annapurnamagazine

Dining Out All Over The World

In Comfort Food, cooking poetry, Dining Out, dining poetry, food magazine, food photos, Food Poetry, John Ronan on March 2, 2014 at 8:15 pm

CoffeeClubR

‘Coffee Club R’, food and libations- this photo was taken while our managing editor was traveling in Asia, Geonju, Korea

************

Extinction’s Menu

Not to drink but drown, not just any brandy,
but Armagnac, the ortolan finds itself mid-ritual
even a bird-brain would know enough not to choose.

The millet and darkness it did not mind so much,
with all the cues confused, need reveals itself
as possessive, desirous, a lover feeling the feed of fill.

And then you, illegal feaster, hidden behind your napkin,
so that not the slightest sweet corrupt wisp may escape,
so God cannot see your keen-focused, gluttonous sin.

Or because there’s mess in an ounce of crunchy death,
a whole bird in your mouth, you cat with a canary,
your mouth a mine of decadence that would argue

tradition if it were not so extraordinarily full with magic,
sizzled sweet fat, essence of hazelnuts, snap
of roasted bones, the sense you’ve cheated death by being it.

Controlled Designation of Origin

Delight that food is an atlas of our days.
This meal, that spot, such perfections.
Position is nine-tenths of the law – ask
the French, clinging tight to cognac
and champagne, the rest of the world
left with but brandy, simply sparkling wine.
And the Italians, every region with its hams,
Prosciutto di Parma, San Daniele, Modena,
distinctions fine as a charcuterie slice. Still
they shout “Here!” in a language we taste
with our tongues, travel easy as a swallow,
mapping the world morsel by morsel.

George Yatchisin has had poems in numerous publications including Alimentum, Antioch Review, Boston Review, and Quarterly West. He writes about food, wine, and cocktails for The Santa Barbara Independent, Edible Santa Barbara, and the KCET Food Blog.

************

Casavecchia

Sandy says a centurion worked
this farm, fundus, booty-bought
after Actium. And Michelangelo
when the Buonarroti’s owned it.
Sandy, and the two boys no longer
boys, our friends Mitch and Kate.
The chianti grown and aged on site
by Signor Buondonno, whose vines
climb the darkening hill, hedged
by fence from Bacchus-minded boars.
Mitchel says, ‘in veritas, wine.’
Lightning! By Jove, or Jupiter!
Big bocce of Tuscan thunder!
The farmhouse terrace, thatched
over, opens on groves of holly,
olive and cypress, wind-worried
shapes in the rain. We’re dry
for the time being. A cuckoo counts
to some impossible o’clock.

;first appeared in Notre Dame Review in 2002

John Ronan is a poet, playwright, movie producer, and journalist. He has received national honors for his poetry and was named a National Endowment for the Arts Fellow for 1999-2000.

 

************

Beer&Pizza

‘Beer & Pizza’ by Jonas Winfrey: Jonas is a part-time photography who enjoys food on his travels. This is his first actual publication acceptance.

************

The Dinner Party

Blum walks to the kitchen, away from the wine and pot. A ghost glides alongside him. He sets the guests’ bowls in the sink and notes the success of his lentil soup. Brian is telling the table about his mother’s stroke. Blum runs the faucet, which drowns out the talk. Blum’s mom died last spring from an aneurysm. A lull at the table signals time for the shrimp. Blum returns. He sees a grim scene. Brian’s head is hanging. Upon his plate, blood droplets begin to pool. The guests appear paralyzed. A slight movement at Blum’s side, the ghost of Joyce Blum enters bearing a platter of skewered shrimp. Blum divides the shrimp. For Brian’s sake he did not serve meat tonight.

Mysticism and Meat

Ideally, you are devoured in your prime by medicine men and not as junk-meat for the communal pot. With the breakdown of tissue, the cells issue a mortal cry. Around the Cook’s Bible chimes a chorus of sous chefs. The page emits a campfire glow from which a cannibal emerges. What’s missing? Pretty soon, your arms and legs—seared and smoked until dripping from bone. In the aftermath of prayer, when chords rise from the planet, you make the rounds of the soothsayer’s intestine.

The Hungry Python

All of life the python seeks to know. He slips through the flea-market with a clinging stomach, catching in his glittery eye items from the old world: sheet-music, tunic, ice-cream scoop, top hat. To touch these with quiet flicks of the tongue. At the sound of thunder, the merchants start to pack, placing wares hurriedly in boxes and covering these with plastic sheets.

Matthew Kirshman lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two daughters. He is a English teacher, and writing since the early 1980s, my publication credits include: *Altpoetics*, *Charter Oak Poets*, *Dirigible: Journal of Language Arts*, *Futures Trading*, *Helix*, *Indefinite Space*, *Key Satch(el)*, *Mad Hatters’ Review*, *Phoebe: The George Mason Review*,*posthumous papers* (NothingNew Press), *Vangarde Magazine*, *Xenarts*, *The Wayfarer*, *Wilderness House Literary Review*, and *Z-Composition*.

************

STRONG MEDICINE

The night before he died he craved
for ice cream on a stick. He swore
he heard the bells outside, the truck
across the street—Could I sneak out
and buy a round for all of us? His treat!

There was no truck across the street,
no crisp bells crackling, but
the canteen in the basement did have
two dusty old machines
dispensing pops and cones and cups.

I filled the slots with coins.
At fifty cents a shot,
those two machines unleashed
more vital pain relief that night
than the steady drip of morphine
clouding father’s final scene.

“Ah, the loot,” he beamed, and drew
a shallow breath, and then another—
“I toast to the bitter and the sweet!”
He tore the wrapper off his treat
before he lost his breath completely:

I watched him eat—I watched him eat
like a kid on the sneak before dinner,
that night, as death took a brief back seat
to a chocolate-covered ice cream bar on a stick.

(This poem first appeared in a Canadian Medical Journal)

THE HEAT

Tonight the baker holds
his lover between firm hands,
feels the heat from the day’s baking
rising back up through his finger tips.

Dennis J Bernstein is author, most recently, of Special Ed: Voices from a Hidden Classroom, which received the 2012 Literary Achievement Award from Artist Embassy International. His poetry has appeared in the New York Quarterly, Chimaera, Bat City Review, The Progressive, Texas Observer, ZYZZYVA, Red River Review, etc. Alice Walker, Pulitzer Prize winning author of The Color Purple, writes that Special Ed “…is art turned to us through the eyes of love.” Carol Smaldino says in The Huffington Post that the poems remind us how “…we are all connected to the sorrows as well as to the grandness of being human…”Bernstein taught writing and reading literacy in various prisons in New York City and New York State, for the CCNY/John Jay College and Mercy College.

************

DSCF1900

‘Cup Runneth Over’ by Louie Clay (né Louie Crew): Clay’s photography has appeared in Annapuma Magazine, DailyOffice.org, The Living Church, Meadowland Review, Munyori Literary Journal, Rose Red Review, South Florida Arts Review, Souvenir: A Journal, Subliminal Interiors and The Taj Mahal Review. Editors have published 2,303 of his essays, poems and photographs. He is an emeritus professor at Rutgers.

************

Bread & Butter

green enameled stove burns bright
the rocker, moves back & forth nearby
through the lace curtain sunlight

my grandmother sits, bird’s eyes
twinkling, hands darn socks,
butter bread & make apple pie

she tells a tale of sister red fox
I listen and lick the butter
off fingers & bread, a music box

and mantle clock stutter
when she pauses, the fox is near
her fingers, socks & thread aflutter

I wait in companionable silence.

Short Breakfast Couplet

If you were a thin slice of bread,
And I were your soft comfy bed,

I’d let you toss your crusts & crumbs,
You’d be croutons when the time comes.

If you were slathered with jelly
or jam. And if I, your white bell –

I’d let your sticky fingers dance,
You’d be my marmalade romance.

If you were a brown slice of toast,
And I were your Kitchen Aid host,

I’d let your Danish Pastry cook,
You’d be my mouthful, my dear snook.

If you were a round Johnny cake,
And I were your frosted cornflake.

I’d let you backstroke in the milk,
You’d be my swimming pool of silk.

If you were my cup of sweet tea,
And I were a silver cat flea,

I’d let you scratch that itch all night,
You’d be my dear sweetness and light.

If you were the carmel toffee,
And I were a cup of coffee,

I’d let you melt in my hot cup,
You’d deliquesce so, giving up.

DiTa Ondek is an artist and poet & has been published in the “Goose River
Anthology”, “Jump Lines,” The Loft Anthology-”Lay Bare the Canvas” and upcoming anthology “The Taste of Ink.” Her poetic aesthetic is whimsical yet controlled. DiTa is currently working on a series of cupcake paintings that reflect her poetic whimsy and prismatic view of nature.

************

7 - Breakfast

‘Indian Breakfast’ by Braja Sorensen

is originally from Australia, but has spent most of her adult life living and working in India, London, the United States, and New Zealand. She now lives in the village of Mayapur, on the banks of the Ganges in West Bengal. Her poetry has won awards and has been published in Great Britain and Australia. She writes for several publications internationally, but is still waiting for Vogue to see the light and give her a damned column. Lost & Found in India is her first mainstream publication.

************

BOTTLE OF RED BOTTLE OF WHITE

His Mediterranean ego with its full head of black hair
May reign behind the counter
While the balding skull of the proprietor in paunch and pity
Furtively smokes English Ovals in the dirty kitchen.
Tony’s Parmesan Palace spoiled several months ago
But not before his cousin Vito and brother Marco blooded unpaid family hours
Ragging the walls to that texture and tone
And painted a mural of the pines of Rome
Worthy of an Etruscan tomb,
Unpaid except for a glass or two of Chianti and the birthing of a grudge
Destined to ferment for the next ten years of birthday parties and funerals.
Tony put a few lira into the kitchen
Yet even with his tasty chicken cacciatore and pesto
The sheriff took the cannelloni
Left him with the tax warrants.
His told you so wife Gina after waiting tables and mopping floors and suffering the marinara stains from the red and white checked table cloths
Did not enjoy so much of his pasta and biscotti
That she could not
Drink a glass of Lacryma Christi farewell and leave him for Guido.
The dot (not feather) Indian who owns the building with all the improvements
Was almost able to turn key to the Greek with hardly a lost day’s rent.
Three months after the grand opening
The first dollar autographed by all the cousins
And parishioners at Holy Trinity Orthodox Church still hangs on the wall
His stained apron hides from the plumber
For no matter how good the gyros or bitter the retsina
Or full the figure of his surly teenager daughter’s waitressing
He is on the wrong side of the arterial.

Tyson West lives and writes in Eastern Washington State in the foot hills to the Bitterroot Mountains.  He has published Haiku, free verse and form verse in various on line and print periodicals and anthologies as well as  horror and steampunk fiction. His collection of poetry Home-Canned Forbidden Fruit is available from Gribble Press.

************

Boiled Pizza

Boiled pizza? That’s outrageous
Double boiled even worse
Better hope it’s not contagious
Good thing that my wife’s a nurse

Boiled pizza has no virtue
Boiled pizza has no vice
That’s absurd because a virtue
is providing food for mice

Maybe it could use some chicken,
pepperoni, cheddar cheese
Bet you that your pulse would quicken
if you added stir-fried fleas

Never eat it’s my position
Here I stand no ifs or buts
More than just an imposition
I don’t think I have the guts

Just the concept makes me queasy
Boiled pizza? Yucky poo!
Who must eat it? That’s so easy
My unbiased choice is you

Martin Cohen is a retired computer programmer who loves dancing (favorites are West Coast Swing, Waltz, Foxtrot, and Salsa), writing (but not revising) poems, and solving math problems. He has other works published in Danse Macabre du Jour, Bleeding Ink Anthology; Penduline Press, Napalm and Novocain, High Coupe, and “Recession Depression and Economic Reflection”.

