Acceptance Speech by Lynn Powell

Acceptance Speech

by Lynn Powell

The radio's replaying last night's winners

and the gratitude of the glamorous,

everyone thanking everybody for making everything

so possible, until I want to shush

the faucet, dry my hands, join in right here

at the cluttered podium of the sink, and thank

my mother for teaching me the true meaning of okra,

my children for putting back the growl in hunger,

my husband, primo uomo of dinner, for not

begrudging me this starring role—

without all of them, I know this soup

would not be here tonight.

And let me just add that I could not

have made it without the marrow bone, that blood—

brother to the broth, and the tomatoes

who opened up their hearts, and the self-effacing limas,

the blonde sorority of corn, the cayenne

and oregano who dashed in

in the nick of time.

Special thanks, as always, to the salt—

you know who you are—and to the knife,

who revealed the ripe beneath the rind,

the clean truth underneath the dirty peel.

—I hope I've not forgotten anyone—

oh, yes, to the celery and the parsnip,

those bit players only there to swell the scene,

let me just say: sometimes I know exactly how you feel.

But not tonight, not when it's all

coming to something and the heat is on and

I'm basking in another round

of blue applause.

As an older peron, I knew about 80% of the names of people at the Grammy's on Sunday night, and about 15% of the music. But I do love this poem, which seems to successfully mix various tones--absurd, sincere, sarcastic, tired--into one delightful poem.

I love that the speaker is washing dishes--setting the scene immediately. Whose mind has not wandered while doing a mundane task?

The descriptions throughout are clever and creative; the fourth stanza is especially strong in this regard. I do have to mention this line

my children for putting back the growl in hunger,

for not just being spot on, but also a bit of wonderful word play (stomach growling and children growling when hunger makes them irritable).

The end of the poem is more serious--the wife and mother as cook who becomes a bit player to the soup she has made. "A woman's work is never done," et cetera.

Hey! You read at least one poem today--you deserve an award!

See you on Sunday!