Long Culinary Poems
Long Culinary Poems. Below are the most popular long Culinary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Culinary poems by poem length and keyword.
In the night the wolves howl in the distance,
As the spring lambs bay, with the first stirrings of life,
Close lies the pack of humanity, those for whom hunger for the
Fresh taste of the blooding’s first strike, at the throats of innocence
Most pure!
Have they gone suddenly silent, these yearlings tender lambs,
In the stilled quiet amongst the melting snows of winter,
The mountain fields run crimson, and an eerie stench oozing
Upon the winds of distain!
The cannibal lies within the forest of the towered halls,
In the giant fortresses of mankind, he does stalk amongst his own brethren,
No wolfed bite of treachery could leave such a mark of
Terror, as he the beast, whom would feast upon the raw flesh
Of his kindred kind!
A gentlemen chamleon blending amongst the tailcoats
Of learned men, sheathed within the amour of intelligence's,
A humanistic wolf moves flawlessly, within the herds of the
Meek and mild, to pick his victims of the city flock
At his leisure of desires pleasure!
Underneath the outstretched wings of the red dragon,
The bubbling caldron pot of truest evil, does runneth over,
With the gravy’s leavening's of the corruption and violence,
Welcoming this creature of the demonic to the dinning
Table of the unrighteous and wicked!
Black sheep, black sheep, do you have any wool,
The whittend lamb does ask, nay but in the woods
Therein, lies many go within the wolves din and take
What you like at your own risk of course, my innocent
Friend, but beneath the blackened skinned wool the
Wolf does smile, with a sheepish grinning!
In an extravagant restaurant a well-mannered gentlemen,
Orders the specialty of the house to go, later he adds
He adds his special ingredients, spiced to the taste
Buds of the cook himself, it sizzles with an unusual
Oromia of well-cooked human flesh, the cannibal
Smiles with delight at his culinary masterpiece,
As the police knock at his door, with a missing
Persons report!
In the jail cell of the lost souls, he the cannibal known
As Hannibal Lector has no regrets, except say one,
The meal he never got to finish!
In the night the wolves howl in the distance,
As the spring lambs bay, with the first stirrings of life,
Close lies the pack of humanity, those for whom hunger for the
Fresh taste of the blooding’s first strike, at the throats of innocence
Most pure!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
"melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams " (by poet)
a gift from my father - on the first day of college,
"Golden Treasury"...A book of poetry...
the first poem I read... "She Walks In Beauty".
I carried that book throughout my life, even when I stopped reading poems...
even when poetry wasn't the priority any more,
Instead I looked at recipe-books - how to improve my culinary skills,
and became almost a champion chef in a few months.
Wordsworth and Browning were far away from my thoughts,
Coleridge? Oh No! Porphyria's Lover, and Ancient Mariner...
did not exist in my world of reality!
how many glorious summers went by ~ how many frosty winters ~
Delicious food, excellent company,
chasing after active children, stressing about job-opportunities,
exotic travels, grandiose entertainment ...
had time for every little trivial thing in the world...but no time for
the book my father imagined his daughter would embrace the most!
then one miraculous day...when even my father gradually forgot
the girl who used to blossom in the world of words, and poetry....
I found my precious friend collecting dust,
neglected, discarded, in the corner of a shelf.. couldn't believe it was waiting for me with a beating heart ~
each and every page came alive with a magical touch ~
still my name clearly visible, handwritten with my father's calligraphic dexterity !
almost shaking to spot my long-lost treasure, I cried!
overwhelmed with emotions, tears fell!
as if a candle burnt and melted.
every drop of tears brought back the lavender memories ~
of an exhilarating past... my passions, my yearnings,
tender dreams of lilac hues never attained, the abandoned path I was supposed to tread ...
a path strewn with lyrics and verses, ballads and
sonnets like blazing auburn leaves of autumn ~
now shockingly empty and despairingly barren.
the forgotten aspirations and never-met goals...the tremendous sense of loss,
of crushing heart-break, of torturous frustration,
all flooded in!
many lonely years have gone by!
melliflous birds are still cooing in the forest of my amber dreams
ultimately my first love has returned !
