him do. He flicked his whiskers and said, “I've known several

centipedes, and they all had a different number of feet. It's just a rumor they have one hundred. You believe

everything you read in those books of yours, don't you?”

“I think the answer is one hundred,” I said sheepishly.

 “Maybe,” Edward said, with a glint in his eye. “Maybe not. I think the question is asking you to think a bit

beyond the footwear of the insect world.”

I stared at him blankly.

“In a race, preparation is the key to winning. And if you are an insect that requires one hundred shoes, I am

sure your trainer would advise you to have a few extra on hand, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Well anything, my boy. Anything can happen, and it often does.” Edward tapped a paw to his nose with an

aura of knowing.

“It’s a math problem, Uncle. Anything just doesn’t happen in math. It just doesn’t.”

“If it’s math you are being tested on, then maybe you are correct.” Edward shrugged. “But in life, when you

meet up with a centipede I’m sure he’ll tell you to bring extra shoes with you to a foot race.”

“But no extras for a dance?” I said, wryly.

“No my boy, when you finally go to a dance, you’ll discover that you’ll want to take off the shoes you are

wearing, and not put more on.”

I wrote down Edward’s answer in my notebook, and asked, “If I go running in a race, should I bring an extra

pair of shoes?”

“Well no boy, you're a rabbit, and you don't wear shoes. You run fine as you are.” Edward smiled at me in the

way he often does when he feels like he has won something.

I know I don't wear shoes, but I often get turned around when Edward and I talk about math, or science or

anything. I put down my math book and pulled a clothbound book from my haversack.

“What do you have there?” Edward asked and ran his paw down the book's spine. “Poems and nursery

rhymes, eh?”
 “Yes, I have been assigned to read a poem from this book in front of the class. Each of us has to read a poem,

and the best one will be chosen to read at the School Days festival in June.”

“Would you like to win and speak at your festival?” Edward asked, eagerly rubbing his paws, warming

himself with excitement.

“I’m not sure I want to win,” I said shyly. “I don’t like speaking in front of people.”

Edward waved away my concern with a swish of his paw.

“You know I get nervous, and besides, I don't understand poetry. So I don't think I should do it.”
 Exposition

Sweet potato & hazelnut ravioli, Wardynski smoked sausage

Seared shimeji mushrooms, Caraway Tuile

Stags' Leap Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 2015

 * * *

Both excuses are true. I am not a fan of poetry, and I get fearful trembles when I think about standing in front

of the classroom. My sister Gloria, who loves poetry, is always spouting something about the springtime, or flowers

oft blooming into onions. Yuck.

For me, I don't know why these poet people refuse to simply say what’s on their minds and be done with it.

But this line of thought doesn’t have any influence on Gloria. She says I am too stupid for poetry, which I don't mind

her saying in the least. It is the most valid excuse for getting out of listening to her silly poems. Unfortunately, that

particular reason does not get me out of reading a nursery rhyme for my English teacher, Mrs. Chattermore.

Mrs. Chattermore is one of those ladies of literature who love art a bit more than the rest of us. She is always

flowing around the classroom, on about one author or another, like the many-colored scarves she wears around her

neck. It's all very tedious.

And in a word, Mrs. Chattermore is tedious. She has been at our school for over one hundred years, or so

Edward said. She taught both my Dad and Edward, years and years ago when they attended my school. Edward says

she was old then; so that must make her one hundred and fifty-five, maybe even older.

So, earlier in the day, at school, when I took up my case with her about my dislike of poetry, I did it gingerly.

I told Mrs. Chattermore that I am just not up to the task.

Mrs. Chattermore calmly said, “It’s all right. With a small miracle, you might find a hidden love for poetry in

this assignment.”
 While I was considering how tremendous that small miracle might be, Mrs. Chattermore flipped through her

book of poems. She chose Baa, Baa, Black Sheep for Betty, Who Killed Cock Robin? to Benjamin, Three Blind

Mice to Brenda, and so on, until I was the only one left without a poem.

