Tweetspeak Poetry

Bread, Pastries, Pies Playlist & Prompt

By 134 Comments

From Coffee & Croissants to Cherry Pie, this month’s Bread, Pastries, Pies playlist is a mouth-watering buffet of sweet musical delights. Musicians like The Carolina Chocolate Drops, Ryan Bingham, Bob Dylan, and Ella Fitzgerald will have you toe-tapping and craving a visit to your local pâtisserie. Listen along and think about your New Year’s diet later.

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here is a haiku from Bethany we enjoyed:

Recuperating:
Your hand finally finds mine
–in the tissue box.

—by Bethany Rohde

POETRY PROMPT: Cronut. Danish. Runeberg’s Torte. Write a poem about your favorite pastry. Walk us through each flaky layer.

Photo by Anna. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!

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Comments

  1. Maureen Doallas says

    (Cento)

    My memory of Paris . . .

    each face in the street is a slice of bread
    flattened or round
    the hue of golden potatoes

    touch it
    taste it — the first bite
    of the day
    a sharing of life’s glories

    even though I’m only a poet
    absorbing the gluttony scent through crusty skin
    this bread I bake
    I break with joy —

    the body craves
    tasting and salting

    more, please!

    _________________________
    Sources (excluding last line of my own):

    “Grain”, Diane Wakoski

    “Bread”, W.S. Merwin
    “Ode to Bread”, Pablo Neruda
    “In the Bakery”, Darcie Dennigan

    “Bread”, Kamau Brathwaite
    “Wonderbread”, Alfred Corn
    “Bread and Roses”, James Oppenheim
    “Bread and Roses”, James Oppenheim

    “Bread”, Penelope Shuttle
    “Bread”, Scott Edward Anderson
    “This Bread I Bake”, Dylan Thomas
    “On French Bread”, Sarah Orne Jewett

    “Bread Ode”, Laurie Kutchins
    “Bread Ode”, Laurie Kutchins

    Reply

  2. Marcy Terwilliger says

    Tidbit’s

    Just a tidbit
    For flavor
    To go with hot tea.
    A taste,
    On the tongue
    So delicious
    You see.
    Like a mouse,
    Cheese on a trap
    Stop trying to
    Get rid of me.

    Reply

  6. Richard Maxson says

    Breakfast Manna

    Sleepy resides in you, loosely assembled,
    Cinnamon lively in your spaces, so like dreams,
    Orange flecks like the last sun I remember before
    Night carried me away to arrive this day,
    Early, left hand still in slumber, in my right hand,
    Steaming like a morning pond, darkness transformed.

    Reply

  7. Donna says

    A drizzly blanket of glaze hugs
    crushed walnuts,
    cinnamon and sugar
    safely nestled in my mother’s thumbprint
    atop golden brown crusty spheres~

    Melty marble sized heaven,
    I raced for the shooter
    every time.

    Reply

  8. Simply Darlene says

    he sat at the thick, wooden table, wedged
    between stove and refrigerator

    the summer faded curtain sometimes caught
    on the window’s roll-out lever. coffee, almost thick
    with black, pork chops, ‘taters, green beans, half a
    loaf of white, store-bought bread, a little plate of
    butter – with the same knife as breakfast, leftover
    toast crumbs too.

    his rough hands, scrubbed clean, shoveled food,
    sopped gravy with store-bought bread. i cleared
    plates, offered canned peaches or pears
    or chocolate pudding. he said, “no thank you,
    granddaughter, let’s save them peaches for later,
    warmed with ice cream, when the day’s work is done.”

    drinking coffee dregs, he ripped and crammed two
    slices of store-bought bread into his glass. stirred
    in milk and sugar and ate it with a spoon. “this
    right here, will do. best dessert a man
    can muster,” he said winking as he sat at the thick
    wooden table, wedged between stove

    and refrigerator.

    Reply

    • Bethany Rohde says

      “Wedged between stove/ and refrigerator” -Love this. What a vivid description of the grandfather. I feel like I’m right there in the kitchen too. (This made me tear up — he sounds like my dad who passed away this year.)

      Reply

      • Marcy Terwilliger says

        Oh my, all this talk about food, so vivid, flakey, melt in your mouth, drool, butter, sugar. Everyone has done such a great job writing about food. Let’s all run to the nearest bakery.

        Reply

      • SimplyDarlene says

        thank you bethany. it’s an actual-factual scene between me and grandpa. made me tear up too. it’s grand when such memories work out through poetry.

        [your poem, up top, made me laugh silly. i’d run, screaming from the room before i shared my tissue box 😉 ]

        Reply

    • Richard Maxson says

      Darlene, this reminds me of my Grandpa, Tom Morris. What you created here is such a portrait. I like the lower case words to denote the simplicity and routine of this picture. The repetition just locks in the feeling that this was breakfast daily. This is beautiful to me. Thank you for sharing this.

      It was my Grandpa that introduced me to the wonderful taste of milk, sugar and buttered toast all thrown in a bowl together and you had to eat it fast before the toast got too soggy.

      Reply

    • Sandra Wirfel says

      This made me think of my Grandfather, he was always mushing bread in his coffee, thanks for the memory.

      Reply

    • Donna says

      Yes, such a portrait, to borrow Richard’s words… that line about the peaches stuck in my throat… so much sweetness. I just love it. This poem has such a feeling of home.

      Reply

  9. Robbie Pruitt says

    Pastries of Sophistication

    The pastries rest in placidity
    Placed sophisticatedly
    And enshrined in glass
    Inaccessible
    Mocking our simplicity
    Invoking insecurity
    We leave for donuts

    © January 6, 2015, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

  10. Bethany Rohde says

    At Least

    This English muffin
    will crisp up in dry heat

    and allow salted butter
    to pool in the fingerprints.