First Place
May 15, 2021
Inspired by “ He gave her a book” contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Any foodie on the brink
Of getting moody thinks
Of the dear dairy panacea
The culinary kinks
The cultural links
Gourmet high jinx
Of no.. not Cullen skink
CHEESE
As drinks clink then sink
Where the nods & the winks
Go to the food of the Gods
The stuff that really really stinks
CHEESE
A noble global endeavour
Arty farty dolcelatte party
Comte & cheddar
Smutty nutty double header
CHEESE
Palette caged by a rare
Cave aged Gruyere
Who can forget..appetite whet
Heat light stand manned..expands..
Milky glue or is it silky Moo Goo
Fanned..hands pulling strands
Eat not..planned fondue
Best damned bet
Always get a Raclette
CHEESE
Prouder of Gouda
Or louder Parmesan fan
Even when its powder?
Tilting to the built in love
For Stilton.. never wilting
Hard the calling card
Or more a Roquefort sort
Taught soft held aloft
French can’t bench moulds
Aristocratic blue vein
Dramatic wench holds court
Emphatic stench & stain
CHEESE
Whatever floats your boat
Maybe Goat gets your vote
Or those in the know
Gloat..chose sheep & Manchego
CHEESE
Young or well hung
Given time in the cellar
But won’t sneer at Paneer
Mozzarella can be stellar
Even give a damn
About dear Madame Edam
CHEESE
If you're of that whining ilk
Got that dining disease
Opining it’s just mouldy milk
Having a dig..you big tease…
Well won’t try to appease
CHEESE
Wary of the not rated
Scary squirting lube
You squeeze with ease
Flirting fairy out of a tube
Ill fated.. pre grated or
Diced into a nice cube
CHEESE?
Or drastic vices
Plastic elastic slices
Could go for Dairy Lea
Fell under the Babybel spell
Or pray tell maybe
Its Le Vache qui Rit
CHEESE?
Always a winning wheeze
Ideal at the beginning
Or end of a meal
No ratty ways of thinning
Natty diets lose to fatty riots
Choose ways of sinning
A ruse to amuse..
MORE CHEESE PLEASE
He says grinning
P.S If eating cheese before bed
Gives you a crappy nightmare
So what if you have fed
On cheese in these dreams
No scrappy schemes in your head
Led to days with rays of sunbeams
Teams of happy memes instead
Well it seems only fair
Morbid fascination (mine) as covid-19 pandemic...
foments rampant monopoly on bedlam
Wreaking ball (his stick) havoc (think ostensible
civil war scale not seen since Vietnam),
whereby microorganisms jamb
*****sapiens immunity system
complements of gook
resembling green eggs and ham
necessitating Doctor Seuss
to stoke bram
bullying cat in the hat
on a hot tin roof damn
senseless cant be understood
Matthew Scott Harris argot sham
bulls (red dilly), and sallies forth
with neither reason only rhyming flimflam.
All Joe King aside - at any rate,
yours truly, (a generic garden variety reprobate),
not hell bent to receive nasty hate
male courtesy vexatious reader to berate,
cuz unwelcome chide and chime
prompts gnome mad tick versifier
to test (ease silly) to provoke ye to fulminate.
Humanity now fishtails helter skelter
across oblate spheroid courtesy coronavirus
global pandemonium unleashed
expletive maniacal tsunami
(think) metaphorical groundswell
primates hurry scurry to and fro,
hither and yon frenziedly
pell-mell housing random erratic
discombobulated, bobble headed
(simulating) quasi Brownian movements
at warp speed embarked
upon impossible mission.
Here I paraphrase (er... rather plagiarize)
President John F. Kennedy,
whereby he delivered on January 20, 1961
his inaugural address in which he announced
"we shall pay any price, bear any burden,
meet any hardship, support any friend,
oppose any foe to assure the survival
and success of liberty."
Though the then USSR
(Union of Soviet Socialist Republics),
now identified as
union of Soviet socialist republics
helped cook who nurse (and ratchet)
state of political hostility
existed between Soviet bloc countries
and US-led Western powers
from 1945 to 1990.
