Turkey

I cooked a turkey breast for Sunday dinner, and the recipe is a keeper.  It was filled with a stuffing made from a little of the breast meat, pork sausage, cooking apple, breadcrumbs, onion, parsley, salt, pepper and butter.  Then I wrapped it in prosciutto and puff pastry formed into a plait, and baked it in the oven for as long as it took.  Served with roast potatoes and steamed brocolli.

Now, if only I had a poem which was about turkey, and sailing.  And why not one about ancient Rome, mosaics, Greek goldsmiths and old men who join mystical societies?

 

Sailing to Byzantium by WB Yeats (it rhymes with Gates, not with Keats)

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

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