    The honey will drop
    through the sourdough pores

    of bread that I eat
    without you.

    Reply

  11. Sandra Wirfel says

    Bread

    Turkish bread ekmegi
    Flat Sour dough
    Baked on a flat iron skillet
    Or a stone in the village
    Crunch of the crust
    Eaten by everyone
    Fingers burning
    Heat at the heart
    Served each meal
    Sold on the street
    Wrapped in newspaper

    25 years later
    My mouth still waters
    At the thought of ekmek.

    Reply

  12. Elizabeth Marshall says

    The Rising

    Skip any step
    Along the way
    Kneed not enough,or even too much if you dare
    Pour a hurried measured cup of
    Haste
    and waste
    A cracked egg with its deadly shards of shell
    If you choose
    but never ever
    fail
    to guard the rising
    with
    Precision of a sniper’s mark
    watch the clock
    watch it like a mother hawk

    For if you fail the rising
    Fall short of the goal you are meant to reach

    Then dare not even say the word
    Croissant
    Because my dear cherie
    a puffed up pastry’s ego
    rises and then falls

    Upon
    the rising

    After all

    Reply

  13. Sandra Wirfel says

    I haven’t made bread by hand in years, but this made me want to punch some dough and watch it rise again.

    Reply

  14. Elizabeth Marshall says

    Choices

    I choose the one
    left
    to harden on
    the day old shelf
    Drive a nail into a board
    with the lead weight end
    heavy now with slightly molded ctust
    noses turned up by the few
    but for the masses
    it is more than good enough

    Half price
    day old
    nothing”s new
    i choose you

    In my eyes, your beauty lies
    in your subtle gteen edges
    like patina
    You are
    a levened slice
    of seventh heaven

    Reply

  15. Marcy Terwilliger says

    There have been so many great poems, everyone has joined in with the finest ingredients, the tasty treats but the best thing about it all is all the support of everyone. Did all of you notice the wonderful comments we gave each other? I’m standing up and clapping this entire group of great people right now.

    Reply

  17. Annelies says

    I’m an avid bread baker and wrote a food poem entitled, “Dear Plastic Bagged Bread,” a while back. Here’s a link if you would like to check it out: http://thefoodpoet.com/2014/03/10/dear-plastic-bagged-bread-poem/

    Also, and I hope it’s okay to share this here in the comments, I manage a food poetry community on G+ and would love to see anyone interested in that facet of poetry join us. Great prompt and inventive poems everyone, especially the sound work of “watch the clock / watch it like a mother hawk,” Elizabeth.

    Reply

    • Richard Maxson says

      Very imaginative poem, Annelies. Bread is almost as much a wolf in sheep’s clothing as cereals. This was a very humorous shaming.

      MMMM-MMMMMM-MM! That bread loaf looks good. I may have to go back to baking bread myself once I retire here soon. In Eureka Springs we do not have a large volume bakery for fresh and healthy breads. I got lazy in Florida, because it was so easy to get bread like your photo.

      Reply

      • Annelies says

        Thanks RIchard and Elizabeth. It’s quite fascinating to see how bread gets mentioned in literature dating quite a ways back. The symbolism of it can be fun to play with in poetry too. I found your site through Google+ and am so glad I did. 🙂

        Reply

    • Heather Eure says

      So glad you’re here, Annelies. A food poetry community makes perfect sense! Thanks for sharing your poem with us. There is nothing in the world like REAL bread. 🙂

      Reply

  18. NewLife2008 says

    Loving Hands

    In the early morning before the sun arises;
    she gets the necessities to make sure we’re fed.
    Using her small hands that labored away with love
    to make the Mexican variety of our daily bread.

    Freshening up she readies herself for the task at hand:
    making her way to the kitchen as she’s done for years,
    searching the pantry for the ingredients there she stands
    and the sound of her movements is the only thing she hears.

    Flour, salt, and lard in just the right amounts
    as she works all the ingredients with her finger tips;
    she never needs to measure or needs to recount
    from years of perfecting her craft she’s more than well equipped.

    Stirring, mixing, then pouring the hot water little by little;
    the most important aspect to ensure the right consistency.
    As the ball of masa rests, it’s time to warm the griddle
    and make little round balls to roll out in perfect symmetry.

    Throwing a little flour on the board so the balls don’t bind
    the sound of wood on wood begins and from my slumber I awake,
    with each half turn she rolls out a perfect sphere every time;
    slapping it between her hands the tortilla is ready to make.

    Down it goes on the hot comale the tortilla begins to bubble;
    as the smell permeates every nook and cranny in the house
    I can’t help but jump out of bed and into the kitchen I hustle
    to see my siblings also waiting for the first tortilla to come out.

    With precision she grabs it with her finger tips and flips it over
    patting it down as it cooks for a few seconds more; now it’s ready.
    My siblings and I will have to wait, as she puts it in the tortilla warmer,
    because we know the one that always gets to eat first is our Daddy.

    Copyright by NewLife2008

    Reply

  20. Kate Jobe says

    yeast
    bubbles, fermenting
    in sugar and warm water, comfort
    and expectation. flour
    glittered with salt scented
    savory from rosemary’s earthy snippets
    scattered among aubergine
    tinted kalamata olives. bread dough.
    gleaming golden olive oil sheen.
    bread dough softly yielding.
    bread dough
    creating cadence. creating substance.
    bread dough baking. warm
    soulful contentment.
    bread.

    Reply

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