Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Picnic

Breakfast in the Open by Carl Larsson 1919

“I’ll affect you slowly as if you were having a picnic in a dream. 
There will be no ants.  It won’t rain.” 
― Richard Brautigan, 

Loading Mercury With a Pitchfork

"Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic." 

― W. H. Auden

. "Society is the picnic certain individuals leave early, the party they fail to enjoy, the musical comedy they find not worth the price of admission."
― Joyce Carol Oates

Pierrot's Repast: Deburau as Pierrot Gormand by Auguste Bouquet:  c. 1830.

Midweek Motif ~ Picnic

When I was young, picnics involved food and parks with lakes to swim in and trails to walk in along cliffs with great views.  I loved them.  But lately, I only hear the word "picnic" in metaphor— something is or is not "a picnic"— meaning "easy."  I don't remember picnics being easy to prepare, but I remember feeling holiday in the air. Now, picnics for me are either solitary outdoor eating during walks or mass potluck church outings. What about you? Do you now or have you ever picnicked?

Your Challenge:  

Take us to a picnic in a new poem.

from Rubaiyat: "A Book of Verses underneath the Bough"

Related Poem Content Details

BY OMAR KHAYAAM

TRANSLATED BY EDWARD FITZGERALD

. . . . 
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread—and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness— 

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 

. . . . 

(Only quatrain 11; read the entire poem HERE.)

GrapeSherbet

            by Rita Dove

The Day? Memorial.

After the grill

Dad appears with his masterpiece –

swirled snow, gelled light.

We cheer.  The recipe’s

a secret and he fights

a smile, his cap turned up

so the bib resembles a duck.

That morning we galloped

through the grassed-over mounds

and named each stone

for a lost milk tooth.  Each dollop

of sherbet, later,

is a miracle,

....

Read the Rest HERE.

I Ask My Mother to Sing

Related Poem Content Details

BY LI-YOUNG LEE

She begins, and my grandmother joins her. 

Mother and daughter sing like young girls. 

If my father were alive, he would play 

his accordion and sway like a boat.

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace, 

nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch 

the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers 

running away in the grass.

. . . . 

Read the rest HERE.

* * * * 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others 

in the spirit of the community.

 (Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be ~ Parenthood 

(Parents, Guardians, Significant Adults in the Lives of Children)