Shirley Stevens
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Shirley Stevens, a Poet-in-Person and board member of the International Poetry Forum, serves as writer-in-residence for the Writing Academy in Minnesota and poetry columnist for The Upper Case. In 2001 she was honored as an outstanding educator by the Teachers of Excellence Foundation. Shirley’s volume of poetry is entitled Pronouncing What We Wish to Keep. Her poems have appeared in Poet Lore, The Christian Century, English Journal and Sunrust.
Ode to the Artichoke
From March to May you reign
near Monterey. In Castroville
they feature you on floats.
In ‘48 Marilyn Monroe,
first Queen of Artichokes!
She loves me, she loves me not,
DiMaggio prayed,
pulling petals from her crown.
Some Like It Hot!
In the French Quarter
Gumbo Pat stuffed you
with shrimp and bread crumbs,
served the globe to my mother
on a date with my father.
Even after steaming, you draw blood .
I pluck you, draw your flesh
between my teeth.
In this era of fast food,
you slow me down
to savor each petal
in drawn butter
Like the worker in the field
who sliced you from the stem
and with a practiced toss
arced you over his left shoulder,
I draw my knife,
work my way toward your heart.
From March to May you reign
near Monterey. In Castroville
they feature you on floats.
In ‘48 Marilyn Monroe,
first Queen of Artichokes!
She loves me, she loves me not,
DiMaggio prayed,
pulling petals from her crown.
Some Like It Hot!
In the French Quarter
Gumbo Pat stuffed you
with shrimp and bread crumbs,
served the globe to my mother
on a date with my father.
Even after steaming, you draw blood .
I pluck you, draw your flesh
between my teeth.
In this era of fast food,
you slow me down
to savor each petal
in drawn butter
Like the worker in the field
who sliced you from the stem
and with a practiced toss
arced you over his left shoulder,
I draw my knife,
work my way toward your heart.
Vernal Equinox, 2003
In February a charm of finches
came for thistle in their olive drab.
I follow undulating flight,
will them safe passage
across the clearing.
Today they gold as willows,
targets for marauding jays.
Aluminum birds
drop missiles on Iraq.
I need the promise
in the finches’ song:
per-chik-o-ree
per-chik-o-ree
On the hillside above the pines,
the downy woodpecker
whinnies notes
in a descending pitch,
rat a tat tat, rat-a-tat-tat
machine gun
on the fallen log.
Leaf clusters on the maple
outside my window
form red clover bristles.
Soon they will bleed.
In February a charm of finches
came for thistle in their olive drab.
I follow undulating flight,
will them safe passage
across the clearing.
Today they gold as willows,
targets for marauding jays.
Aluminum birds
drop missiles on Iraq.
I need the promise
in the finches’ song:
per-chik-o-ree
per-chik-o-ree
On the hillside above the pines,
the downy woodpecker
whinnies notes
in a descending pitch,
rat a tat tat, rat-a-tat-tat
machine gun
on the fallen log.
Leaf clusters on the maple
outside my window
form red clover bristles.
Soon they will bleed.