Norway With Caraway (edit)

[J.K. Solberg]

From Norway With Caraway edit 2.0  (hen, alonso)

When we cleared her mother’s house
even the closet shelves were adorned,
edged with flat bands of crocheted bells.
Alice was steeped in ancestral tea:

sleek enameled silver, intricate
tatting starched into bowls, heavily
salted homemade food laced
with cream, buttered waffle hearts.

One year, missing some Christmas favorites
her family wouldn't touch, we dove
into a day-long recipe, a loaf of caraway
seeded meat in aspic, the start
of our late month lunches together,

her grinning face lit with youth.
Now the recipe is mine but today, checking
the spelling of Kalvesus, all I could find
was the Swedish Kalvsylta, no caraway.

A Way With Caraway (NaPM edit)

When we cleared Mawmaw's house
even the closet shelves were adorned,
edged with flat bands of crocheted bells;
originally from Norway, her father lost at sea.

Her daughter was steeped in ancestral tea:
sleek enameled silver, intricate
tatting starched into bowls, heavily
salted homemade food laced
with cream, brown bread slick with butter.

December heralded the baking marathon,
Alice knocked out a new cookie
every few days for two weeks, stacks
of tins piled high on every surface.

One year, missing some Christmas favorites
her family wouldn't touch, we dove
into a day-long recipe, a loaf of caraway
seeded meat in aspic, the start
of our late month lunches together,

her grinning face lit with youth.
Now the recipe is mine but today, checking
the spelling of Kalvesus, all I could find
was the Swedish Kalvsylta, no caraway.



Alice Welcomes Winter

Her parents were from Norway;
her grandfather lost at sea,
which her mom said was common.
When we cleared Mawmaw's house
even the linen closet shelves were adorned,
edged with flat bands of crocheted bells.

Alice was steeped in ancestral tea:
sleek enameled silver,
intricate tatting starched into bowls
heavily salted homemade food laced
with cream and butter that no one could resist
and thinly sliced brown bread
topped with egg and anchovies.

December began with the first cookie bake;
she knocked out a new type every other day
for two weeks as the stacks of tins
piled up on every surface.

One year, missing some Christmas favorites
her family wouldn't touch,
we dove into a day long recipe that resulted
in an a loaf of aspic, meat and caraway,
the start of our late month lunches together,
her grinning face lit with youth.

When she could no longer handle
the many steps I did, but today
when I went to check
the spelling of Kalvesus
all I could find was the Swedish kalvsylta,
no caraway.

One small thing that could go a long way: focusing on rhythm and meter a bit more.  Remember that poetry involves reading through time and try to use that to your advantage.  I think the poem comes from a depth of meaning and has a great premise; however, most, if not all, readers will have much by which to call this a poem as opposed to prose.  I think just focusing on the things that distinguish poetry from other writing would be invaluable.  Another reason this feels like prose is the linearity of its progression.  In other words, you have no unexpected side comments or peculiar descriptions of selective scenery -- things to hook the reader.  Again, this really does have a lovely premise and I hope you can do it justice.  There is a poem for this out there somewhere; you just need to find it!