Viewing entries tagged
The Raw and the Cooked
I did not get up until
the deerflies crushed
against my scalp.
From my eye, a single
butterfly discarded
an almost world.
The survival
of dinner revolved around
corn bread and chile peppers.
Among food,
I offer myself
to the splendid seeds and rain.
Michigan snow crossed
the night I had not slept, so
overwhelming an obsession is.
To rename all the birds,
I will ignore the sound
of a squeezed lime,
that I stopped to drink.
The eeriness of the world belongs
to crisp shadows this time,
just before dark.
The flap of the raven's wings
was the moon's gloves.
I'll sleep near the vulnerable
light of the stars that rose
and gleamed white blotches
against the ground of ghosts.
When I walked in the river
I was surrounded by crows
who ate bread from my pocket.
The birds have discovered
a goofy writer
that is difficult, but
pleasantly drinking
Italian wine having been
thinking this is an immensely
lucky life.
From pages 138-139 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
Headed into a memory of when
my heart took me trout fishing,
the stream made me dizzy
and remained faithful for
twenty-five vermilion
fly catchers, the way
the birds hold the wind.
The gusts waved and roared
misshaped by a gray hawk in
raced thunder, amok songbirds ruffled
in the whirl like apples, like
a star, up there.
From pages 147-148 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
You are looking back,
above the bug line when slowly you
continue, until it is years ago and
when there's not enough wild, you are
dark and difficult for language despite
listening to the evenings with fire, speaking
in a peculiar little pleasure of two days in Michigan.
From pages 142-143 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
I whirled
coming out
of a moan
like a wolf eager
for a meal.
On my deathbed,
I will rehearse
the removal of
eating and live
in the wind
and rain in exile.
I felt cheated
when I would not be
returned home to Michigan,
as my father advised me.
From pages 82-83 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
Trees see through their hands
despite the body.
This is when I
follow the tracks of puma
and fly away with fish.
Not quite far enough,
I began to tremble
and loathe decadence.
A man’s moral worth
was considered in real
or imagined food.
I work up a proper appetite,
bite tomatoes, a chunk of bread,
swigs of red wine, finished
simple but delicious.
From pages 28-29 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula
where I know I am
naked listening to Mexican music.
There is a word
for mouth and tongue loosening
the skin around squab hearts.
We worked to clean
our plates that had
the embers of fire.
What's left of my
mood but spirit, that is
infinite in appetite.
To eat, is not to
speak beyond your food.
From pages 197-198 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
Notice your ears unlike
a raised finger, better to hear
a Mexican blue mockingbird at dawn
and bow to pine needles that crawl
above the feathers.
The wolf happened
when we ran out
of Bordeaux and then
the coyotes bought whiskey.
I twisted with the javelinas and two
ravens, as they do relentless but lovely
turning to the green willows.
From pages 9-10 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
You should remember
the shot birds, we eat
that are delicious with wine.
I had eaten
the morning like a dense
wing, to try
to explain this eating
of my remaining doves.
I will finish
these creatures to give
me courage at the end.
From pages 236-237 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
The observed peculiarities
of an albatross are only
figured out through ritual.
I could walk home and build
a shrine to the distant forest.
I could walk blessed to hear
a howling like a fire,
eager to stop in response.
From pages 103-104 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
From the cellar I slowly
drank the flight of birds.
I fly to celebrate, by luck
and the experience
of my arms that are off
to the side in lonely splendor.
Alone in Paris, I can think
of a thousand birds, I had been.
From pages 261-262 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
At dawn I work stored
dreams of beautiful girls, who are
a specific danger.
I repeatedly said, the songbird
rages himself into the same tree.
I was always a fool.
The change of my hair is
insufficient, unless I
question my kitchen.
From pages 59-60 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
The water I found
was squawking with a raven
in unrivaled vowels.
The blue seems to thrash
and flash with the raven,
which was recently brooding
about the first time the air
was retitled with odor,
as if the garbage had emerged.
From pages 46-47 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
Encased in soup, I was
fuel and chest.
I thought this was an enormous
eagle, hungry and mean.
Though I am a man, I could
not contain myself.
Messy against the struggle
of boredom, that I eat
relentlessly for dinner.
From pages 56-57 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
I mean, I tried to
alarm restaurants, you know
with olive oil and thyme, and once
in Brazil with chimichurri.
Let me correct myself, only
with thighs, I replied.
I watched a voice hold on to legs
and crave a living thing
shot, plucked, and roasted.
The carnage of thighs
slowly melting in salt.
From pages 71-72 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
In telling a star
that you are of the
cosmos, floating in terms
of eating the movement of our past
wretchedness, must not
discourage us.
Our daily prayer should be that our
guts hold out for an
Italian-sausage sandwich with fried onions
and green peppers, dissolved in marinara.
I returned to the pursuit
I intended to, and drink wine
without tearing the fantasy.
From pages 120-121 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
The skull can call winter
a naked eye, sightless and shot.
What I ate, I caught
with the moon lost to the woods.
The white bones
of wolves can kill,
by eating the advice
of a bird.
From pages 50-51 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
Certain swells of uneaten
lipstick swirled my attention.
I know the gusto I saw in gloss,
anguished my gut.
I chewed all things sudden,
in the early hour, stuck
in the wilderness among loons
with a specific charm.
We used to say the murderer
is a mistake corrected.
From pages 76-77 of The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand by Jim Harrison (Grove Press, 2001).
