Tag: Bread

The image is a playful collage poem made from cut-out words and phrases arranged on a muted green background. Each scrap of text is torn from a different printed source, giving the composition a fragmented, tactile feel. The poem moves vertically down the page in a meandering path, beginning with the bold declaration “poetry was appetite” and ending with the surreal punchline “the moon was a meatball.” The piece mixes lofty themes—poetry, memoir, hard work, the moon—with earthy, humorous imagery of bread and meatballs, creating a whimsical tension between the profound and the absurd.

“poetry was appetite” and Other Visual Poems by J.I. Kleinberg

aromatica poetica October 1, 2025

Author’s note: “poetry was appetite” and the other four visual poems below are from an ongoing series of collages (2900+) built from phrases created through the happenstance of magazine page design. Each contiguous fragment of text (transcribed as a poetic line) is entirely removed from its original sense and syntax. The text is not altered (except for the occasional deletion of prefixes, suffixes, or punctuation) and includes no attributable phrases. The lines of each collage are, in most cases, sourced …

The image is an artistic illustration depicting a man sleeping in a train compartment. He is wearing a suit and is slumped in his seat with his head tilted back and mouth slightly open. Above his head is a thought bubble showing a plate with bread, grapes, and cheese, suggesting he is dreaming about food. On the small table in front of him is a bottle of wine labeled "Bordeaux France" and a glass of red wine. The train window shows a scenic view with a setting sun over a landscape. The interior of the train has wooden paneling, and there is another passenger visible through the door in the background. The borders of the image are decorated with grapevine motifs.

“The Train to Bordeaux” & Other Poems By Mike Lewis-Beck

aromatica poetica January 15, 2025

The Train to Bordeaux left Paris under delays from a Metro slowdown, a Yellow Vest street action, and a heat wave of 42 degrees Celsius that perhaps caused the Arras diversion due to an announced ‘obstacle’ on the tracks, a could-be jump. German newlyweds across from us, red and happy, brimmed with cold beer downed in the station patio sun. As the train passed Poitiers, gateway to the South, I dreamt of a chilled Pineau des Charentes with a …

Southern scent memory: Mint Julep at the Round Robin Bar 2018 made with raspberry and strawberry infusion and garnished with cherries and a mint stalk, of course, sits on a bar matt with sunlight striking it picturesquely and a blurred out bar in the background. Wikimedia.

Five Scent Poems by Joan Mazza

aromatica poetica June 8, 2022

The Scent of Memory 12 You might think of mint as gum flavoring or what makes Polident tolerable. Sometimes it’s a scent made for savoring— candy canes on Christmas trees, delectable in cookies. Boxes full of peppermints take you back to the deep South’s mint juleps in tall glasses on your honeymoon trip. You imagined yourself with servants, not slaves, a belle in hooped skirts, eloquent and beautiful, your loving so fervent you’d never worry about breath mint. How odd …

A pepperoni pizza cooking in a flaming brick oven stands in the foreground while a wall with flames behind it, a watchtower, hanging man, and wiener dog bleakly decorate the background. By Drake Scott for a Waleed Ahmad short story “Pleasure Pizza.”

“Pleasure Pizza” * Fiction * Waleed Ahmad

aromatica poetica July 21, 2020

It was a blistering day. The day would be hotter if it weren’t for the smog in the air softening the harsh desert sun. A cloud of ashes and smoke had seeped in and settled like a blanket over Las Cruces since the border clashes began. And with the smoke came the smell. People called it El Olor. A vaguely fetid odor that permeated everything. People had learned to live with it, shoved it to the back of their minds. …

“Consolidated Women Workers” Assembling a wing section, Fort Worth, Texas, October 1942. By Howard R. Hollem, Library of Congress.

“1945” * Fiction * DC Diamondopolous

aromatica poetica September 2, 2019

I first saw Teresa out my kitchen window back in 1928. Her father, a widower, had moved into our neighborhood. I was kneading dough when I looked up and watched the child glide her sled down a snowbank and slam into a tree. I ran across the street. “Are you hurt?” She scowled. “Mind your own beeswax.” I ignored her sass and asked if she would like a nice piece of hot homemade bread. She rubbed her bump with a …