(Click on above photographs to enlarge and enjoy)

Next issue of Annapurna is our first print anthology, Clarify. Deadline is now closed and was posted open call since October 2013. We will open up submission again in October 2014 for our 2015 issue. See ‘Submission guidelines’ for our June theme.

Annapurna presents ‘Clarify’

In Comfort Food, cooking poetry, dining poetry, food magazine, food photos, Food Poetry, french toast, fried eggs, spring equinox, Vernal Equinox poetry on January 20, 2014 at 12:55 am

clarified_butter

Annapurna Magazine presents a yearly print anthology Clarify-

1) make (a statement or situation) less confused and more clearly comprehensible.
2) separate out impurities, to make clear.

We want your best Poetry, Prose, Flash Fiction (1500 word max) & black and white Artwork
Submissions accepted for full color cover.

Submission guidelines are listed on guideline page, and all rules will adhere to all projects, please read.

Our plate is waiting…

email: editor@reddashboard

Chef Tip: the French call it ‘beurre noisette’ if you let clarified butter sit on the heat a bit longer and become a nutty brown. Add some to bourbon, close tight and sit for a day or two and you have Brown Butter Betty Bourbon, a great flavor!

Picture above credit goes to Bon Appetit Magazine 

 

Our guest Judge/Editor for this year’s print anthology will be – Ava Chin, food writer and poet, NYC

A native New Yorker from Flushing, Queens, Ava Chin forages throughout the five boroughs and the tri-state area, lecturing on edible flora and fungi, and writing about her finds for places like the NY Times City Room and Saveur magazine.

Her forthcoming memoir Eating Wildly: Foraging for Life, Love, and the Perfect Meal (Simon & Schuster, May 2014), about growing up Chinese American raised by a single mother and loving grandparents, who cooked up elaborate feasts every Sunday, reveals how foraging helped Ava to heal up from some old filial wounds and taught her important lessons in self-reliance.

Ava Chin is the former “Urban Forager” columnist for the New York Times’ City Room (2009-2013). She has written for about food, arts and culture for the Los Angeles Times Sunday Magazinethe Village Voice, BUST, SPIN, VIBE, and Martha Stewart onlineShe has stories in the Edible Brooklyn Cookbook (2011) and The Bust DIY Guide to Life (2011).

She has appeared on WNYC’s “All Things Considered” discussing ginkgoes and wineberries, and has been profiled in the Swiss magazine, Beobachter Natur.

Ava is the editor of Split:Stories From a Generation Raised on Divorce (McGraw-Hill, 2002) a collection of nonfiction essays about growing up in a divorced family, which Booklist called a “brave and insightful collection.” She earned an MA from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and a PhD from the University of Southern California. She is an associate professor at the College of Staten Island-CUNY where she enjoys teaching creative nonfiction, memoir, and journalism to undergraduate and graduate students.

December 17th, Cold Food Moon

In Comfort Food, cooking poetry, dining poetry, food magazine, food photos, Food Poetry, french toast, fried eggs on December 19, 2013 at 10:36 am

2 - Cook

‘Cook in India’

Braja Sorensen is originally from Australia, but has spent most of her adult life living and working in India, London, the United States, and New Zealand. She now lives in the village of Mayapur, on the banks of the Ganges in West Bengal. Her poetry has won awards and has been published in Great Britain and Australia. She writes for several publications internationally, but is still waiting for Vogue to see the light and give her a damned column. Lost & Found in India is her first mainstream publication. (her photos- ‘Cook In India’, above, and ‘Annapurna’, below)

