Bacon Bits

[ampoule]

Bacon Bits

Forgive me, Father,
For I knew what I was doing this morning,
Not proud though, but thinking,
As I tossed the near pound of bacon into the garbage,

the bacon that didn't look quite tasty enough,
the bacon that had no bacony smell,
the colorless bacon,
the bacon given up for me,
But fried up crisp would be a banquet for someone shaken out of life.

There is so little here and there are so many there,
These nine pieces would not make a dent in their hungry stomachs,

But what if I DO fry it up crisp,
Break it into tiny bits,
Wrap it with love in my knapsack,
Go for a fly-over, gently tossing bacon bits out over the land,
To the waiting mouths below, what if?

I retrieve it, the bacon, from the garbage,
I lay each piece tenderly into the pan, praying for forgiveness,
As each one begins to sizzle and draw up from the heat,
Like the children who draw up their knees, needing sleep,
But afraid to close their huge dark eyes.
ampoule, January Fifteenth, TwoThousandTen

[Amylian]

The repetition of "Bacon" echoes throughout and it is exquisitely portrays an image of you and your father. The "apologetic" intonation gives it an aroma of virtue. Waste -- not just food -- but everything else that counts from any materialistic stuff to virtuous ones, is wrong and in fact, I think it is a sin...

Nice poem man! Keep it going...

Regards,
Ali Makki aka Amylian

[Bar22do]

A wrong mended is virtue forever... and your poem tastes awareness! (hopefully contagious!) Thank you Ampoule (I found the last metaphor powerful but a bit frightening, though it may well be my own, somewhat unhealthily running imagination...)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Bacon Bits

Forgive me, Father,
For I knew what I was doing this morning,
Not proud though, but thinking,
As I tossed the near pound of bacon into the garbage,

the bacon that didn't look quite tasty enough,
the bacon that had no bacony smell,
the colorless bacon,
the bacon given up for me,
But fried up crisp would be a banquet for someone shaken out of life.

There is so little here and there are so many,
These nine pieces would not make a dent in their hungry stomachs,

But what if I DO fry it up crisp,
Break it into tiny bits,
Wrap it with love in my knapsack,
Go for a fly-over, gently tossing bacon bits out over the land,
To the waiting mouths below, what if?

I retrieve it, the bacon, from the garbage,
I lay each piece tenderly into the pan, praying for forgiveness,
As each one begins to sizzle and draw up from the heat,
Like the children who draw up their knees, needing sleep,
But afraid to close their huge dark eyes.
ampoule, January Fifteenth, TwoThousandTen

The ending of this is brutal, as brutal as naked awareness of reality presumably is.

[firefangled]

This may possibly be the best poem I have ever read of yours. You have demonstrated what poetry is capable of, taking a small common act and following it through to one of its conclusions. As is typical of many of your poems you do this gradually and subtly. Even expecting where the ending was going, I was taken by your comparison, which commanded my attention.

Never stop writing, Amp. You have the first requirement that perhaps cannot be taught: to see something important and immediate in the world in something as common as throwing away bacon, and second you can make us see it too.

[ampoule]

I am very humbled by your comments. I thank you for reading. The children of Haiti, the children of everywhere, so sad.

[hack]

It is a beautiful piece.
I feel that same guilt every week
as I clean out the vegetable
drawer and think, I wish I had
not bought so much of this or
that. We who go to bed with
full stomachs owe much to
those children with the huge
eyes, they not only could be
our children, they are ours, and
we must never forget that.
Thank you for this reminder.
Now we must do something
about it.

[TheFifthElement]

Wow! and Wow! again. What an amazing poem ampoule. I can only echo firefangled's comments, you have an extraordinary gift. My heart ached at this point:

I retrieve it, the bacon, from the garbage,
I lay each piece tenderly into the pan, praying for forgiveness,
As each one begins to sizzle and draw up from the heat,
Like the children who draw up their knees, needing sleep,
But afraid to close their huge dark eyes.
It does what we all need to do: takes the ordinariness of our own lives and turns it into a reflection of something bigger, or something hidden, something we need to see and feel. You made us feel it with this poem. Perfect.

[MorpheusSandman]

I think I'll just have to respectfully admit a personal bias in how I seem to react with immediate negativity the moment I sense didacticism in poetry. I think it was around the second stanza that I immediately got where this was going and I just didn't like the taste. I equally respect those who felt this profoundly and I can definitely echo fire's technical critique on your ability to develop it gradually.

[ampoule]

I think I'll just have to respectfully admit a personal bias in how I seem to react with immediate negativity the moment I sense didacticism in poetry. I think it was around the second stanza that I immediately got where this was going and I just didn't like the taste. I equally respect those who felt this profoundly and I can definitely echo fire's technical critique on your ability to develop it gradually.

Haha, taste. Thank you for your comment Morph. ;) I'm confused as to where I instructed anyone in anything.

Thank you also, Hack and Fifth. I got a very nice response to this poem from my poetry group, surprising actually, as I am here with all of your very generous compliments. My friend the professor was visibly moved by the liturgy which I had to admit happened quite by accident. I was actually thinking more of all the parents who have said something about cleaning plates because of the starving children in_________ (you can fill in the blank), but nonetheless, it developed the 'other' way. I didn't feel any humor at all but, instead, a sad introspection after the television reports from Haiti.

[MorpheusSandman]

I guess instead of didacticism what I could've said was it felt like a piece that could end with "and the moral of the poem is..."

[free]

This is a nice poem, and very a touching thought behind its picture.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I guess instead of didacticism what I could've said was it felt like a piece that could end with "and the moral of the poem is..."

Approximate quote from Keats: "We dislike poetry that has a palpable design on us..." Memories of schooldays - when lessons were taught to us as if they were reproaches?

But some 'lessons,' such as "Bacon Bits," I dare to say are good for us.