The Taste of Baklava, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

225592_347930165315583_165440687_n-1



Honestly, there are times
when the taste of baklava
finds my tongue and speaks to me
in the language of my grandmother’s hands,
when the honey and fresh mint in tea
vitalizes my very being ~
and I remember everything
. . . . . everything
even the scent of you, your eyes
the way we lingered over dessert,
tapered candles flaming wisps of hope,
your red roses wilting in a crystal vase,
dropping velvet petals like dreams
on the white damask of our forever

© 2012 poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

*****

WRITING PROMPT

A singular moment – romantic or otherwise – that is etched in mind, yesterday or years ago, full of color and vigor.  Write about your moment in poem. Fill it with detail: scent and hues, setting (indoor or out), include one object that references another in the scene and makes their role evident and alive. Take your time and have fun with this.

Leave your poem/s or a link to them in the comment section. Feel free – encouraged – to participate no matter the status of your poetry career: novice, emerging or pro. If this is your first time responding to Wednesday Writing Prompt, send you bio and a photo to thepoetbyday@gmail.com.  These will be used to introduce you to readers.  PLEASE DO NOT EMAIL YOUR POEM. PLEASE USE THE COMMENTS SECTION FOR THAT. Thank you! 🙂 All poems shared on theme will be published here next Tuesday, April 24. You have until Monday evening, April 23, 8 p.m. PDT to respond.


ABOUT

Advertisements

15 Comments on “The Taste of Baklava, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

  1. Hi Jamie! It’s long after Wednesday, but here’s my response 🙂

    it was the first time for both of us
    as we stood in the tiny cramped kitchen
    with the sounds of the grimy French banlieue a confused murmur outside the crowded windowsill,
    thinking out loud,
    what if we put lemon in the syrup?
    and i was apologizing
    that my dairy allergy made us have to use oil instead of butter.
    as for the pastry, we bought it in neat pre-cut rolls at the supermarché.
    your mother came into the kitchen and said, wallah, an American teaching an Arab how to make baklava.
    but it wasn’t really me, it was the internet
    and someone else’s recipe.
    we complained together about how expensive nuts are;
    even here in Grenoble where jowz is supposed to be a local thing
    it costs the eyes out of your head, as the French say.
    our baklava was cordially terrible
    but tasted like friendship that reaches across oceans and centuries and languages.
    we couldn’t taste the lemon at all
    but there was the flavor of Ninawa and Ohio melted dripping together.
    we ate several pieces each
    and gloated of our baking exploits
    and took pictures and photoshopped them to make it look more authentic.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Falling Star, 1989

    I didn’t belong there and I knew it
    how you were not mine yet
    and she did not know you were there
    with me
    letting something grow
    that was for keeps
    in time
    keeping time, and
    holding on tightly
    so that no one could sever our bond
    looking upwards
    that fierce green streak
    putting a stamp on it
    on us
    and for once
    I believed in signs

    Like

  3. Hi Jamie, I love your poem though I had to Google baklava! It sounds scrumptious.

    Here’s my poem.

    Blowing bubbles

    We lean into a breeze skittering
    off the hills, send bubbles
    soaring through plastic rings.
    Our grandsons cheer-
    their turn next and we caution
    mind you don’t trip
    don’t run into the road
    but they’re sure-footed, stay
    close, race one way then another
    across an ellipse of lawn.

    * * * * *
    I recall dandelion-clocks
    in a long ago garden.

    puff-breath count the seeds
    watch them fly tell the time
    one o’clock two o’clock
    tick-tock mind the nettles
    rub a dock leaf on stings
    hold a buttercup under your chin
    loop a daisy-chain over your wrist

    * * * * *
    I feel a child’s arms around
    my waist, kiss his blond head.
    His brother runs to me:taller,
    raven-haired, I hug them both,
    wipe soap-sticky hands
    and the four of us chase
    fresh bubbles, catch some
    on our palms, pop the highest
    with our fingertips, let others melt
    into trodden tufts of grass.

    Like

  4. oh, how sweet a memory! today I will go and eat baklava with a boza .. this is the tradition … and I will remember the warm hands of my grandmother and your grandmother.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Hi Jamie,

    and secondly:

    Dad Never Only Considers Most

    relevant part of a map.
    When he gets lost, he stops,
    at the entrance to the busiest junction,
    sometimes, before a roundabout,
    and unfolds a view of the world
    to its fullest extent to find his way.

    Perhaps, at work when he changes
    one tiny part of the system he traces
    its effect on a detailed draughted whole diagram
    of council offices, hospitals
    or nuclear subs where he has installed
    new heating waste management services.

    And I at work or home cursed with the same
    need for thorough deliberation,
    find bosses, wives and workmates sigh
    at my slow, detailed examination
    of an issue, that had I rushed,
    as when angry, only find confusion.

    My dad and I bring the whole going on
    to a brief stop as others
    who wish to get on, hoot, cringe,
    whistle and toot their dismay.
    We ignore them all to, quietly,
    stubbornly, slowly map our way.

    Previously appeared in Verse Virtual.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Love your poem on Baklava.Here is mine, which takes me back to a time of untroubled childhood.

    RAINY DAY COMFORT copyright Irene Emanuel

    Afternoon rain,
    steam on tar;
    liquid leaves litter rain-sparkled grass.
    School-shoe leather
    splashing sweet-water puddles,
    spraying the grey air with promise.
    Homeward bound
    after school, comfort food
    beckons with tempting smells.

    Batter on griddle,
    sizzling pancakes
    drowned in farm butter and maple syrup.
    Olfactory senses
    unlock fragrances of
    security and warmth,
    a taste of childhood days.

    Liked by 3 people

  7. Hi Jamie,

    Here’s my first response:

    My Mam’s Spice

    Our home were spiced up,
    when she were well.
    Mam put wooden pots
    of her favourite fragrances
    on the tiled hearth,
    strung garlands
    on the hallway walls.

    Allspice, cedar wood shavings
    cinnamon bark and cassia bark
    cloves, cypress wood shavings
    fennel seed, incense-cedar
    wood shavings, jasmine flowers
    and oil, jujube blooms,
    juniper wood shavings.

    I thought it magic,
    ‘ cause it didn’t rot,
    lavender leaves,
    lemon balm leaves,
    lemon peel, marjoram leaves,
    mignonette leaves, mint leaves,
    mugwort, orange peel,

    sweet citrus infused all rooms,

    pelargonium leaves, pinyon pine
    shavings and cones, rose flowers,
    hips, rosemary leaves,

    even on the gusty winter day mam died,
    and the sharp tangs were stench
    and the pots were emptied,
    garlands binned, odours dissipated
    from rooms but not memory.

    Liked by 3 people

Thank you!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: