Poem with a Side of Art

A poem begins like a kitchen does —
with a notion, a hunger, a spark.
You choose your theme the way a cook
chooses the dish that will carry the night.

Words become ingredients.
Some sharp as ginger,
some soft as butter,
some stubborn as dough that needs worked twice.
You fold them in, tasting as you go.

The metaphor is your seasoning.
A pinch of memory,
a grind of humour,
a splash of something you can’t quite name
but know when it hits the tongue.

Then comes the heat.
We call it tone,
but it’s the same thing really —
deciding whether this one should simmer slow
or scorch quick like a flame-kissed steak.
Read on the page?
Spoken aloud?
That’s your choice of grill or oven.

Timing is everything.
Some verses rise early,
some need left alone,
some collapse and must be started again.
No shame in that —
every good cook knows the bin is full
before the plate is perfect.

And when you serve it?
Maybe you drizzle a little sauce —
a final line that lingers.
Maybe you plate it plain,
letting the honesty speak for itself.
Or maybe you set it beside a piece of art,
a sketch, a wash of colour,
the garnish that sells the vision
before the first bite is taken.

Because poetry, like cooking,
isn’t just made —
it’s presented.
And the heart of the maker
is always the secret ingredient.

By Paul Baldry (LongJohn)