In which we’re terrible at poetry

So plums are in season here and we’ve been eating a fair number of them in the past few weeks. They’re a fruit I forget that I enjoy until the grocery market stands are overflowing with them – almost to say please buy us, there are too many to fit inside this tiny aisle. So I oblige their overabundance and we’ve been indulging in their sweet gushiness a lot lately.

Which brings me to a conversation we had the other night:

E: Every time I start to eat a plum I think of the poem by Carlos William Carlos
J: I think you mean William Carlos Williams..
E: Yeah, anyway, the poem about “This is just to say.. something, something I’m sorry I ate your plums but they were so cold and delicious.”
J: What? That’s a poem? That’s what he’s famous for? I could do better than that. 
E: Mm hmm?
J: Yeah. “This is just to say, I ate your plums and they were delicious. Biatch!”
See, I can do poetry. Where’s my f’ing Newberry award?
E: I.. don’t think that’s the award for poetry. Not sure what it is, but pretty sure that’s not it. 
 

Clearly we’re not the literary, English major types..

The poem by Carlos Will-.. I mean William Carlos Williams (which also served as the basis for a This American Life podcast a while back) is:

This is just to say
 
I have eaten
the plums
that were in 
the icebox
 
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
 
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
 

So now every time I bite into one all I can think is “Got your plums, biatch!”

 
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