Poet's Day, Spumoni Day, August 21st

Poets Day & Spumoni Day

In order to combine a celebration of Poet's Day and Spumoni Day, I only needed to look as far as John Berryman, and his poem "Dream Song 4". But, only read it if you want a famous poet to mention spumoni on your Poet's and Spumoni Day. If you are okay with obscure poets poeting about spumoni, scroll on down to the next poem, which is more about food, and less about lusting after married women.

Dream Song 4: Filling her compact & delicious body
by John Berryman

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken paprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
'You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni. —Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

—-Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast ... The slob beside her feasts ... What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
-—Mr. Bones: there is.

For lighter poets poeting about spumoni, we can check out Ken Wanamaker, and his poem "Song of My Supper". Warning: it will make you want to eat!

Song Of My Supper
after Whitman (by Ken Wanamaker)

I sing linguini
capped with marinara
twirled on silver tines.

I sing this fine cabernet
squeezed from grapes
plumping in the Tuscan sun.

I sing warm crusted bread
drenched in oil
sprinkled with parmesan
grated by rough hands and smooth whistle.

I sing spumoni filled with cherries,
the waiter who hands me the spoon,
slender hands pouring cappucino
in my waiting cup.

I sing candles on every table
Alfredo sauce spilt on ties
toddler'’s cheeks full of pasta
mantillas nodding quietly.

I sing that famous boot
treading the Mediterranean
desert tray in tow
the wandering tenor's O Solo Mio.

If that is all we have, perhaps we need to challenge other poets to write about spumoni. Or perhaps, we need to resign ourselves to the fact that spumoni is not the stuff that poets are inspired by.