Apple Pie Madness

[TheFifthElement]

It happened somewhere between
the butter crust and steaming apples.
No one expected it.

In the aftermath a broken teapot,
the yellow one with painted daisies,
lies tipped on its side dripping cold tea
like blood over the table cloth.
Volcanic flows of apple sauce
slither down the wall leaving
a sweet snail-trail that leads
straight to the dog.
Contentedly it laps it up
with a slow, decadent tongue,
unhindered, it has all the time it needs,

the minutes fall from the table
with the crumbs; and there’s
a peculiar kind of silence,
like the still that follows a storm
where the only sound is the shiver
of the grass stretching back,
cowed by the rain no longer.
By tomorrow it will all
be gone except, perhaps,
the memory of tension
stretched over the room
with the quality of shrink wrap,
equally breathless.

[Scube]

I love the feeling that time is temporarily suspended; then starts up slowly again. Fantastic.

[TheFifthElement]

Thanks Scube, yes, that was exactly what I meant :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

The perception has been growing on me of what a cinematic writer you are! The clothingon the shore in your last poemought to have nauked that down for me, but the whole of this brilliant poem makes that very clear! I have a quibble with



dripping cold tea
like blood over the table cloth.

other than the infamous Red Zinger of hippy days, I don't know of any and never think of tea as being red. Even if I knew of one, though, I might reject the element of violence it introduces into the poem.

On the other hand, is there an antonym for quibble? because


By tomorrow it will all
be gone except, perhaps,
the memory of tension
stretched over the room
with the quality of shrink wrap,
equally breathless.



that last image, the tension like shrink wrap &c., alone ought to win you an Oscar!

[ampoule]

I think you are an amazing poet ms. fifth.

[jon1jt]

I appreciate it all, but appreciate these lines even more:


where the only sound is the shiver
of the grass stretching back,
cowed by the rain no longer.
By tomorrow it will all

I love the natural feel and how it builds the setting in sequential close-ups:


a broken teapot,
the yellow one with painted daisies,


blood over the table cloth


a slow, decadent tongue,



The image of the dog is so playful and yet there is a grotesqueness---the blood, the volcanic flows, and such a distilling break in the action of it all when your lens zooms into a natural landscape of a surreal quality.

Brilliant is the way how unmovable the foundation is, in the sense that the poem pans across a kitchen scene in temporary ruin, a noise and grime that leaves its fingerprints in the tension that effects the speaker starting at 'by tommorrow.' What I really like is the play with tenses, flipping from past to present to future. Did I say I really like it?

[TheFifthElement]

other than the infamous Red Zinger of hippy days, I don't know of any and never think of tea as being red. Even if I knew of one, though, I might reject the element of violence it introduces into the poem.


Aah, but isn't colour in the eye of the beholder? Or perhaps you've never experienced good strong Yorkshire tea? No matter. Of course you could also ask, 'who has teapots these days?'! To which I say, no one, the teapots are all broken, sadly.

The possibility of violence was deliberate, but it is only a suggestion, a question perhaps. Thank you for your kind comments Jerry.


The image of the dog is so playful and yet there is a grotesqueness---the blood, the volcanic flows, and such a distilling break in the action of it all when your lens zooms into a natural landscape of a surreal quality.

Brilliant is the way how unmovable the foundation is, in the sense that the poem pans across a kitchen scene in temporary ruin, a noise and grime that leaves its fingerprints in the tension that effects the speaker starting at 'by tommorrow.' What I really like is the play with tenses, flipping from past to present to future. Did I say I really like it?

Yes, grotesque and not, exactly! Thank you for this Jon.


I think you are an amazing poet ms. fifth.

Thank you so much ampoule :)

[Virgil]

Add me to your list of admirers. I really liked the alliteration of "s" in this section:

a peculiar kind of silence,
like the still that follows a storm
where the only sound is the shiver
of the grass stretching back,
And it contrasts nicely with the "t" alliteration of the previous stanza. It emphasizes a shift.

Any reason why you don't give the dog a gender pronoun in here:

Contentedly it laps it up
with a slow, decadent tongue,
unhindered, it has all the time it needs,
Not that it matters much, but it just caught my eye.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Any reason why you don't give the dog a gender pronoun in here:

Not that it matters much, but it just caught my eye.

Oh, I have to politely but firmly disagree with the idea of giving the dog a gender because you don't want (I think) to make it any more particular a participant in the drama than it already is. All dogs, cats &c., to me are inherently neuter unless we wish to bring them more into the foreground.

[Virgil]

Oh, I have to politely but firmly disagree with the idea of giving the dog a gender because you don't want (I think) to make it any more particular a participant in the drama than it already is. All dogs, cats &c., to me are inherently neuter unless we wish to bring them more into the foreground.

Hmmm. I'm not sure I see a difference one way or the other for the poem. Perhaps it's just one's personal phrasing. I always refer to my dog as "giirl" or she. I guess it would bring the dog more into the foreground, but why would that be wrong? The dog seems prominant to the drama.

[TheFifthElement]

Any reason why you don't give the dog a gender pronoun

Hi Virgil, thanks for your comments. No particular reason, is the answer, though from the casual observer point of view a dog is a dog, genderless, unless you know it better, or are willing to take a closer look ;) . The suggestion here is that everyone who is intimate to the scene is gone, where though, who knows?