It’s that time of year – autumn, Halloween approaching, and everything is pumpkin or “pumpkin spice”. Lattes, beer, donuts, bagels, etc. If you never grew pumpkins or made a pumpkin pie from scratch, you wouldn’t know that pumpkins, like other squashes, do not have a natural, amazing, cinnamon spice, nutmeg, sugary flavor. Pumpkin flesh is pretty bland. But that hasn’t kept the pumpkin from being romanticized and commercialized for its culinary appeal – even if there is often no pumpkin in your pumpkin spice purchases. When Europeans came to America and discovered pumpkins they now had an even better vegetable to carve and make faces and designs. Back in Ireland and England they carved rutabagas and gourds as part of their rituals. It was a major step up to be able to carve a scary face on a big orange pumpkin. I wrote the poem below many years ago as I went to throw a decayed Jack O’ Lantern on the mulch pile. It’s not a joyous pumpkin poem, more a musing on the life cycle of a Halloween pumpkin.
Cogitation for a Jack O’ Lantern
by gutting you, I created you;
dried seeds on a pie tin
your innards were stringy,
like orange algae
your face was squint-eyed
and toothless of grin;
the candle within
scented in spice
scented in spice,
the flesh flamed black,
on the smooth underside
of your carved top;
and all the while your stem,
a severed bastion
days are decades in pumpkin age;
spice transformed to fetor,
forehead slumping, sagging gums,
and transplanted soul,
dependent light, wickless,
melted flat;
the red then hardened floor
for a chamber of decay
Brian J. Zink circa 2000 Copyright rules apply
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