Today’s Poem a Day prompt was simple: “Pick a food, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem.” I’ve applied no technical vigour to this. This is a first draft and is presented as it came out.
Ode to Celery
Let us speak of celery,
marshland native, watery
and fibrous as bound string.
A water-filled, green thing.
Fresh, it’s firm and crisp,
but then it fades into a wisp
of a wholesome vegetable:
Senile. Limp. And really awful.
But we won’t speak of falling flat
with age. We’ll speak of this and that
and another thing or two,
of what with celery we might do,
like garnish plates of pork or beef
or chicken, mealtime relief
for the hungering carnivore
who also is a herbivore.
Or let’s imagine celery soup,
herbed and warm, a bit aloof
when served as the preamble to
a fine and pricey dining do.
We could make salt out of celery
and use it for our Bloody Mary.
Or in a Caesar, place a wand
of celery stalk. You’ll be fond
of how its taste will enhance
your morning-after circumstance.
Celery, long ago (it’s said)
was a garland for the dead.
Perhaps it was; I couldn’t say.
I only know that, today,
I’d rather it than cabbage kale,
which has the verve of life gone stale.
Protein, fibre, vitamins,
celery holds few diet sins
and contains so many virtues,
who of us can choose
to ignore this marvel plant
so many view askant?
Once a staple of the table,
today you’ll see you won’t be able
to locate it. The cabbage clan
claim every plate that they can.
Broccoli sprouts! Everywhere,
and tasting like used underwear.
Yet the celery, so antique,
has a texture more unique
than anything the cabbage has.
To the palate, celery’s jazz.
And with so many ways of serving,
if any vegetable’s deserving
to colour, taste, be part of dinner,
celery is the certain winner.
So let’s no longer disregard
this vegetable we’ve treated hard
because it’s not the newest thing.
Unless it’s limp, let’s eat the thing.
April 6, 2018