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.
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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.
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Nice work. No worries. Send me a bio and photograph thepoetbyday@gmail.com Thanks! and welcome to prompts. 🙂
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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
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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.
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I love baklava and that you grew up being able to partake of it and that it brings you such memories is wonderful. Be well.
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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.
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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.
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secondly
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2017/11/09/a-vision-request/
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Thanks Jamie….first response…
https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/a-moment/
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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.
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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.
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Oh Paul! ♥️
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All true.
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I’m sure of that.
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Love this!
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