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
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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