There was a bit of tension in the air. For a moment or two, I thought I was off the hook, and I was free from

the poetry reading. But this feeling of relief would not last long, as most good feelings are often brief. Out from a

bottom drawer, Mrs. Chattermore produced a different book that she dramatically held high above her gray rabbit

ears.

I was embarrassed when Mrs. Chattermore stood up, hopped slowly to my desk, stood over me, and read

aloud my assigned poem:

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish,
To set before the king?

The king was in his counting-house,

Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor,
Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes;
When down came a blackbird
And snapped off her nose.

I’ll tell you, I had a genuine shiver run down my back, and when she got to the icky bits, I almost fainted.

This just didn’t sound right; I must have done something awful to be given this poem to read in front of everyone.
 Why would anyone bake birds in a pie? I wondered. Who was this king, and why was he counting

money? And what’s the back-story to this nose snapping business?

I wondered why Mrs. Chattermore chose this poem for me. My talks with her about my hesitancy towards

poetry must have raked up deep-seated feelings of dislike. I decided that I shouldn’t confide in her anymore, who

knows what else I might provoke.

 Rising Action

Yuzu citron sorbet, Winter melon twists

 * * *

“It can’t be as horrible as all that, now can it?” Edward said, eyeing my book of nursery rhymes.

I insisted that it was, and I read the poem, Sing a song of sixpence, as best as I could, stammering in some

bits and speaking too fast in others.

“That’s a reasonable reading of that piece,” Edward said and sat back in his patch of pond grass. He nodded

his head in a disturbed fashion. “It’s not the way I remember it. But if that is the way that old buzzard, Mrs.

Chattermore wants it read, then maybe that’s the way they do things now.”

“What’s new about this poem, Uncle?”

“Well everything, that’s all,” Edward said with a snort. “In my day it was not ‘a pocket full of rye’, it was ‘a

rocket full of pie.’ Blueberry pie to be exact.” Edward folded his arms and looked at me as if I had done something

wrong.

“But Uncle, it's in the book,” I said as if I was apologizing.

“Well, you are always bringing strange books home from who knows where. What do I always tell you about

books?”

“I’m sorry; I was assigned to read this poem.”

“What did I tell you about books?” he asked me again.

“Well,” I stammered and my ears drooped in thought. “You say not to judge a book by its cover.”

“No not that, the other thing,” he said, with a grumbly smile.

“A book with blank pages costs more than a book with printing.”

“Precisely!” Edward wicked at his whiskers as if vindicated.

 “What does that have to do anything, let alone my reading this poem in front of the class?” I asked him a bit

impatiently. I was beginning to get just as confused with this poetry business as I was with math.

“Well, I'll tell you. You read it all wrong, didn't you? You didn't put a single blueberry into the whole poem.

And it’s about blueberries, my boy, not blackbirds at all.”

I put my paw into my mouth and began to nibble at it.

Edward talked in grand gestures with his front legs. “Not to mention, blackbirds do not go about pecking the

noses off of anyone. Leaving behind for a moment, the gruesome idea of baking them in a pie. Twenty-four no less!”

“But,” I tried to interject.

Edward got up and began to walk around the edge of the pond. As he gazed over the water, he folded his

paws behind his back, and said in a disappointed tone, “What would North think of this poem?” North is the one of

Edward’s oldest and dearest friends, and of course, an oriole. Edward said, “I don't think North would like this poem

at all.”

“But Uncle, I didn't write it, Mrs. Chattermore chose this piece for me to read. Anyone in the class might have

been assigned it. It's a well-respected nursery rhyme, she assures me.”

“Well it sounds rather upsetting to me; it perpetuates untruths about birds.”

“And pies” I chimed in enthusiastically, as if taking up his cause might get me back in his good graces. He

looked at me with a quick, stern glance to let me know I was not helping.

I was getting that frantic feeling you get in the stomach when you don’t have the right words to express

yourself. All I could say was, “Uncle, pleeeeeease!”

