“A poet writes a poem as a hen lays an egg,
and both of them feel better afterwards.” — Samuel Butler


I misread the first time.
That’s how much sense I found, saying “yes!
of course the poet and the poem, both
feeling much improved for their process.”

Only after reading again did I realize: the we
who are meant to feel better
includes the hen alone.
The poem, like the egg, impartial to its experience.

I looked down at the treasure I held,
warm moments before
from the heat of my body,
now cold brass.

Then I remembered “one makes the meaning
one needs to find”
and again we three are smiling —


this golden egg
cradled in my palm,

the poem hatching.


[image via]

4 thoughts on “Egg

  1. I love this.

    I have thought of all the work I do, poems, art, delicious (of course) family dinners as something I do, not that I have done – meaning once they get out in the world, they are on their own to make their own way. I feel I’ve done something good and then turn my attention to the next thing. I personally think the poems, art, dinners, have their opinions about this and probably don’t like me much. But we must do as we do! Right?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes indeed! What would all of Claudia McGill’s ladies think (I am now wondering) — as they tote about their oversized handbags and miniaturized furniture, gossiping on the front porch — about Alice Isak’s egg poem?


      1. I’ve given this a lot of thought. Really, I have. Because it is at the heart of my worldview: everything has some kind of spirit or that kind of thing. So I would have to think that these ladies would believe that all four of the parties, hen, egg, poem, poet, are involved in some way and have some feeling about the process and result. Otherwise it would negate their own, the ladies’, existence and awareness, and my own feelings about things as creator and created.

        Wow, how philosophical. But – you asked!

        Liked by 1 person

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