*************

ONE LINE HAIKU- Hokku

birthday cake icing aunt passes over tongue

Hema Ravi has had a stint in the Central Government, India- then as a school teacher. Currently, she freelances as English Language Trainer. Her write ups have won prizes in Femina, Khaleej Times (Dubai) and International Indian, Viewpoints been published in The Hindu’s Voice Your Views. Prize winner (Contest- August 2010) in writersglobe.com, Prize Winner in Metverse Muse “Best Fixed Form Poets of the year 2011”. Has published in Metverse Muse, Poetry World, Contemporary Literary Review Online and Print Edition, The Poetic Bliss, Roots and Wings (An Anthology of Indian Women Writing in English), The Fancy Realm, The Enchanted World, Matruvani and Holistic Mediscan. She is among the top poets at voicesnet.com, has posted verses in poemhunter.com, museindia.com, boloji.com, Sketchbook, four and twenty poetry, a hundred gourds and more……. She is a member of the Chennai Poets Circle.

************

Chill Curing

Buckwheat Seed farming period planting period
Planting Cycle harvest Standards

Threshing

Cold season growth planting yields
Wheat Rye, triticale, oats, barley spelt battlefields

Winnowing

Cooler Highlands
Erosion lands in optimal enchants.

Jennifer Warren, graduate of Brandeis University writes relating to environmental law and the ecosystem in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

************

DSCF1900

‘Cup Runneth Over’

Louie Clay (né Louie Crew): Clay’s photography has appeared in Annapuma Magazine, DailyOffice.org, The Living Church, Meadowland Review, Munyori Literary Journal, Rose Red Review, South Florida Arts Review, Souvenir: A Journal, Subliminal Interiors and The Taj Mahal Review. Editors have published 2,303 of his essays, poems and photographs. He is an emeritus professor at Rutgers.

************

Weeping in Paradise

I give the sickness too much of a chance,
lost in lust, but moreso in lust’s ornaments.

It’s the culpa of the kalpa
that we are so fused by the guilt and history
scrawled on the proud bottles.

This feeble common ground—
a receded empire, a dying father,
a closed factory—makes some sense of me,

destroying my inside with liquor and cynicism,
while men and women, glowing slyly,
bed each other in the spring of the time.

I drink bourbon until I sweat. And as if
every fuck was already written in heaven,
I don’t move or look for a long time.

For a person with the real sickness,
winning and losing become immaterial.
Staying in the game is what counts.

Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. He’s the author of several novels, including *The Last Bad Job*, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” Dodds’ screenplay *Refreshment – A Tragedy*, was named a semi-finalist in 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. His poetry has appeared in more than ninety publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha.

************

A Courtship of Recipes

She smiled demurely
and said she could seduce me
with her Blueberry Blintzes
stuffed with Ricotta,
and then she blushed.

I didn’t want to seem impetuous
and countered I could match that
with a Tuscan Bean Soup and Crusty Bread.

She went cold and offered a salad
of Pan Seared Scallops in Arugula,
with a Sesame Wine Vinaigrette
I could see there was no stopping
this culinary courtesan.

Not to be outdone, I came back big
with a Northern Chinese Orange Beef
stir-fried with mixed Spring Greens
Baby Bok Choy and a Sweet Red Chili Sauce.

I don’t know what was with her
but she went all oceanic on me
presented me with a filleted baked Salmon
on Risotto with Pesto Sauce embraced
by a miniature Fruits de Mer garnish
I could not believe this demon siren.

That was my limit. I went all out hot
with a Chicken Vindaloo and Marathi Aloo
all on a delicately saffronated Pilaf
of white Basmati with Almond shavings.
Two starches, sure, but extraordinary times
call for heroic cookery.

That stopped her.
But one day later she came back
and gave me a chocolate chip cookie
the best I ever tasted,
and not having the patience
of an of an ox or even a flea
I kissed her, actually kissed her.

