Rhubarb

April 25, 2013

Somehow I got cornered into writing a poem about Rhubarb. You can read the result below. It is less about rhubarb than it is about things passed but easily recalled with the right stimulus.

Rhubarb

I learned about Oxalic Acid
At seventeen
When less than anxious for yet more information
More notes on a chalkboard
In a malodorous sulphurous school room.
Furiously copied in pencil
Scribbled first, and required to be transformed,
Later, into copperplate, almost textbook pages.
To be judged as adequate; or not,
By a dyspeptic misanthrope in a black gown.

Oxalic Acid; not as deadly.
But in a close league,
To the clear viscous liquids
Held in dusty skull marked bottles
Within easy reach of any manic schoolboy.
Dusty bottles in a rack
In a rack on a bench
On a bench where I sat
Where I sat wondering why my mind
My sharp juvenile mind would never grasp
Valence Bonding Theory quite as well
As the taste of a girls lips
The smell of her hair
The ring of her laugh
The answer to a question in her eyes.
Years later
When that girl had gone
I read that Oxalic Acid is found in Rhubarb leaves.

Pie making always brings such fascinating memories.