Our present crisis I aim(ed) to show touché
(pardon mum oddest tee) culinary poetic entree,
how bajillions of people mercilessly
unfairly subjected to influenza like agony
exhibiting following symptoms:
cough, fever, tiredness, difficulty breathing
(severe cases), yet
many met their untimely demise
with prompt care, nonetheless minimal delay
ferried them to awaiting quay
where Charon doth ferry
dead souls across Rivers Styx and Acheron
resignedly where forced to abandon treasures they
must relinquish all trapping he/she did parlay.
Anyone can write poetry;
Only some do it well.
And others fail—initially, at any rate.
Some idea of its genesis may be of help.
A poem – any piece of literature – is
The result of a combination
Of the Idea and the Act.
Idea
It stems invariably from authenticity—
Of perception and or experience.
The Idea has the potential
And the prospect of a seed, of an egg.
Act.
A poem is a process by which
A raw emotion turns
Into an appropriate feeling:
The raw, in other words, gets cooked.
Fury, for instance, may poetically transform into
Lacerating irony or Vitriolic satire.
You are, in this process,
Guided by your taste and temperament.
Your muse at work.
Another transformation takes place, too,
When two apparently unrelated phenomena
Come to be linked by analogy,
To make perceptions clear,
As in the case above—
Where the poetic process is likened
To the culinary process—
The ‘raw’ getting ‘cooked,’
It’s an echo, too,
Of an earlier anthropological text—
Authored by Claude Lévis-Strauss.
As such, it’s determined
By your background and brought-up,
Your likes and dislikes.
And so may differ from person to person.
What happens, however, is this:
The new is related to the familiar,
The unknown to the known.
That’s indeed the job of a figure (of speech):
A simile or metaphor or metonym does it.
The medium of poetry is something like
The cooking medium.
Once cooked, you hardly see the medium in the dish.
You can, however, smell and taste it,
And that makes all the difference.
Likewise, the poem is a delicate blend
Of the medium and the message.
Style is the offshoot of the medium.
It serves a rhetorical purpose
And is also a mark of sophistication.
It bears indeed your stamp and signature.
Learning by doing is the how of style.
Of course, practice makes perfect.
Yet there’s no limit to perfection.
It’s a lifelong pursuit—
As it was for Bhartrhari and Bharati
Or Kannadasan and Vairmuthu
Or Shakespeare and Shaw.
The tips, recipes, and the rules
(say, of rhyme or rhythm)
On how to make a poem
Are more or less like
The tips on how to make love,
Which are all thrown to the wind
Once passion or the muse takes over.
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in't!”
***
Mine dad in the 1940’s was an organ grinder huh!, in the high seas in the Navy. In the 1940’s
Lo, the clanging, bopping, banging of prepare containers foods. Large coppers pans and pots.
Put together meals by combining and heating the ingredients in various ways. Prepared bake fix knock up grub rustle up food meshing and mashing,
a preparing organ grinder hun!
See he tampered with seasonings and sauces interfere with manipulate forging, fiddling embossing be happening as to planned Navel foods.
Was an organ grinder
Most food was boiled in the and liquid was run out via taps sort of an Entertainer of meals
Clanging, clinging, metal spoons, forks, plates, pots and pans
Happen go on in the galley. Like he was a one who played a barrel organ in the streets. kinging and clanging pots and pans sounds.
An unimportant person who does what he is told to do would cook so the seamen could eat...
chef in the Navy
my dad was galley organ
grinder Navy Chef
Keeping the craft alive twas a Navy Chef Barrel organist.
Comes and gets it a handful of cooks wheel-turners are keeping the craft alive.
There was an open fire at the back for spit-roasting and seamen
So could apply to use it if they caught a fish three-legged pots were stood in the embers.
Navy dinner time be on sail onboard personnel three main meals per day
.Breakfast: *0600–0700 lunch: 1100– 1230; dinner: *1600–1800
Chef organ grinder played the galley
The galley food is cooked and prepared
It can also refer to a land-based kitchen on a naval base,
Point of view, gourmet to beef stew to a straight design of the kitchen layout.
(CS) with ranks
culinary Specialist
organ grinder chef
“Fair winds and following seas”, food prep and served seamen for those in the United States Navy. Where they have to say farewell to mommy’s and grands meals. In 1940’s World War 2 tolls. To those retiring or leaving for deployment to cut, munch, and eat now from the galley. Of the chefs in the Navy organ grinder manning. Said the galley a method of saluting rendering honors works in galleys the seaman Chef food prep.
