[Michael Cantor]

Here's one that was in Lucid Rhythms recently.


Aubadergine

Awakening, I still can taste your flesh,
the soul contained within the supple
skin you wear, voluptuous and purple.
I have been warned you are the path to madness
and yet, despite the crumbs and salt that kiss
and linger on my lips, there is no brutal
morning-after sting; but just the sweet and subtle
whisper of a roasted scrap, a speck of crust;
a bitter lemon and the scent of thyme;
the rapture in the olive grove, and you as mine.

[Catherine Chandler]

As a take-off on the sonondilla form (playfully known as the Sardine) here's my food poem (I've only written two, I think, the other about my Grandmother's elderberry jelly) which appeared in Umbrella - Bumbershoot, Spring 2007, and also was among Mike Stocks' list of commended sonnets in that year's bake-off.

Rush Hour Sonondilla

I celebrate the great sardine
and count the ways I love it: dried,
in cans, smoked, salted, deep-fat fried,
filleted in soup and fish terrine.
I love its pre-cooked beauties, too—
its sleek and shiny silver skin,
its single tiny dorsal fin—
before it hits the barbecue.
Young herring, swimming in the sea,
awash in your omega-3,
soon you shall pay a hefty price
and end up on a bed of rice.
For now, take heart in that you're free,
not packed inside this train, like me.

[Martin Elster]

A Bit of Ginger Rhizome

On the counter rests your reddish-yellow root
Getting dryer by the day, yet a small shoot
Grows from you clear and tender as a sigh
Of wind through the leaves of a tree of forbidden fruit.

You’ve sat there since the outset of July
Just minding your own business. Now I eye
Your shriveled, wooden form, your skin as thin
As cellophane. You do not wail or cry

Your fragrance with the loud odiferous din
You did when you were fresh. Oh, I must grin
At your tenacity to persevere
By sprouting brand new buds. You just hang in

There like an enervated mountaineer
Still clinging to some tree roots on a sheer
Rock face. I pick you up and taste the meat
Of your infant shoot. The flavor’s copper-clear.

But the dryer piece of you tastes like the beat
Of a far-off kettle drum now in retreat.
Yet, from your offspring, I will make a treat
That I bet you never dreamed could be so sweet!

[Juleigh Howard Hobson]

Here's a recipe nonet of mine that was originally published in The Quarterly Journal Of Food and Car Poems :

Farm Style Pink Lemonade

Granulated white sugar—one cup.
Freshly squeezed lemons --ten. Enough
Water to fill two quarts up.
Add ice, lemon peel, mint
Sprigs, stir well. A hint
Of beet will tint
This pale drink
distinct
pink.