I read another original poem in public earlier this month. Surrounded by black-and-white photos of musical greats with a connection to Teaneck, NJ, I read "The Last Emperor of Vanilla Ice Cream" at the Puffin Cultural Forum.
I view this as my "Wallace Stevens Lite" effort, but a kind poet in the crowd that night said the poem reminded her of Marcel Proust's inspired reaction to tasting a madeleine cookie.
So I post this here with apologies -- and memorial birthday wishes -- to Marcel, born this date (July 10) in 1871.
The Last Emperor of Vanilla Ice Cream
That’s me, plain vanilla.
But don’t underestimate me,
because at 3 in the afternoon,
everything changes.
Not 1 o’clock, not 2,
but precisely at 3,
I travel back in time,
with memories so sweet.
When my Nonna calls to me,
I am outside with my grandfather.
We are working in the garden
under the rural New Jersey sun.
In my memory,
I spend all my summers here,
with my grandparents, in this place,
where Nonna calls to us, precisely at 3.
Two scoops each, condensing in the heat.
Brought to us on a serving tray,
in porcelain dishes, with silver spoons
that once touched my great-grandmother’s lips.
During those summers,
when unicorns were still possible,
vanilla dribbled down my chin,
making my grandfather laugh.
Wiping my face with the back of my hand,
licking my fingers,
leaving all my messes behind.
My brain, frozen in time.
That’s me, chaste and wholesome.
The opposite of concupiscent.
Embracing the chill of reminiscence.
Treasuring the remnants of my boyhood empire.
I savor the taste of these words:
Plain vanilla ice cream, precisely at 3.
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“And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray…when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval…But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered…the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment.”
–Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Lost Things, Volume One