My dad Galley organ grinder
11/01/23
The Last Organ Grinder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
CANDIDATE
that's my wife's business,
he will make it for you, not tomato sauce but grated coconut sauce which is fried without oil wrapped in banana leaves like pepes.
It is wonderful for a tongue that is saliva due to the rash of the savory aroma of coconut and banana leaves and kaffir lime leaves and the scent of garlic and the sharpness of chillies.
"Besides your house, near the sapodilla tree," replied Mas Sorjan when Selo proposed that his place was near the goat's cage.
"Yes, it can be an appetizer, when Selo says while lifting a bunch of bananas, baked until the skin is charred it will be really tasty."
I fell in love with Karsita
He is not a virgin
I do not care
He was frustrated by his disbelief
I do not care
He cares
Today, he herded ravines and ravines
Splitting the sun into three parts
Mix all kinds of recipes.
Your tongue will be messed up
What should I do?
What do you need?
Is not a wife?
Is it not the head of the treasury?
What about tongue-breaking?
Like the chaos of a trapped person like the messed up President
(in indonesia)
CALON
itu urusan istriku,
dia akan membuatkanya untukmu, bukan sambal tomat tapi sambal kelapa parut yang di goreng tanpa minyak dibungkus daun pisang seperti pepes.
Sungguh indahnya untuk lidah yang berliur karena ruap aroma gurih kelapa dan daun pisang dan daun jeruk purut dan harumnya bawang putih dan tajamnya cabe-cabe.
“Disamping rumahmu saja, dekat pohon sawo kecik.” Jawab mas Sorjan ketika Selo mengusulkan tempatnya adalah dekat kandang kambing.
“Yes, itu bisa sebagai hidangan pembuka, saat Selo mengatakan sambil mengangkat tandan pisang, dipanggang hingga kulitnya hangus akan benar-benar gurih.”
Aku jatuh cinta pada Karsita
Dia sudah tidak perawan
Aku tidak perduli
Dia frustasi oleh ketidakperawananya
Aku tidak perduli
Dia, perduli
Hari ini, dia menggiring kambing ketepi jurang dan
Membelah matahari menjadi tiga bagian
Mencampur segala macam resep masakan.
Lidahmu akan dibuat kacau
Aku harus bagaimana?
Apa yang kamu butuhkan?
Apakah bukan seorang istri?
Apakah bukan kepala perbendaharaan?
Bagaimana dengan pengacau lidah?
Seperti kacaunya orang kesurupan seperti kacaunya Presiden yang belum jadi
When I grew up there was no such thing
as microwave or t.v dinner's they hadn't
even been inverted yet
Come 6 o'clock we had to gather round the
dinning room table for evening meals and
parentally enforced family time to talk about
our day
To feast on such culinary delight's mother
used to burn as home made chips frozen
fish finger's and a choice of either tinned
baked beans or spaghetti hoops
Then when we're finally finished Dad would
go into the living room switch on the t.v
and watch the news
After that he would read his paper in order
to switch off and we would then get to watch
whatever was on 1 of the oh so many other
4 t.v channels
Only 1 singular t.v in the house shared
between our entire family permanently fixed
in the lounge.
And 1 singular telephone in the corner or
if you had one an entrance hallway
Both of which we're actually luxury's not
necessity dependant on if you could afford
to the bill and licence or electricity
And we weren't poor what we we're as
children was a little something called
happy and we'll adjusted
Which got me thinking about just how
different and far removed that time
was to current present day
Using the age old means of comparing
Apple's for Apple's regarding different
childhood's
To me growing up as a child what an
apple was or meant was bobbing or
ducking for at halloween , keeps the
doctor away and at it's best when it's
covered in sticky toffee candy
Fast forward to today the only Apple a
child knows comes in i - pad , pod , phone ,
watch or 4 in 1 form they carry about there
person constantly for companionship so
much so they can barely take the time to
talk or barely loook up
The same type of Apple that God warned
Eve all about not to try and eat for fear of
being kicked out
Because once you do there is no chance
of ever going back or a return to Eden
It's a place that only exists and can be
accessed by means of logging into Window's
or typing it into a search engine to look up ,
how exactly do you spell that is it
Bib-lol
Or by drinking how ever much Cider it
takes in order to pass out or forget
Reality is the new nightmare
So how do you like them Apple's now
For several years when our kids were little, every Thanksgiving Day, we all loaded up and headed for Aunt Fanny’s house. New faces and lots of food were big attractions. There was much for which to be thankful.
