Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay in the notes below
which was forwarded to me by Liz Balise
<>
all poems and their accompaniment sauces commence with onions,
that start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings,
but then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you,
becoming you in it,
in you,
you in it are both poet and poem,

a simmering new and different

————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method

As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
maria Dec 2019
days strange
like spaghetti without taste
missing home

Written on December 08, 2019
Oh My!
Octopi!!

My God's Are As
Funny

As Any
Fungi

Have you
Tried

The
Pasta-bowl
Yet

Cause
Baby
I'm Coming

And
It's Heaven
Sent

At the Spaghetti
Factory we
Reach
50
Years
This glorious
Summer that everyone
emma hunt david Dec 2018
shaved my head again last night,
watched empire records and saw deb and shaved my head again last night.
ate spaghetti, my best friend got into college
my best friend got into college and we ate spaghetti and shaved my head again
we shaved my head again cause we watched empire records and i saw deb and i saw deb shave her head and i thought that looks awesome
so we ate spaghetti
and she got into college,
she’s already in college but she got into a different college
so i made her spaghetti and we watched empire records
and we watched empire records
and ate spaghetti
and she shaved my head cause we watched empire records
and now she’s going to college
a different college
she’s already in college
she’s going to a different college
i didn’t text that dude
i didn’t text that dude, and he didnt text me
i saw his girlfriend on instagram
his girlfriend posted on instagram and i saw it
a picture of that dude
i was maybe going to text him
i was maybe
going to text him
but then i saw his girlfriend
on instagram i saw his girlfriend
his girlfriend posted on instagram
a picture of that dude
so i didn’t text that dude
cause i saw his girlfriend
i woke up and my cats were on me and my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep cause my cats were on me
my cats, both of them,
two of them, my cats
were on it, one of them, one of my arms,
both of my cats
both of my cats were on one of my arms
sophia Nov 2018
the noodles are elegant, lovely and fair,
i see now there's a reason
why you're called angel hair.
buttery smooth, and golden light reflection
it's strikingly radiant
the epitome of perfection.

the sauce is as red as my cheeks
when one is deeply in love,
far higher than a mountain peak.
look, it flies in the saucepan
alluring is not a word to describe,
but truly, it's so hot, it needs a fan.

the meatballs are spheres of joy
what geometry could calculate its area?
though it ignores me, i tell it to not play coy.
how lovely the ringing sounds of sizzles,
light my ear with fireworks unheard,
oh, how my feelings are a shizzling!

oh spaghetti, my love, my joy, my life,
it's unnatural to see my tears fall on the plate.
you are my happiness, my leftover bowl of strife.
i mourn when there is none left
for breakfast in the morning,
but i dream of you when i go to bed.
Alfa Oct 2018
Warm sauce
as hot as my blood
splattered all over the floor.

Spit out,
puked up,
you slammed my head on the floor.

Mop up or eat it.
You used my mopped head to clean it.

Ever since then, I couldn't eat spaghetti again.
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2018
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the ***.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
Kamini May 2018
I am not here now.
Not available,
Absent. Not present.

Hijacked,
Held hostage,
******* in a tangled web
Of locks and chains.

Trapped,
Houdini like,
In a cage and thrown
Into the turbulent waters
Of my shark infested mind.

****** in by a
Whirlpool of stories,
My thoughts spin
Epic myths,
Fantastical tales,
Dark fantasies and
Cheap thrillers.

Each teasing,
taunting and
goading me
To disconnect,
Shutdown,
To flee from
This moment.

This tender,
Aching moment.
This unashamed longing,
Drenched in the desire
To be penetrated by
Your presence,
To free fall into
The lap of the Beloved.

But you, like me,
Are not here now,
Not available,
Absent. Not present.
Vale Luna Jan 2018
My brain is a bowl of spaghetti
I can be turned with a greedy hand
And a rusty fork
Eating my thoughts
From an unwashed container

Please stop eating.

I don’t think I can afford
To lose another fork-full
    another strand of memory
Let alone
Be mixed up
With the other ingredients
Poured into my skull

It seems I’m getting sloppy.

Refills are impossible
Because the more I try to stuff inside
The more the contents overflow
And the threads of words
Come spilling out
When I beg them not to

Well.

I hate contradicting myself
But without anyone eating
And without room for refills
The nutrients inside
Will begin to rot
And disintegrate
Into nothing but molded mulch
So everything I try to retain
Will be useless
    and inedible

The filth accumulates.

Insanity will be the smell of my mind
It will control my every action
A single whiff
Strong enough
To lower the IQ of a genius

I’m losing myself.

I’d try to explain it
In understandable terms
But it seems the correct words
Were lost
    when I was bitten into
And scattered
    when I overflowed

This is what I tried to describe before:

My head is a box of noodles
I can be dented with a pinky finger
And a dull knife
Tasting my dreams
From a…
        Hm.
    Sorry.
What were we talking about?
Next page