Posts Tagged ‘food magazine and poetry’

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


‘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.



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’ 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*.



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)


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.



‘Cup Runneth Over’ by Louie Clay (né Louie Crew): Clay’s photography has appeared in Annapuma Magazine,, 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.



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.


The First Day of Spring is March 20th

In Food Poetry, french toast on March 19, 2013 at 11:21 pm

Promises and pie crust are made to be broken. – Johnathon Swift


The Vernal Equinox

Ah, spring! This season brings increasing daylight, warming temperatures, and the rebirth of flora and fauna.

The word equinox is derived from the Latin words meaning “equal night.” Days and nights are approximately equal everywhere and the Sun rises and sets due east and west.


The Cosmic Law Of French Toast

The cosmic law of French toast
Highlights its warm & wondrous
Edifice with edible glee

Concocted here it is covered by
Only truth
So one’s hunger is incredibly
Made to discover why
It constantly
Craves it most

Likening the cosmic law of French toast
And the adventure drawn to it
With a sensitivity that stirs up thoughts…

…To hasten the myth

Overindulging one is fulfilled
From the syrup brought to taste it with

Far be it from me to not
Render myself helpless in
Extraordinary paradise
Never mind the
Consequence I find
Heaven in each perfect slice

Therein I melt as
One does in this that I desire
And I am stricken by delight putting my whole
Self in the fire
To thicken the plot

As I give up the ghost
I am quickened a lot
By the cosmic law of French toast

Tony Haynes is a practitioner of Acrostic Poetry As an author, Tony has co-written a book with Karyn White called “Carpe Diem, Thoughts & Affirmations To Seize The Day.” He is also the author of “SpiritChili, Recipes For Life.” With SpiritChili, Haynes uses acrostic poetry as his tool to deliver an additional insight within each body of work. He offers a more scenic trip down the road towards enlightenment. SpiritChili is a thick, rich, warm & spicy stew created to feed you spiritually.

Before Tony realized he had this rare talent, he was a songwriter, music publisher, record producer & author. As a songwriter/music publisher, Tony has accomplished a great deal. “Send A Little Love,” – his first song, was recorded by the Spinners in 1981. Since then, Tony’s songs have been recorded on over 200 albums, selling in excess of 70 million copies worldwide. These songs have earned him 60 gold and multi-platinum awards, as well as several ASCAP Awards.


Fried Eggs: An Indian Food

I can tell
when an egg breaks over sizzling pork fat
From here to (the ancient fried-egg capital of) Machu picchu,
So grant me the one with twin yolks.

Oozy in beds of orange cream, not gone too dry,
a moat of wet
translucence still
quivering around it, soft fluffy white;
the crackling rust bottom.

Make mine with salt and chilli flakes,
crumbs of cheese that melt on top,
crispy shreds lacing the base.
On rice, fried, roti that drips butter,
or bread if it’s sour, hollow—
hard crust and porous soul.

Don’t waste the deep brown grease in your pan;
Don’t mind if I turn my back to you when I eat;
It means I won’t share,
and that you can’t see me
Lick my plate
clean with my thumb.

Sonali Raj lives in Delhi, India. She is an M.F.A. student at the low-res program at City University, Hong Kong.


The chocolate bear

the chocolate bear
smudges notebooks
his empire arranged
in the spaces
between furniture

diminished by ants
he rules unsteadily
suspicious intrigues
of courtesans,
sugargum pears

The Tragedy of Vinaigrette

the blanched almond
cried salty tears
as he tumbled onto the salad

near a mandarin orange,
whose juices bled
on unfeeling lettuce-surface

Debby Regan lives in Huntsville, Alabama, US with her husband and two children. She has had poetry published on, Bolts of Silk, and in the Sigma Tau Delta’s Southern Gazette.


Harvesting Goji Berries

Pluck one off the vine,
but dare damage.

Such delicacy needs coaxing.

With wind as if from pursed lips, or an in-person
journey to its dance floor of branches.

To shake and shimmy a request.

Hereby win a basket of the happiest berries,
each laughing from a petite core,

Dusky pink marquis diamonds,

With tastes of tea, tomato and raw almond,
or perhaps of what lingers just after

A kiss with a stranger.

You smile, stay balanced, gojis loosen and fall.
How many others have done themselves in

For something so small.

Cynthia Gallaher is a Chicago-based poet and writer, is author of three full poetry collections and two chapbooks and is a writing workshop leader. She is on the Chicago Public Library’s list of “Top Ten Requested Chicago Poets” and named one of “100 Women Making a Difference” by *Today’s Chicago Woman* Magazine. The poem “Harvesting Goji Berries” is from her poetry manuscript, “Botanical Bandwidth: Poems About Food, Herbs and Spices.



the a.m. grill cook tells you over
coffee. You think she’s cracked
too many egg shells, numbed
by the morning scramble of orders
and asides exchanged between
waitresses and men who leave
big tips and take phone numbers.

Her Zolofted eyes are saucers
some spoons might flirt with.
As you fork a stack of flapjacks
she explains her husband
ran away with the Avon lady
who wore pancake, blush,
and kissed bloody
as Cleopatra.

“I am a laughingstock.”
She laughs for emphasis.
Her husband got his come-
uppance when the lady turned
out to be a drag queen,
a misogynist in a mini skirt, bent
on destruction of the gentler sex
through bad taste.

“I hear their whispers,”
the cook whispers to you.
You worry about her
plans for retaliation
as she crushes the head
of a Pall-Mall on the face of the table.
Dipping her thumb in the ashes
she marks your forehead
anointing you, a convert,
and into your hands
she commends her spirit
saying, “I am forgotten
like the unremembered

Donna R Kevic from Weston, WV., and has a MFA from National University. Recent poetry has appeared in Bijou Poetry Review, Naugatuck River Review, Prime Number, and Third Wednesday. Poetry Chapbooks include Laundry, published
by Main Street Rag. Recent short story publications include Colere and the anthology, Seeking the Swan. Two plays, The Interview and BOOBS received readings in Chicago and New York, respectively.


