The Light of the World by Elizabeth Alexander

In Jewish tradition, after someone dies, it is customary to bring food to those left behind and to sit with them in a practice known as shiva. It shouldn’t be that surprising to find food associated with grief. Food is in its way a form of showing love and support that it may bring succor… Continue reading The Light of the World by Elizabeth Alexander

Cooking with the Muse Book Review

It’s not often you meet people equally passionate about food and poetry in conversation. At the Association of Writers and Publishers conference a few years back and MFA friend of mine had suggested I meet poet Stephen Massimilla. She said that he also wrote poetry about food. What I did not know until we met… Continue reading Cooking with the Muse Book Review

Roquefort by David Nutt

Roquefort Dark and damp with drafty corridors Hidden caves in limestone rock Allows the cheese to ripen lost in time This is the place were alchemy unfolds Like blocks of rounded marble they stand Proud and stately in silent pose Their crumbly dough streaked with veins of blue Palate and tongue tingle with delight Lactescent,… Continue reading Roquefort by David Nutt

Poets in the Kitchen: Ewa Chrusciel

The Food Poet: Food & poetry have certain commonalities. How do you describe the poetry of food? Ewa Chrusciel: We are Infinite and we are made of our small cravings. Poetry of food implies that kind of contradiction and longing in us; the desire to belong; the desire to carry with us our childhood flavors.… Continue reading Poets in the Kitchen: Ewa Chrusciel

Ewa Chrusciel’s Contraband of Hoopoe

It’s not a difficult thing to think that at a poetry festival, you might hear a poem that piques your interest. It’s an entirely different thing to hear something– a way of offering words to a subject of already well-tilled ground in a fresh voice that makes you beeline to the bookfair area and snatch… Continue reading Ewa Chrusciel’s Contraband of Hoopoe

Sausage Poetry by Ewa Chrusciel

I buy a sausage at the airport before I leave Poland. Kielbaska, kielbasa, kabanos, kabanosik. This, my transcontinental dowry. The sacrificial baby of my tongue. Foreign gods hover over us. If God lets my sausage in, I will eat it like a saint wreathed in incense, circle a table with Gregorian chants. Folkberg variations. The… Continue reading Sausage Poetry by Ewa Chrusciel