Potage Andalouse

Papa grew pumpkins, gourds and melons,
he had grapes in the greenhouse
and dahlias and geraniums, in pots.

In the summer, on young plants he would
engrave my initials on the pumpkins
so that when they grew big and orange
it would form a scar that stretched
my name a sign of nature healing.

Papa would sometimes mix seeds,
one year we had gourds that were melons
and melons that were gourds
but the pumpkins grew
personalised and gifted straight to me

A potage Andalouse
with crispy bread and toasted cubes
of cheese croutons, while the shell
was hollowed and filled with light
on all Hallows Eve and childhood
memories, long since evaporated.

Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 203 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2022-10-24 at 18:14

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Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
Congratulations! Your poem has been chosen to be featured on our home page by a fellow member of PoetBay. Thank you for posting on our poetry website!

ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Of sweet memories made to sustain us
Gives us reasons to smile - in times
The times are hard going
Ken D.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
So softly written and beautiful.

Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
Elle, this gentle clearsighted display of your poetic prowess delights me abundantly. An undiluted joy!

Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Somehow you have captured the feel and atmosphere of Papa and his horticultural tricks and feats, such that we fortunate readers almost experience your memories ourselves.
My memory of greenhouses was not familial... it was a place I was sent to take some strings of hanging rafia with which the headmaster would hang the cauliflowers; I don't think I will ever forget the warmth and peace of that greenhouse. It even brings tears over seventy years later.
A lovely read, Elle. Thank you.

A gentle, beautiful reminder of a loved parent. I just have to smell a tomato leaf to remind me of my father and his greenhouses at the vinery. I believe your memories are alive and happy.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
A lovely remembrance, Elle.

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
What lovely poem, Elle. Merci.

I could write a lot about this. I called my grandfather Papa. He had a vast garden with dahlias and more, storing the bulbs in the dark and scary basement over the long Chicago winter. There is much about this poem which is familiar.

Your childhood memories seem anything but evaporated. They seem vivid, and the warmth of your words brings the past into the present.

I love this poem. And, I'm hungry for Potage Andalouse.