“Well, I’ll tell you boy, first we have to change the whole poem around.”

“I’m not sure that is what Mrs. Chattermore had in mind,” I said.
 “No matter, Freddie. Just you listen to me, and you'll be just fine. Once I remember that poem properly, you'll

have a fine piece to read.”

“Remember what?”

“The poem, of course.”

“What poem?”

“The blueberry poem,” Edward said. “The one I’ve been telling you about.”

“But I cannot read a poem you just up and remember. That’s not how it’s done.”

“Sure it is,” Edward said. “Poetry is easy to make up.”

I stopped and thought for a moment, “If you make it up, is it still a real poem?”

“Well, Freddie, what is a real poem?” Edward asked.

I realized at that moment, this was worse than math.

 Climax

Goose cooked in the fireplace with roasted figs, pomme puree,

haricots verts with pickled chanterelles, Creamed madeira, crispy parsnip

Domaine du Pegau Chateauneuf-du-Pape Cuvee Reservee 2010

 * * *

Edward and I worked on the poem. We wrote, edited, tweaked, and rewrote. After a few weeks and several

drafts, we got the small nursery rhyme to read precisely as Edward remembered it from his youth.

I thought it sounded nice too.

I practiced and rehearsed and practiced some more. When the day arrived, and it was my time to stand up in

front of the class, I felt prepared. I was ready not only read my piece; I was prepared to win the whole competition.

I would go right on to the School Days festival and read for everyone. Edward would be in the audience.

Mom and Dad would both be very proud. This would be particularly special, because they have, to date, had no

other reason to publicly be proud of me at any school function.

So everything depended on this poem. It was this weight on my shoulders that held me down for a brief

moment when Mrs. Chattermore called my name.

“We will now hear from Fredrick Frère!” she said and clapped lightly.

I stood up from my desk and slowly hopped to the front of the classroom. It was very quiet. Every whisker on

every one of my friends pointed at me. I flipped through my papers and fidgeted a bit. I cleared my throat with a

short cough, hoping that this might stop me from fainting.

I was terrified and stood in that still pose rabbits stand when they are frozen with fear. And in a shot, I

imagined I heard Edward’s stern voice shout, “What’s a matter with you, Freddie! Hop to it!” And in a blink, all

thoughts left my head, and I began to speak.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A rocket full of pie.
Four and twenty blueberries,
 Baked in a pie.

When the rocket was fired,

The berries began to sing;
Aren't we a fancy thing,
To shoot into the sky?

The Sun was in his counting-house,

Counting out his bunnies;
The Moon was in the twilight,
Eating bread and honey.

The stars were in the galaxy,

Twinkling in the sky;
When up flew some blueberries
Baked in a pie.

I read clearly and confidently. And when I was done the class began to clap, as if I had done something

wonderful. I felt more uncomfortable than ever. I was about to stop them and make a speech saying this was not my

assigned poem at all. It’s not even a real poem; it was just something my Uncle made up.

With a start, Mrs. Chattermore said, “Enough!”

Silence fell over the classroom.

“I can see that apples do not fall far from their trees, Mr. Frère,” and Mrs. Chattermore began scribbling

furiously into her grade book, muttering about small miracles.

I knew I was doomed.

When the time came for announcing the winner, I was in a cold sweat. I had done well, but Mrs. Chattermore

was not best pleased. I had done a horrible thing; I disassembled art and made it my own.

I was sure she would report me for this.

Or worse, call Dad at the carrot farm and I would be spoken to in that strained tone fathers take when they

are displeased. I hung my head and felt extraordinary shame.

 Revelation

Huckleberry ice cream crêpe with Bartlett pears,

dark chocolate dipped gooseberry, pistashio powder

Inniskillin 2017 Niagara Estate Riesling Icewine

 * * *

Well, of course, I won! But it wasn’t until June before I knew precisely why I won. My family made the School

Days festival into a special affair, and we all dressed for the occasion. Mom made me wear a bowtie, and Edward,

his velvet waistcoat. She was dressed in a lace summer-hat, and Dad had a paisley scarf wrapped around his neck. It

seemed unfair because my brothers and sisters were dressed normally as if we were going to a summer festival.

