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Poets' Day I celebrated Poets’ Day by eating breakfast at my local poet
house. A poet house is just like a pancake house but with better coffee.
Poets’ Day (March 1) is a made-up holiday and doesn’t exist
outside the Quality Paperback Book Club’s annual calender. But
that doesn’t stop me from celebrating Poets’ Day to the fullest.
I’d already written out my Poets’ Day cards, trimmed the Poets’
Day tree and opened each one of my Poets’ Day gifts. All that was
left was brunch at the Poet House. There, I heard Lewis Carroll order the seafood omelet with extra oysters. "We cannot do with more than four," his server responded.
"To give a hand to each." Carroll frowned, and when his omelet came, he complained that the lobster
was baked too brown. "I must sugar my hair," he said in frustration.
Then he had the server take away the omelet and bring the soup of the
evening, beautiful soup, instead. George Gordon, Lord Byron, said that he wasn’t hungry, but I caught
him staring at Emily Dickinson’s waffles. Dickinson led the poets
in saying grace in the name of the butterfly, and of the birds, and
of the breeze, amen. She washed down her waffles with the sherry which
the guest leaves. Allen Ginsberg let me have a bite of his kosher Zen New Jersey nowhere,
howling as he sipped his hot matzo ball soup. Meanwhile, Lawrence Ferlinghetti
ate a good deal of spaghetti. Along came Adrienne Rich, who ordered strong black coffee. It came
nestled sensuously between the waitress’s breasts. Langston Hughes had the raisin toast in the sun but said that it was
dried up. Edgar Allan Poe had the toast, as well. His came with cognac
and three red roses. When asked if he wanted a side of bacon with that,
Poe said, "Nevermore." When the check came, Poe was nowhere
to be found. Oscar Wilde went wild when served his Oscar Meyer wiener. Robert Frost
stopped by to watch the powdered sugar fall on my french toast, but
he couldn’t stay. "I have promises to keep," he said.
"And miles to go before I sleep." William Shakespeare ordered the turkey dinner and made much ado about
stuffing. But all was as he liked it in the end. He washed down his
meal with a winter’s ale. It was impossible to tell what Robert Pinsky wanted for an entree, so we put him in charge of ordering dessert. He chose Basho, banana pudding. It was the perfect ending to the perfect Poets’ Day celebration. |