Althea Romeo Mark Food-Themed Poems and English and Caribbean Food Proverbs, Part III

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Althea Romeo Mark Food-Themed Poems and English and Caribbean Food Proverbs, Part III

“When jackass (donkey) ah smell corn, him gallop.”

Nourishment for the mind, soul, body, the family, the future

I have been told by a fellow writer that a lot of poems I have written feature food as a subject, reference food or have a food theme. I did not believe it until I looked through my work to discover this for myself. It turns out that the writer’s observation was right.

It made me reflect on the importance of meals that bring us together as friends and family. It is the center of joy, celebrations: birth, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, and of death (the joining of ancestors after the trials of earthly life), too. During these gatherings, we can lay bare our souls.

During this coming together as friends or family, we share what we have, whether it is a little or a lot. At these gatherings, we can unburden our minds, set each other straight when or if someone goes astray.

Sometimes poems feature food, sometimes it shows the absence of it during times of natural or man-made catastrophe. It shows what we do to survive, to nourish body and mind, in order to ensure our future.

Before I share part III, here are another fifteen common food proverbs used the English language. You might have used and have already heard many of the English proverbs. There are Caribbean food proverbs, too.

A proverb is a brief popular saying (such as "Too many cooks spoil the broth") that gives advice about how people should live or that expresses a belief that is generally thought to be true.

Introduction to food proverbs and idioms, Part II

English Food Proverbs

“The proof is in the pudding.”

“There is no such thing as a free lunch!”

“What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander!”

“Kill not the goose that laid the golden egg”

“Bitter pills may have blessed effects.”

“Bread always falls buttered side down.”

“Fine words butter no parsnips!”

“Good wine needs no bush.”

“He who will steal an egg will steal an ox!”

“Honey catches more flies than vinegar”

“Hunger is the best spice”

“Never fall out with your bread and butter”

“Same meat, different gravy”

“You can only make an omelet without breaking the eggs”

See explanations of these food proverbs at

https://www.myenglishteacher.eu/blog/proverbs-with-food/

Caribbean Food Proverbs

“Pepper bun hot but it good for curry:” (Harsh advice may be good for you.)

“All cassava get same skin but all nah taste same way.” (though people may look alike , they are unique in their own way).

“The looks of de pudding is not de taste:” (Don’t judge something by its looks)

“When jackass (donkey) ah smell corn, him gallop.” (Each person responds to encouragement differently. Find what works.)

“Nah every crab hole get (have) crab.” (Things do not always turn out the way you expect them to be)

“Yuh can’t drink mauby and belch beer” (You can’t get the same result if you put little effort into a task.)

“When coconut fall from tree he (it) can’t fasten back.” (Some things cannot be changed or reversed)

Source

https://ketchtoronto.wordpress.com/2017/02/27/7-food-inspired-caribbean-proverbs/

In section III of this blog, my food-themed poems begin in Switzerland.

A West Indian Celebrates Christmas in Switzerland

(See German Translation below)

Advent beckons in Basel City.

I prepare my calendar,

hang my Christmas wreath.

Santa Klaus is dressed in red.

His helper Schmutzli is cloaked in brown.

They warn the great day is near.

Some youngsters’ faces light like candles.

Others wear frowns.

My mind sails to sunny islands, childhood.

John Bulls covered in coarse burlaps sacks,

heads big like brown bears, prance around the villages,

spring and crack whips at naughty children,

who flee in fear into mothers’ arms.

My thoughts journey back

to my new home near the River Rhine,

join the children feasting on juicy mandarins,

brittle peanuts and lebkuchen,

December 6th snacks.

In the city, the Three Kings beat their staffs.

At home, I dress my tree. Excitement

builds with every tinsel, red bell hung.

A silver angel perches at its crown.

I immerse myself in Christmas songs,

last minutes shopping, wrap gifts,

sip Gluehwein, prepare ham, turkey,

sweet potato pudding.

At a midnight service, I celebrate

Christ’s coming, pray and think of family

far away under the umbrella of the tropical sky

There, Christmas carols ring the air

as choruses sing before gates.