The poetry reading went well, and after the event was over, we were entertained with cake and lemonade on

the front lawn of the school. There were long tables with white tablecloths. Carrot cakes, fruitcakes, and cream tarts

were set beside jugs of icy lemonade. It was amazing.

“Well Freddie,” Edward said, placing his paw on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Edward leaned over our table and tugged at my father’s arm and whispered, “And who’d think that old

buzzard would have developed a sense of humor after all these years.”

My dad giggled and laughed lightly with his shoulders.

Mom was not so polite and said so, “You really know how to spoil something nice, Edward.” Then, she gave

me a big hug.

I was just as confused as ever, so I asked, “What is so funny?”

“When we were younger,” Dad said in between bites of cake. “Edward and I would go about making up

rhymes, poems, and stories. And Mrs. Chattermore always encouraged us to use our imaginations.”

Edward agreed, “She loved our playful nature and how easily we toyed with words and language.”

“Mrs. Chattermore once believed our Edward had the makings of a poet,” Mom said and nodded lovingly at

Edward.
 “Edward wrote that blueberry poem in her class,”

Dad added.

“Mainly, to mock my love of literature,” Mrs.

Chattermore chimed in unexpectedly. She had been

seated at the table behind us and heard everything we

said. She had a wry smile on her face and said, “Old

buzzard, indeed.”

“Mrs. Chattermore!” Edward, Mom, and Dad all

said, surprised she overheard them.

“It was only youthful rebellion,” Edward clarified,

charmingly to Mrs. Chattermore.

“Well, young Edward,” Mrs. Chattermore said,

picking up her glass of lemonade and sat down at our

table. “I could see you needed encouragement. Even if you could not directly appreciate it at the time, but maybe, I

thought, at a later, quieter moment in your life, you might make a fine writer.”

Mom devoured her cake. Dad adjusted his scarf, and Edward leaned on his front paws in astonishment.

“You know, I picked out Freddie’s poem in hopes that I might hear those days of creativity one more time. It

is good to hear your voice in perfect form, young Edward.”

Mrs. Chattermore not only heard Edward’s poetry once again; as she sat at our table, she also enjoyed the

most unusual of sounds, a quiet Edward, stunned by the kindness of a teacher’s thoughtfulness. Edward was never

quiet for long, but this day, at this moment, he was quieter than I had ever known him to be.
 Adieu

Orange chocolate truffle

Cardamom cake with currents and quince
White sage beignet

Elegant Italian Espresso

Geoffrey Gatza is an award winning editor, publisher and
poet. He is the driving force behind BlazeVOX, a small press
located in Buffalo, NY and was named by the Huffington
Post as one of the Top 200 Advocates for American Poetry.
He is the author many books of poetry, including A Dog Lost
in the Brick City of Outlawed Trees, (Mute Canary 2018)
Apollo (BlazeVOX 2014) and HouseCat Kung Fu: Strange
Poems for Wild Children (Meritage 2009). Most recently
his work has appeared in FENCE, Datableed, Delete and
Tarpaulin Sky. His play on Marcel Duchamp was staged in
an art installation in Philadelphia and performed in NYC.

His writings are based on inspiring situations: visions that

reflect a sensation of indisputability and serene
contemplation, combined with subtle details of odd or
eccentric, humoristic elements. With a subtle minimalistic
approach, his works references surrealism as well as the
avant-garde or the post-modern and the left-wing
democratic movement. He lives in Kenmore, NY with his
girlfriend and two beloved cats.

Kenyon Review, Publisher’s Spotlight:

https://www.kenyonreview.org/2019/06/publisher-spotlight-geoffrey-gatza-of-
blazevox-books/

The Nasiona, interview:

https://thenasiona.com/2019/07/12/poetry-presses-answer-your-burning-
questions-part-1/

http://www.blazevox.org