Harvests

I have friends who grow olives and then create award-winning olive oil, and I have heard that this year's harvest has begun or will soon begin. As with grapes, there is science involved in knowing when to harvest olives, though I refuse to discuss what I think I understand because I am nothing if not scientifically challenged. I can only hope that the crop is good and that the oil wins more awards.

This year, our home-garden consisted of tomatoes, bell peppers and hot peppers, honeydew melons, cantaloupe, and yellow cucumbers. The big tomatoes were moderately successful, while the cherry tomatoes were prolific and even now the plants are producing though the quality has dropped. The bell peppers started, stopped, and when they became shaded by the expanding cherry tomato plants, became robust (ah--is that science?). The peppers are supposed to be yellow and red, however, and I do not think there is enough growing-season left for them to be anything but green. We got 2 honeydew melons and one cantaloupe, and no cucumbers or hot peppers. This year was an experiment in unscientific gardening, which probably contributed to the sparse results. I'm hopeful that next year's garden will be a bit better. (Probably no melons. Fewer cherry tomatoes.)

As usual, however, this post is not really about the title. Rather, because I have been asked to take part in a poetry reading in February, I am already anxious not just about standing up in front of a room full of strangers, but about what the hell I am going to read. I have done this only once before, and I have required the years since to recover my bearings. The good thing about next year's event will be that I will be reading with the same 2 people who invited me before, and this should provide some comfort. The only bad thing about that previous event? The organizers passed a literal hat for the audience to contribute money that would be divided among the 3 readers, but that money never made it into those readers' hands. I do not care about that, but I do care that people gave willingly and some shithead kept the cash. . . .

Because I am neither a fast nor a prolific writer, I do not have much to draw from when it comes to new poetry. I don't want to simply read all of the poems I read before (though a few will sneak in because I like them), so I've got to come up with new material. Looking through what I've got, I see that many of the poems I've written over the last couple years concern being outside; specifically, they concern gardening, a pseudo-hobby I have acquired. This habit might have been born out of the pure fun of playing in the dirt. In fact, I doubt there is anything more profound there. So, already I am figuring how how many of these garden-poems I can get away with reading before people start thinking, "Enough already!"

In the end, however, I guess I've got to get reading and writing, since I'll be teaming up with a couple of people who are very, very good.