Banjos and maracas compete with harmonicas.

I hunger for guava berry, the local sherry,

the beach where we make merry,

drink ginger beer and sorrel,

eat raisin buns, coconut tarts, papaya pastry.

Awaken by the heartfelt hymns,

I abandon the sun. Outside the church,

snowflakes powder the ground.

And I, warmed by the joy of Christmas,

feel home.

1. Santa Claus helper- Known as Schmutzli in the German part of the country and Père Fouettard (from "whip") in French, Samichlaus's alter ego usually carries a broom of twigs for administering punishment to children.

2. JOHN BULLS were replicas of the grotesquely masked African Witch Doctor with a bull's horns on the head. They were the dominating feature of the festivities in town and country. They were the dominating

feature of the festivities in town and country.

3. Lebkuchen is a traditional German holiday cookie. It is high in spicy flavor.

4. Gluehwein is a German/Austrian winter-holiday drink that most tourists know as an after-ski drink. After you come in out of the snow, it is supposed to make you glow with warmth again. Watch it: Since you drink this wine warm, the alcohol goes to your head extra quick! Drink when you really have come in, and do not have to go out again!

5. Guavaberry is used to make jams and drinks. Guavaberry liqueur, which is made from rum, is a common Christmas drink on many of the islands, particularly in Sint Maarten and the Virgin Islands. The colonists from Denmark and Holland found it could flavor rum by infusion similar to infused schnapps.

Eine Karibin feiert Weihnachten in der Schweiz

Advent lockt in der Stadt Basel

Ich bereite den Kalender,

hänge den Weihnachtskranz auf.

Sankt Nikolaus ist rot gewandet,

Sein Helfer Schmutzli in brauner Pelerine,

Sie künden an, dass nah der grosse .

Junge Gesichter leuchten wie Kerzen.

Andere runzeln die Stirn.

Meine Sinne segeln zu sonnigen Inseln, Kindheit.

Johnbulls verhüllt in groben Jute-Säcke.

Mit Schädeln, mächtig wie Braunerbärenkopfe,

tollen durch die Dörfer, hüpfen

Geisseln knallend nach frechen Kindern,

die angstvoll in Muttern Arme fliehen.

Und die Gedanken ziehen mich zurück

Zum neuen Heim nahe dem Fluss des Rheins

Gesellen sich den Kindern, die mit Mandarinen,

knusprigen Erdnüssen und Lebkuchen feoerm,

Genüssen des 6.Dezembers, des St. Nikolaustags.

In der Stadt pochen die Drei Könige mit ihrem Stab

Zuhause schmücke ich den Baum. Begeisterung

Schwillt mit jeder roten Glocke, Lamettafaden aufgesteckt

Ein Silberengel thront auf der Spitze des Baum.

Ich tauche ein in Weihnachtslieder,

mach allerletzte Käuf, pack Geschenke ein,

schlürf Glühwein und bereite Schinken, Truthahn

Pudding von Süsskartoffeln.

Ich feire in der Mitternachtsmesse

Die Ankunft Christi, bete und denke an Familie

Weit weg, unter dem Schirm des tropischen Himmels.

Dort klingen Weihnachtslieder durch die Luft

als Chöre vor den Pforten singen

Banjos und Maracas wetteifern mit Harmonikas.

Mich gelüstet nach Guaven-Beeren, lokalem Likör,

den Strand, auf dem wir dem Vergnügen fröhn’

und Ingwer-Bier geniessen, Beerensaft ,

Rosinenbrötchen, Kokostörtchen und Papaya- Schnitz.

Vom Traum gerissen durch den inn’gen Hymnus

Lass ich die Sonne sein. Denn vor der Kirche

Schneeflocken pudern schon den Grund.

Und ich, erwärmt durch Weihnachtsfreude,

fühl mich daheim.

Übersetzung: Suzy Grueter und Irene Kaesermann

Ma, Ma, Bake You Johnny Cake, Christmas Coming

A hallowed pling-plang, hallowed ting-a-ling

beat out “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,”

tug at my ears.