Wonderment

Is there a god
of mushrooms and toadstools,
and small squirmy things?
Is there a separate one
for lucky ants that survive
under the recess of your sneaker tread
after you’ve stepped on them?
Is there really a special god
for young moon-eyed lovers,
and a separate one for the starry-eyed?
How about a separate one
for toiling accountants
poring into the late night
over books and records,
pining for a tropical vacation?
What about 34th St. & Herald Square,
a special one solely for that piece
of real estate?
Maybe there’s just one for parking
who smiles beneficently
and opens up a spot for your car
right when you’re about to go nuts.
Are there separate ones for each lottery?
Is there a college for gods
where they all go to become good
and great, and learned?
What about a god just for crisp seeded rolls?
If so, he’d be my favorite
and, hopefully, could also change
into a woman every other Thursday night,
gods being what they are.

Gene Goldfarb began writing a long time ago, gave most of it up to be a judge for over 30 years, and has returned to it. Recently, his poems have appeared in Cliterature, Empty Sink, andRiver & South Review.

************

044 copy

ANNAPURNA, THE GODDESS

There’s a land just below the paradise,
Of intricate traits ; it’s sketch is imprecise.
A lady seated there in a state, tranquil,
Looks exquisite, and smiles at her will.
The goddess of the grain–Annapurna, is her name,
To apportion the grain, seems to be her aim.
She carries a bowl in one of her hands,
And with a ladle in the other, she traverses other lands.

But today, somewhat, melancholy she seems,
Upon her distress, she sadly deems.
“The ladle doesn’t pour into the mouths of who need,
The bowl is emptied by the tyrants who lead”,
thinks she, “So much into nature’s lap I lay,
But all they snatch, in a heinous way.
To favor themselves, they have rules unfair,’
Which stifle true needs, without any care”.

The nature she knows, produces all pure,
But what becomes of it, she isn’t sure.
“In greed, the grain, they adulterate,
Without compunction to earn great”
realizes she,”Oh Its so ailing to see,
This distress, with none to consider my plea.
The grain which sustains life each day,
Is now also responsible for taking it away.”

Empty handed, then , she wanders in a street,
Where the affluent enjoy, and the poor ones weep.
For this oppression , who is to blame?
Who’s responsible for these deeds of shame?
Somewhere, there are choices, difficult to make,
Somewhere, but agony, of how to take.
What is to be out into the child’s hand?
They’ve emptied the bowls in both the lands!

Gurdeep Singh Published a poem in a magazine entitled “Srijan”, which can be found at
http://issuu.com/, complete link: http://issuu.com/neaschal/docs/srijan_2013), and usually has published in school and college magazines. More of Gurdeep’s work can be found at http://www.writerscafe.org/,
link to my profile :http://www.writerscafe.org/GSRatti/writing/.

************

Birthday Cake Catastrophe

Thembi, from Bulawayo, was

a truly dedicated young lady.

They called it diabolic and shocking.

A grisly birthday cake made of her detached leg.

The cake artist spent several hours crafting that cake,

the leg was credible, with red tattoos dotted on a bloody board.

A banner adorned on the base screamed: ‘This is a special happy birthday.’

The invitees came in droves but upon catching sight of the ghastly cake they quickly

disappeared. Not even her boyfriend or close relatives wanted to have anything to do with

that cake, let alone eat it. Some of her relatives disowned her yet others just condemned her. She felt
like an unwanted outcast and cried hysterically for hours on end without anyone coming to comfort her.

Ndaba Sibanda is a former National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA) nominee, Ndaba’s **poems, essays and short stories have been published in Africa , the UK and the US. His latest anthology, **The Dead Must Be Sobbing **was published in March 2013. Ndaba`s debut novel, Timebomb has been accepted for publication in the UK. He currently lives in Saudia Arabia.

(Click on photo images to enlarge, thank you.)

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.