"flavouring" poems - Hello Poetry

First, garlic. Dig your nails into its flaking paper, pink and beige like magnolia petals parched in the gutter. Peel back the skin and crush the weighted bud with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife. It has been waiting for this. The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board, looks up at you like an old friend. It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there it will not be washed away, instead it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister, every light switch in the house. The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan, your grandmother's; it was never non-stick. The stuck parts were always the best bit, and so it goes, the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots, engineered over forty years. Some were accidents. All were happy. Yours were ambition-led experiments. The thumbs in the brown recipe book were never your thumbs, the dried-out sedimentary edges were never your mishaps but still it is a bible of sorts, providing answers but never asking questions. Later after dinner when everything is cleared away and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all bring your fingertips to your nose and inhale the remaining relic of your meal, a letter to yourself, the end notes enduring but faint now, lastly lastly garlic.

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Jan 1, 2015

Jan 1, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC

rhiannon-clare

This Poem is Not a Recipe

First, garlic. Dig your nails into its flaking paper, pink and beige like magnolia petals parched in the gutter. Peel back the skin and crush the weighted bud with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife. It has been waiting for this. The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board, looks up at you like an old friend. It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there it will not be washed away, instead it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister, every light switch in the house. The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan, your grandmother's; it was never non-stick. The stuck parts were always the best bit, and so it goes, the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots, engineered over forty years. Some were accidents. All were happy. Yours were ambition-led experiments. The thumbs in the brown recipe book were never your thumbs, the dried-out sedimentary edges were never your mishaps but still it is a bible of sorts, providing answers but never asking questions. Later after dinner when everything is cleared away and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all bring your fingertips to your nose and inhale the remaining relic of your meal, a letter to yourself, the end notes enduring but faint now, lastly lastly garlic.

39

Conglomerate softness Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds An addictive activity with bleak endings Leaving a small dent on my skin soon A memento of this visit Comforting words and faces explain greatly The niceness in which days daze away sadness, So I savour this. A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance Only friendship commits On the edges of wit, And the brinks of sanity I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic. One day I’ll get past this Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone But hopeful that it’s not lasting Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything. The world makes me happy In the way that happiness only exists within this realm The only one we know And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples Perishable but delicious and nurturing, Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself It has gardeners who defend its’ health, And I am so grateful For this help to grow, Hopefully through these fruits I can show you as well.

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Jan 4, 2016

Jan 4, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC

saryachan

Conglomerate Softness

Conglomerate softness Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds An addictive activity with bleak endings Leaving a small dent on my skin soon A memento of this visit Comforting words and faces explain greatly The niceness in which days daze away sadness, So I savour this. A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance Only friendship commits On the edges of wit, And the brinks of sanity I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic. One day I’ll get past this Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone But hopeful that it’s not lasting Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything. The world makes me happy In the way that happiness only exists within this realm The only one we know And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples Perishable but delicious and nurturing, Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself It has gardeners who defend its’ health, And I am so grateful For this help to grow, Hopefully through these fruits I can show you as well.

31

sharp and sweet I imagine That I must burn a smell up the inside of your nostrils just where the bridge of the nose meets the eye but you let me in and inhale it all a tangle of life edging to the back of your throat flavouring your tongue

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Feb 25, 2013

Feb 25, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC

bg-hermitt

Cinnamon

sharp and sweet I imagine That I must burn a smell up the inside of your nostrils just where the bridge of the nose meets the eye but you let me in and inhale it all a tangle of life edging to the back of your throat flavouring your tongue

11

Scattered cracked black pepper The Remnants of a final meal Lie as ashen memories of taste Lurking reminders of that which has been Transferred from cheep china to the lips of a lover Upon the cusp of a final goodbye The lingering heat left only to serve as a slate to clean. How every bite savoured a crunch of hope Leaving room only for reality A dessert that cannot be stomached falsified sweetness to not be considered 'the finer things' When taste has changed to exotic flavouring Fork etchings and caveman paintings in sweet chilli; Timeline a love that can not be erased It seeps into the cracks of tomorrow's aftertaste Surrounding the words upon which exhaled breath proclaims I miss you. In silence as the sound of a solitary bowl creates no further filling nor satisfaction Last nights plates remain within the cupboard The flavour of every meal they have ever seen remain It is their history Whatever the future may be

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Oct 6, 2016

Oct 6, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC

phillip-knight

The Last Meal

Scattered cracked black pepper The Remnants of a final meal Lie as ashen memories of taste Lurking reminders of that which has been Transferred from cheep china to the lips of a lover Upon the cusp of a final goodbye The lingering heat left only to serve as a slate to clean. How every bite savoured a crunch of hope Leaving room only for reality A dessert that cannot be stomached falsified sweetness to not be considered 'the finer things' When taste has changed to exotic flavouring Fork etchings and caveman paintings in sweet chilli; Timeline a love that can not be erased It seeps into the cracks of tomorrow's aftertaste Surrounding the words upon which exhaled breath proclaims I miss you. In silence as the sound of a solitary bowl creates no further filling nor satisfaction Last nights plates remain within the cupboard The flavour of every meal they have ever seen remain It is their history Whatever the future may be

22

when spring turns cherry blossoms roll out their tongues thirsty for this season of recovery i join, flavouring my days with their new perspective

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Aug 30, 2014

Aug 30, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC

katie-21

spring

when spring turns cherry blossoms roll out their tongues thirsty for this season of recovery i join, flavouring my days with their new perspective

5

Savouring ever The behoof of cheer Flying White crane of hunger ***** the peach bitter Dropping The desire went sour Alleging for better Flavouring. ©_shade_of_a_lonely_girl

0

May 7, 2019

May 7, 2019 at 3:24 AM UTC

shade_of_a_lonely_girl

The Cranes and Peaches

Savouring ever The behoof of cheer Flying White crane of hunger ***** the peach bitter Dropping The desire went sour Alleging for better Flavouring. ©_shade_of_a_lonely_girl

10

gentle rain, flavouring the night with earthly spring scents, soak this land, make it pregnant - a marsh or a pond, white nenufars, damselflies, fireflies, shimmering glows for blinding the doom...!

0

Feb 10, 2015

Feb 10, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC

chimaera

prayer

gentle rain, flavouring the night with earthly spring scents, soak this land, make it pregnant - a marsh or a pond, white nenufars, damselflies, fireflies, shimmering glows for blinding the doom...!

12