The form I’ve chosen here is ars poetica, essentially a poem about writing poems. I thought it apt, because when I think “apple”, I don’t just think of one. I think of many, just as Matisse has painted. And so, I’ve stacked the poem with many apples, and more than one poet writing poems about apples.
Here are the poems I reference:
- Christina Georgina Rosetti, An Apple Gathering
- John Drinkwater, Moonlit Apples
- Robert Graves, Apples and Water
And two poems, which didn’t make my final edit, but are lovely: Paul Laurence Dunbar, The Old Apple Tree, and Hattie Howard, The Apple Tree.
More of my ekphrastic poetry here. The form is ars poetica.
Apples
I read all these poems about apples.
Take An Apple Gathering, by Christina Georgina Rossetti
who puts apple blossoms in her hair, not realising
next season the orchards will have “no apples there”.
And the hushed tones of Moonlit Apples
by John Drinkwater: “moon-washed apples of wonder”
lit atmospherically by a skylight in an attic of apples.
And Robert Graves’ Apples and Water, a girl wanting apples
and water to give to soldiers, to quench
the ever-recurring hunger and thirst of soldiers at war.
And after reading more poems about apples,
I despair of finding my own words about apples
and apple trees. Except when I think of apples,
I think of the way apples smelled
the way my mother baked them with cinnamon,
and the sight of them, red and green candies,
in the trees my mother tended for years.
And I think of years of making apple crumble,
hands-floury, for an apple-crumble loving family.
And the apple puree I slipped between
my child’s lips, and then, later, my mother’s.
And I think of the way apples now find
themselves gleaming green in my salads
to use up all the apples.
And the sound of the crunch,
and the satisfied chewing of my daughter,
who, from a toddler, has eaten apples as if
apples are the most delicious thing in the world.
And I think of myself: picked, baked, squeezed,
sliced, fried, boiled, grilled, and now going to seed.
©elsp 2025
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