Poetry & Food

Morning Glory

Morning Glory

Obsessive cook
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Location
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I came across this poem earlier today, which I found rather amusing. Please feel free to add food poems to this thread. If they are very long poems I suggest copying a few opening stanzas or verses and providing a link to the rest.

Tribute to the Oyster
Let us royster with the oyster – in the shorter days and moister,
That are brought by brown September, with its roguish final R;
For breakfast or for supper, on the under shell or upper,
Of dishes he’s the daisy, and of shell-fish he’s the star.
We try him as they fry him, and even as they pie him;
We’re partial to him luscious in a roast;
We boil him and broil him, we vinegar-and-oil him,
And O, he is delicious stewed with toast!
We eat him with tomatoes, and the salad with potatoes,
Nor look him o’er with horror when he follows the cold-slaw;
And neither does he fret us if he marches after lettuce
And abreast of cayenne pepper when his majesty is raw.
So welcome with September to the knife and glowing ember,
Juicy darling of our dainties, dispossessor of the clam!
To the oyster, then, a hoister, with him a royal royster
We shall whoop it through the land of heathen jam!

First published in The Detroit Free Press (October 12, 1899), anon.
 
Ode to Tomato, by Pablo Neruda

The street filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved like a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.....

Ode to Tomatoes | Pablo Neruda Poems
 
Not entirely true for me, but certainly well written and fun 🙃
33506
 
Here's a TastyReuben original:

On The Matter Of Pizza
Round as the Sun and just as life-giving
Bready disc, destined for divvying
Variations unlimited, a pie for every palate
Named Supreme over all victuals, should we ever cast that ballot!

Pizza! Pizza! Pizza shouted thrice!
Welcome at the highest seats of power, or folded in someone's greasy hand, while shooting dice!
When my life it does expire, should my Soul make those Pearly Gates,
I shall, upon entry, turn to the nearest Angel, and say, "Pepperoni, extra cheese, and please do not make me wait!"
 
Here's one for SatNavSaysStraightOn and Mountain Cat:

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.

Jack Prelutsky
 
Another TR original;

It's 4AM and November cold,
And I am nine years old.

It's my job to wake the cookstove up,
Say good morning to the pup.
Mom's now at the stove,
Lord I've never seen her move

So quick.
Like lightning, so slick.
"The morning's nearly gone!
Your dad will be out soon!"

And here comes Dad, right on cue,
"Egghead, don't you have something better to do?"
I go outside, out in the cold.
I hate being a kid, I wish I was old.

Biscuits, gravy, fried potatoes,
Yolk-busted eggs, home-canned stewed tomatoes,
Always bacon, always sausage.
My sister held the sorghum hostage.

It's 6AM on a frosty morn
It's nine years and five months since I was born.
 
TastyReuben said:
Another TR original;

It's 4AM and November cold,
And I am nine years old.

It's my job to wake the cookstove up,
Say good morning to the pup.
Mom's now at the stove,
Lord I've never seen her move

So quick.
Like lightning, so slick.
"The morning's nearly gone!
Your dad will be out soon!"

And here comes Dad, right on cue,
"Egghead, don't you have something better to do?"
I go outside, out in the cold.
I hate being a kid, I wish I was old.

Biscuits, gravy, fried potatoes,
Yolk-busted eggs, home-canned stewed tomatoes,
Always bacon, always sausage.
My sister held the sorghum hostage.

It's 6AM on a frosty morn
It's nine years and five months since I was born.
Click to expand...

I love it.
 
Morning Glory said:
I love it.
Click to expand...
Thanks. I was thinking about my mom making biscuits when I was a kid, because I was making biscuits this morning, and all I had to do was make biscuits, and I was pretty proud of myself, until I remembered my mom having to feed six, eight, 10 people, three times a day on the weekends, and she made a lot more than just biscuits.
 
This poem by R. P. Lister is always near the list of my all-time favorite verse:

Buses On The Strand

The Strand is beautiful with buses,
Fat and majestical in form,
Red like tomatoes in their trusses
In August, when the sun is warm.

They cluster in the builded chasm,
Corpulent fruit, a hundred strong,
And now and then a secret spasm
Spurs them a yard or two along.

Scarlet and portly and seraphic,
Contented in the summer’s prime,
They beam among the jumbled traffic,
Patiently ripening with time,

Till, with a final jerk and rumble,
The Strand tomatoes, fat and fair,
Roll past the traffic lights and tumble
Gleefully down Trafalgar Square.
 
There once was a woman so fickle,
On her cheese sandwich...only Branston pickle.
Pardon me for not being wordy,
But I've been up since 05:30
Trying to satisfy that tickle!

Success:
72688
 
Here's one - it's not directly about food, but it is in an incidental way:

"I thought it was gonna rain,"
That was Dad, staring at the sky,
As if to complain
Straight to God.
"It's just so dry,"
That was Mom, kicking at the ground
Looking about to cry.
"Ever'thing's so brown!"

All Dad could do was nod.

"Ain't nuthin' gonna be worth a dime!"
Dad again, predicting the yield,
Smearing the grime
While wiping his face.
"It's a waste of a field!"
Said Mom, spitting at the dirt
Which she could have killed
Or at least hurt.

"Lord knows why, but I love this place."
 
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