Where do you get your ideas?
you ask.
I get mine from the supermarket.
I stroll around the aisles, finding
freshly baked verse forms, crisp
on the outside, and dairy-fresh
word cartons, cool to the touch,
promising lower cholesterol,
and trays of pre-sliced imagery
wafer-thin and heat-sealed
against bleeding, and pick'n'mix
notions, regular or reduced fat.
Resisting the sweets by the check-out
I mostly seek out the special offers
when shopping for ideas.
Manet's paintings are a treat
And Gershwin may be tuneful
But nothing you could name can beat
Condensed milk by the spoonful.
The power of the seas is great—
The tides that feel the moon pull—
No power on earth could replicate
Condensed milk by the spoonful.
Je parle en français
en cas d'être forcer
de manger mes mots.
C'est plus goûteux comme ça.
There's penne, macaroni, vermicelli, tortellini,
And fusilli, conchiglie, spaghetti and linguine,
fettucine, rigatone, radiatore and farfalle,
There's orechio, lasagne, bucatini and spirali,
orecchietti, campanelle, capelletti, capellini,
torchetti, tagliatelle, taglionini, tortellini,
in verde, tricolore—I'd forgetten ravioli.
To savour all the flavours now repeat it much more slowly.
Among sauces for your pasta there's good old carbonara,
Bolognese, primavera, pomodoro, marinara,
salsa verde, fiorentino, putanesca, tempezzini,
arrabiata and romana, boscaiola and porcini.
There's al tonno and alfredo and amatriciana . . .
Vongole, o vongole!
Don't tell me you want cheese as well. We'll start with caciotta,
asiago, gorgonzola, mozzarella and ricotta,
castelmagno, parmesana, pecorino, grana padano,
provoletta, provolone, borgotaro and romano.
Of course, this foody rhyming stuff is rather dilettante,
So hurry up for goodness' sake and open that chianti.
The salmon heads
for the spawning reaches,
gentle places where the young
will look up
at clean skies,
edged with grass and ling.
The salmon, lacking
energy for upward leaps,
knackered from Atlantic swimming,
is helped by man
to reach the upland sites.
A kindly gesture.
Perhaps one day
the salmon,
touched by hollandaise,
in turn may help
the man to reach
his chosen spawning ground.
Between the lanes of the M42
lay a chicken, frozen,
in plastic wrapping.
For the rest of the journey
the question tormented me:
had it been trying to cross
and, if so, why?
We ate in a Berlin restaurant,
Down a lane off a main boulevard.
The entrance was quaint and old-worldly
The panelling blackened and scarred.
The menu was Friesian, like cattle,
With succulent beef on the card.
There were flowers and rolls on the table
But in place of the butter was lard.
Every Christmas we must trust
Something we believe in.
Some folks favour pizza crust
Deep-pan—crispy, even.
The children now like fresh-baked bread—
The smell, the texture and the taste.
And clearly they are better fed
On real food than industrial waste.
Our kitchen would make paradise wait
If they would only learn to slice straight.
While shepherds watched their flocks and froze
The sheep were warm and cosy.
In wool from nose to cloven toes,
Their lives were almost rosy.
For sheep can recognise full well
Just what their winter perk is:
The animals who hear the yuletide knell
Are going to be the turkeys.
The children now like fresh-baked bread—
The smell, the texture and the taste.
And clearly they are better fed
On real food than industrial waste.
Our kitchen would make paradise wait
If they would only learn to slice straight.
© David Fisher 1962-2019