Louis Marvin


O Baby

Bakery cake from Lovejoy isn’t all that. Though, the other girl down here half-time said it reminds her of her mother. We have a lot in common, she and I.

When I lived on Oak I baked figs in honey. Bees settled in.

The note you sent said it was all over-determined. Was it the nymphs or the satyr who got me dancing snake-bitten? Either way I see in your hand it’s my fault.
This bitch goddess from Ephesus came to check in, her heart chthonic. She met you once, she said, at that bar, Tartarus. What a pit. But, you charmed her, lovely.

You grew up with nine women pressing egg rolls into your fevered hands, singing you to sleep, giving you oil footbaths, taking you to shows with happy endings. No wonder we never made it through our wedding day.

You hide behind that lyre, don’t you? Your x-actoed rib cage is always the same blood twice. Flashy evisceration means nothing down here.

It’s not so brave really, trying to spring me with a store-bought cake and a song from Swingtime. If you loved me you’d rest here, not just drop in with a red and white twined pastry box. Being afraid of death is cowardly, no matter what the lyrics say. Being afraid of death is being afraid of me because I wasn’t coming with you anyhow.

Michelle Auerbach’s work has been published in Van Gogh’s Ear, Bombay Gin <> , Xcp <> , Chelsea, and The Denver Quarterly, and anthologized in The Veil UC Berkley Press, Uncontained Baksun Books, and You. An Anthology of Essays in the Second Person from Welcome Table Press. She is the winner of the 2011 Northern Colorado Fiction Prize and has a book of poetry forthcoming from Durga Press.


The Luncheon

Excerpt from Lily’s Odyssey, a novel, published with permission by All Things That Matter Press; its first chapter a Short List Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award for Best New Writing

At the funeral luncheon, relatives I’d never seen before told me they didn’t know whom I resembled. When I was small, I thought a couple I liked down the road were my real parents and made up stories that never failed to bring tears why they had to give me up. When I sat down, one of the rubber tips on the legs of my folding chair was missing: the sensation of being off balance continued when I got up.
I avoided looking in the direction of Rachel and JD. JD, whom she married after Cal died, was what people called respectable looking—a stocky man in checked vests who looked at people with such steady eyes that they were impressed with his sincerity. But the next time they saw him, they realized his eyes looked the same whether he was shaking hands (he did that a lot) or when they passed him on the street. Rachel and JD were taking turns pushing Mark and Becky’s baby, Sue Ann, in her stroller.
What was the name of that weave of the baby’s blanket? I’d learned about weaves in Miss Dixon’s high school home ec class. Herringbone, that’s what it was: woof, warp–I’d always liked those names. Miss Dixon had also taught how to present attractive meals that had contrasting color, hot and cold items with various textures. Meals like hot chicken, hot red harvest beets, cold iceberg salad with carrot curls and radish roses, just baked whole-wheat bread, room temperature daisy-mold butter buds, iced tea with a lemon slice perched on the rim of a frosted glass. Matching freshly ironed tablecloth/napkins, an appropriate centerpiece. And always to shower, apply deodorant (we got samples of Mum), and select attractive fresh clothing from a closet scented with oranges poked with cloves, and finish with a powder puff and lipstick. When your husband arrived to a clean house and clean kids, you smiled when you greeted him at the door, hung up his coat, offered him a drink and an array of tempting appetizers. You asked him about his day. If asked about your day, you only mentioned pleasant things.
I made as many trips as I dared to the restroom without causing comment. Once inside the unheated cement block room, when I opened and shut my mouth to relieve my clenched jaw my breath came out like smoke signals–sometimes I could make the string to the bare light bulb sway. Each visit I saw a crack in the ceiling I hadn’t counted before. Some natural light (and snow) came through a small window dotted with snow; as a child I made dots of snow on windows into dot-to-dot pictures.
When complaints reached his ears about the cold restrooms, Aunt Heidi related that Father Couillard (the priest before Father Mulcahy) had said: “Enjoy the cold while you can, my friends. Where many of you are headed will be plenty hot.” She laughed about it but Aunt Hester had frowned on laughing about God’s representatives on earth. Father Couillard’s stomach had hung over his belt like bread dough reaching the edge of a pan, and I always wanted to pick it with a fork to see if it would make a wheezing sound before collapsing. I had a dream about going to see Father Couillard and screaming at him when he started in about the love and wisdom of God.
The ground was frozen so burial would be in the spring. I pictured a man with a shovel determining the cut-off date digging near the graves of my mother and father. When I went with Aunt Hester and Uncle Walt to my parents graves as a child, Uncle Walt would always sob. A kneeling angel with wings over its face held a scroll: “In Memory of My Beloved Brother and Wife. Erected 1942 by Walter Augustus Walter.” The angel’s wings were the first to crumble and each year the angel increasingly resembled an aging boxer. I’d liked the chunky Dutch wooden windmills painted yellow and blue on graves because they had a human look.
I mostly avoided the cemetery because I didn’t like seeing dying plants or the dying grass from newly dug graves—and the awful silence. And when the headstones were deep in snow, finality seemed to shout in the silence, and I’d flee their graves mumbling apologies, terrified they might’ve been buried alive.

Carol Smallwood
co-edited Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching (McFarland, 2012) on the list of “Best Books for Writers” by Poets & Writers Magazine; Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012); Compartments: Poems on Nature, Femininity, and Other Realms (Anaphora Literary Press, 2011) received a Pushcart nomination. Carol has founded, supports humane societies.