A Blueberry Pie
I feel naked with a week’s worth of posts up and no poetry on the front page. Going into my 3rd week of my Massachusetts sabbatical, thinking about my loved ones back home in Virginia, while munching on blueberries, I remembered this poem. It was written in July 2003 for my eldest son’s 24th birthday.
A Blueberry Pie for Joshua
Rolling out pie dough
into continent shapes
first Asia, then Africa
I feel my grandmother’s wildness in me
navigating rough edges of coastline
as I steer the rolling pin like an oar
like an antique relic from her “roaring 20s”
it rocks back and forth
I relive my mother’s frustration
while patching the dough where it’s spotty or torn
trying to stretch what isn’t enough
nine kids, two hands, and a sticky mix
that clings to wax paper
As I search the bowl of blueberries
for the bluest black ones
I remember 4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie
and my son arranging battles
between blueberries and grapes
The blueberries always lost because he ate them
Soon he will come to collect
a last sweet taste of his childhood
He doesn’t care that the pie center has sunk
that the blueberries aren’t wild from Cape Cod He doesn’t remember when women wore aprons
and mothers taught daughters how to bake
With two potholders I carry the pie
set it on the table to cool
something in-between
wild and tame, sweet and sour
something in-between
“Three little kittens that lost their mittens”
and Eve’s holy offering of fruit
all exist together in an archetypal pie
Raised by her German carpenter father
my mother never taught me how to bake a pie
but I saw her do it and learned by osmosis
and with the help of my friend Jayn’s recipe
It doesn’t matter that my mother didn’t teach me
because Jayn’s mother taught her
and now my pie sits on the table
an icon at an altar
an enduring reminder
of motherly love
Post to Note: The library is a 3 mile bike ride from my camp site, but their computers have no useable USB port and they can’t read CDs. I had to type this on the spot with my hands slightly shaking and with no ability to save as I went along or to check my spelling, like tightrope walking without a net.
July 18th, 2005 1:30 pm
hi sweet one. i left you a long comment on the big picture. i got a tear of joy reading blueberry pie again. your love is such a strong force in this world. and then to add to that your ability to put into words for us a poetic image that we may both witness and feel that love. i mean its trully incredible that i can be connecting to you through virtual means and have your words move energy in my biological/emotional actual body/mind.
how sweet it is. baked to perfection via your skilled heart,mind and hands. enjoy your hobbit days dear one.xoxo
July 18th, 2005 1:33 pm
oops. sorry i forgot to change the name settings on those other posts
July 18th, 2005 3:58 pm
Love the images you have created with words. I remember the dozen blueberry bushes I had to leave behind in my move. They would fill our red berry bowl and be so lovely, we almost couldn’t eat them. Some were as big as my thumb.
July 18th, 2005 9:24 pm
Oh colleen….this poem does bring a tear to my eye too!! I love making pies and have for the longest time. But my favorite to make is APPLE!!
I can’t believe you rode your bike to the library. You are something else. xo
July 18th, 2005 9:44 pm
Beautiful. Thanks for riding your bike for us 🙂
July 18th, 2005 10:29 pm
You’re a good tightrope walker!
July 19th, 2005 4:00 am
We could care less about your spelling (I could anyhow). Just glad to have your posts. Sweet emmotion and vivid pictures!
Ivy
July 19th, 2005 9:37 am
Very Nice. I’m not a very big fan of poetry but, I liked that.
July 20th, 2005 2:13 am
Wonderful poem, so many layers. And great tightrope walking!
July 3rd, 2008 9:51 am
I love the way you use the construction of the pie to illustrate your life and history. I also love the way you weave the nursery rhyme and children’s verse into the piece.
My aunt Joan, God rest her, used to bake the most fantastic blueberry pies from the wild berries we’d pick in Cape Breton. She didn’t make just one – she churned them out on an assembly-line to feed her big strapping boys, the neighbours or any lucky person who happened to stop by her kitchen. Perhaps that’s the real reason I love blueberries so much.
Kat
July 3rd, 2008 10:47 am
Eating a blueberry pie is the epitome of summer for me.
July 14th, 2010 9:34 am
[…] Read the poem HERE. […]
February 19th, 2014 11:19 pm
[…] My son used to play with his food and have battles between blueberries and grapes. The blueberries always lost because they were his favorite fruit and he ended up eating them […]