Welcome back to the Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network. I'm David Curt.

Today's poem is by A.E. Stallings. She is a contemporary poet and translator. She was born in Georgia,

but lives in Greece currently. She was named a 2011 MacArthur fellow, and her poetry is known for its use of

traditional forms. Most of her poetry is rhymed and metered, and she makes extensive use of

some of the essential classic poetic forms, such as Villanelles and Sonnets, to name just a few.

The poem that I'm going to read today is from her critically acclaimed

new collection called Like, which came out in 2018, and the poem I'm going to read today is called

cast, irony, if you prefer. Who scrubbed this iron scylet and water with surfactant soap meant to cleanse, not kill it. But since

its black and lustrous skin is spoiled of its enrobing oils dulled, let's water in, now it's

vulnerable and porous as a hero stripped of his arms before a scornful chorus. It lacks internal

consistency as ancient oral epics where a bronze age warrior might appeal

to a boar's tusk helmet-wearing foe, who has an anachronistic heart of steel, will of iron,

from which metals no one has yet forged a weapon, much less pans or kettles.

Though there must have been between two eras awkward overlap enacted in the kitchen,

when mother-in-law and daughter wrangled over the newfangled,

over oil and water in proverbial mistrust,

brazen youth subject to iron age as iron is to rust.

There can be no reasoning with sarcastic oxygen.

Only a re-seasoning can give the vessel's life new lease.

Scour off the scab the color of dried blood applies some elbow grease to make it fast.

Anointed.

Put it once more in the fire where everything is cast.

...