The rhythmic pling-a-ling,

the rhythmic cling-clang,

the bing-boom on steel pans

rope me in,

drag me through thick Christmas crowds.

Snowflakes melt on my hair,

cold hands snuggle in my pocket,

as I am pulled to the hypnotic sound.

Three black men, one robed as Santa,

stand in the middle of an admiring throng,

now playing,” I Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

I huddle, eyes on black Santa,

oblivious to the swirl around me,

the coldest winter day.

“I wish you……….”

The music seizes my spirit,

churn up homesickness

hidden beneath the surface,

sends me to the Caribbean in a trance.

…..Ma, Ma, Bake You’ Johnny Cake, Christmas coming,

Christmas coming, Christmas coming.”

The song plucked out on banjos,

rattled off with maracas,

pounded out on drums,

sung loud by drunk voices,

“Christmas coming, Christmas coming,

If you want to be merry drink guava berry.”

Family faces march in memory.

The throng surges forward, jars my reverie.

I riffle through my purse for coins,

Fling them onto a copper plate.

Black Santa nods his head.

I stumble away, pass the Gluhwein stand,

Wrapped in the warmth of the Caribbean song.

If you want to be merry, drink guava berry.

Ma, ma, bake you’ Johnny cake,

Christmas coming.

1. Johnnycake (also called journey cake, johnny bread, hoecake, shawnee cake or spider cornbread) is a cornmeal flatbread. An early American staple food, it is prepared on the Atlantic coast from Newfoundland to Jamaica.

2. Gluehwein is a German/Austrian winter-holiday drink that most tourists know as an after-ski drink. After you come in out of the snow, it is supposed to make you glow with warmth again. Watch it: Since you drink this wine warm, the alcohol goes to your head extra quick! Drink when you really have come in, and do not have to go out again!

Journey to Liberia

Love at First Sound.

Thirteen yet a school house novice.

The hinterland’s dust

barely off her feet,

Nah dragged the house-girl to a

high-ceilinged dwelling

with wire-meshed windows

and shoved her through the door,

into the room where younger children

recited the alphabet.

She loved the rhythm

of their singing

and the music of letters

spun off tongues,

that whirled in her ears.

Uncle Nah needn’t

drag her to school after that.

Soon she was spooning

the alphabet out of her

Campbell-tin-soup

onto her floor mat where

she kneeled to make words.

Letters danced around in her head.

Sleepless, she freed them.

First whispering, then shouting

and craving the sounds,

she strung sentences together.

She set them gently down on paper,

and the voice she gave to stories

became the firework of her people.

Ma Massa

She has carried her share of life’s burdens.

Her breasts, flat on chest, are not those seen in Playboy.

When she opens and reties her lappa*

her wrinkled, stretch-marked stomach,

seen fleetingly, says she has done her duty.

Her face bears few signs of aging.

People simply say, “she is tight.”

She works hard, fries Kalla* and doughnuts at five a.m,

gets children off to school. Eight of them have survived

through God’s grace and country medicine.

She sends her wards off.

One carries a big basin of kalla and doughnuts

that weighs down his small head.

Another pushes a wheelbarrow loaded with assorted dukahfleh.*

Ma Massa follows them with a train of helpers toting

pigs’ feet, salted meat, smoke fish, boney*, bitter balls*,

peppers, small packets of macaroni and bene seeds,

the odds and ends that bring dividends.

She won’t forget the outdated newspapers

and cement-coated wrappers,

the toddler holding on securely to her lappa.

At the market when business is slow,

her friends scratch and plait each other’s hair,

the finishing touch, a debonair look, that defies sidewalk salons,

prevents costly dents in pockets.

They exchange news, good or bad,

sing each other’s joy, wail each other’s sorrow.

They cook their rice and soup and feed and change their young,

sweat it out in the sun, calculate the day’s intake.

III

The sound of chopping wood resounds.

Gray smoke lazily slinks out Ma Massa’s country kitchen.