Just like myself, I suspect that everyone thought that Aunt Fanny's sweet potatoes were the best that we had ever tasted. I suppose that everyone had no doubt that her mustard greens were the best in all America. Who could imagine anybody’s ribs, roast, or chicken being any better than hers? Yes, we were certain that we could not see wings on her biscuit roles; but because they were so soft and fluffy, we also knew that if one did not consume them rather readily, they would fly away.
Doubtless, everybody knew Aunt Fanny the cook. But the real question is whether or not we got to know Aunt Fanny the person. If for any reason, and I can name a few myself, anyone thought that the Thanksgiving gatherings were about the food, they, as did I at times, completely missed what Aunt Fanny was all about. In time, that is, after her great and tasty food was clearly digested, I realized that she was all about people.
Our dear aunt was indeed gourmet, but she was not about making us happy about her culinary abilities. She was about making us believe that we could do anything God designed us to do; and to be all that He purposed us to be. Aunt Fanny was demonstrating to us that she learned to prepare many great dishes from scratch the same way she rose up from a very humble beginning and achieved prosperity in both material and spiritual ways. She nearly started out in life from scratch. So making much from little was second nature with her.
Those ‘massive never out of food gatherings’ were not about the turkeys, or the hams, or the chickens, and not even about the ribs. I tell you, it was not about the food. It was all about the family, the friendships, and the loving. Yes! Aunt Fanny was about the fellowship and the caring. If we had thought that food was the centerpiece, we truly missed the real Fanny.
01242013 cj PS Contest, Thanksgiving Day, Nayda Ivette Negron
within the under belly of
this hob bull ling Leviathan beast
induced roaring hungry soundcloud issued
within abdominal folds
finding they in creased
never diminishing, matter
whether I turn north, south, west or east
this adult desired,
soon after he envisioned
buttered crispy dish eyed fancily feast
culinary cut throat Michelin meisters
(pit a less lee) pitted
against Pillsbury doughboy greased
imaginatively gobbling hectare
thousand island inlaid
juiced kickstarting least
unable to pay thee Monsieur's consigliere –
damn, hard cold cash just shy by a nickle
aye first taken got taken hostage
as a wreck loose poet,
the anti write cadre
strip searched
every stitch of clothes I wore,
then subjected me to an aye tip pickle
pun hush ment,
where this deplorable basket case
stood aghast as hounds from hell
got loosed by thee Don Rickle
lathered canine chops
slapped by foamy salivating tongues
poised to ham er and
make mince meat out this pop sickle
but...lo and behold, as vicious
snooping doggy dogs
approached within a hair breadth
minecrafted fingers fluttered
in the air asper ready to tickle
whereat the snarling killers (bon jove)
rolled with faux pas in the air
kicking, laughing (or a similar
fox simile thereof),
inciting Major Domo tuff flair
his nostrils (like...well
an amazing dragon)
with blood red eyes didst glare
while fur sprouted over his bare skin
honor ably dispelling every last hair
which bizarre circumstance, an opportunity
to escape from this thieving Magpie lair
approved by the ghost of Rossini,
who suddenly prestidigitatiously
magically brought to my defense William Tell
(in the guise oven
instant activating App) pull lick caisson
thus juiced by a whisker avoiding a scare.
Perhaps the realm where dormant ideas germinate
will coalesce into sturdy tomes even if posthumously late
recognition gets affianced with a memorialized slate
where no body will lie,
cuz this mortal will get his ashes sprinkled
intermixed with wildlife,
who will unknowingly consecrate and sanctify
rack and pinion traction,
where dost dust will fertile lies
to become reincarnated
via blessings sans creatures who defecate or urinate.