Sunday 14 February 2010

Onion Song - a poem from Oedipus Interruptus, the Jazz Cook

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My mother spoke her love, but not without contradiction
For she was a writer, surrounded by her own fiction
When I was a nipper, imprisoned in my local school
One fine spring day, I was made to appear a fool
It was the time of the daffodil competition
In which I had the hopeful and tender ambition
To have a tall strong yellow flower, to be the best
But my shoot was very tiny, when compared with all the rest
The judges nicely do not laugh, instead they bite their lip
They say "that is an onion bulb, we recognise the tip"
My mother lives in many worlds, and all inside her head
She lost my daffodil, and planted onion in its stead
I left my manhood in the earth, it is such a shame
My shoot is dwarf and shrivelled, my mother is to blame

I have discovered since, my Ma is not so silly
For like the daffodil, the onion is a lily
Asparagus and garlic, and also the shallot
Are also family members, and this explains a lot
Narcissus, the daffodil, stared much into a lake
Obsessed with his appearance, and this was a mistake
For men do not need mirrors, they must find themselves in action
When my mother killed my daffodil, this was a benefaction
For when I found the onion, I also found the route
To be a man, shape the world, however small my shoot
Now I have my restaurant, with its four Michelin stars
My mother has a chateau, and I have thirteen cars
"Don't remain a child", my therapist gave me warning
Now I love onions, and I chop them every morning

All because a little bulb my mother once mistook
I'm Oedipus Interruptus, they call me the Jazz Cook!

© Nick Weldon February 2010

Posted via email from nick weldon's posterous

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