The smell of burnt palm oil captures noses,

dances around the nearby houses.

Evening, brightened by the kitchen fire,

unveils mouths smeared with palm oil and bulging with rice,

fingers crawling around greasy pan in search of last rice grains.

Ma Massa’s face is tired but serene, speechless among the screaming,

happy, angry, sleepy children’s voices.

Poem from Beyond Dreams, the Ritual Dancer, Sabanoh Press, Liberia, 1989

1. Kalla-fried doughnut

2. Lappa-wrap around cloth, skirt.

3. Dukahfleh-second-hand clothing

4. Boney- small dried fish

5. bitter balls-small vegetable of the eggplant/aubergine family

Journey to the Caribbean

De Wuk Man

Afta a day’s wuk

ah come home to supper

on me little wooden table.

De dumplins in me bowl

look sweeter dan sweet.

De peas’ eyes black an’ neat.

Ah mek love to de relish

standin’ up in me bowl like Hercules.

But me wife?

An nah forget ‘er.

She ha’ dimples like black berries

on ‘er cheeks.

‘Er yellow plum scent

grab me nose,

mek me feel strong

like a West Indian muscle man.

We talk, talk, talk

like ah wus gone a whole week

‘bout de melee on de street.

Ah talk ‘bout de hard life in town.

Say how it got me down and out.

She frown and pout,

rub me head an’

squeeze me big black mout’.

Den ah feel ah is King ah Africa

‘til sleep fight me eyes

an’ wrestle wid me feet,

an’ a seek comfort wid me wife

an’ de ole night sheet

‘til sunrise crawl through me window.

Breadfruit

(A docu-poem)

“Breadfruit,” a word mentioned

with a grimace and a shudder

alongside the uttering of senna,

the weekly purge, and other cures

they grabbed and held us down for—

Epsom salts, castor and cod liver oil.

Breadfruit, a vegetable bigger than a grapefruit,

whose name my mother spat out with great disdain,

and so hated, it never graced our table.

Breadfruit was all there was during World War II.

War time embargoes and

the Caribbean islands’ isolation

had seen to that.

No rice, no flour, but breadfruit,

so abundant, its tree

became the tree of life—

the lifeline against starvation.

The love of breadfruit had died

after it was eaten morning, noon, night.

Banished from our menu,

a rare sighting would so upset my mother.

It made us gag. made shudder.

But breadfruit, sautéed

in coconut oil, saffron and callaloo

when introduced to me

as “oil down” in Spice Island, Grenada.

became my “come-back kid” of vegetables.

*breadfruit-the large round starchy fruit of a tropical tree, which is used as a vegetable and sometimes to make a substitute for flour.

*Senna-leaves used as a laxative.

*callaloo-the edible, spinach-like leaf of dasheen. Dasheen is a tropical root vegetable; a variety of taro having large yellowish tubers. 2. The tuber of this plant. [Antillean English Creole, from Antillean French Creole (Martinique) dasheen.

Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea Romeo Mark is an educator and internationally published writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in the Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia, England, and Switzerland since 1991. A dual American and Swiss citizen, she writes short stories and personal essays in addition to poetry. and has been published. in the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, Antigua, and Barbuda, The Bahamas, Barbados, USA, England, Germany, Norway, Portugal, Colombia, India, U.K., Kenya, Liberia, Romania, and Switzerland. Her last poetry collection, The Nakedness of New, was published in 2018. She has participated in International Poetry Festivals in Romania, Kenya, and in Colombia.

1 comment:

Obie QuietJuly 11, 2021 at 6:02 AM
Althea Romeo-Mark, you are amazing. Your work is divine. I cherish your poems. This stanza of "A West Indian Celebrates Christmas in Switzerland" is so delicious it is not at all easy for any poet anywhere on earth to surpass:
I hunger for guava berry, the local sherry,

the beach where we make merry,

drink ginger beer and sorrel,

eat raisin buns, coconut tarts, papaya pastry.

Sunday, June 20, 2021