June 29, The Foodarama Slam - Best Written Poem, $25 Prize

7/1/2017

Post your entries in the comments below. The winning poem will be announced at the July 27 Slam. Open to Slam and Open Mic participants.

Riqi Hanzrudyn

7/1/2017 03:12:45 am

The Potato

Did you know that Malays don't differentiate,
Between fries, wedges and chips?
Just like how they discriminate,
Against octopi, cuttlefish and squids.

Kentang goreng is what they called em all,
No not our favourite cephalopods from the oceans deep,
I mean the dishes and snacks made from these golden balls
That for seventy to a hundred twenty days they take their beauty sleep.

I think it’s outrageous that
The potato is often underlooked
Even though they're eaten by beggars and bureaucrats
Even when undercooked.

Baked, boiled or roasted
Fried, poached or toasted
None hath ever boasted
On facebook or instagram or snapchat with a potato posted.

They're the stuffing in your turkey,
The carbs that keep you curvy,
The thing that few find sexy,
But is as solid as glass, plexi.

Its skin so thick it needs a razor to skin,
Its monstrous eyes staring from deep within,
On the surface the potato doesn't have a pretty face,
But to judge its looks would be a really big disgrace.

For inside it's a golden nugget,
And tastes like heaven when sliding down your gullet.
And though many call themselves an ugly potato,
Its culinary value makes it the paint for a cooking Van Gogh.

You can slice it up, or eat it whole,
The potato holds no boundary
Vodka in your cup, let it consume your soul
The potato wouldn't cheat, she ain't no Madame Bovary

Be it your side or your main
The potato is loyal till the very end
And though you should always watch your weight
The potato's got your back so don't fixate

More than kentang goreng
There's places the potato is going
From Buffalo to Borneo
From Rio de Janeiro to the Malay Archipelago
This beautiful underrated root veg
Will be the superstar, with its future cutting-edge

Riqi Hanzrudyn

7/1/2017 03:14:02 am

School Canteen

I was sixteen when I first entered my school canteen.
I was a young freshie and still a canteen virgin.
But like most first times, mine was less than pristine.

The floor was damp from blood, sweat, tears and cooking oil.
The brown rice they fed us looked and tasted like topsoil
And the air had an unsavory stink,
Of meats raw, moist and pink

The latrines were right by the kitchens,
And up above, occasionally liquid luck would rain from pigeons.
While students and staff who were shat on were called legends.
The legends themselves seeked compensation or vengeance.

But over two years the canteen were to grow on me,
Like the countless conversations Id have from eight to three.
And though I would never reach legendary status,
The canteen did and was revered on campus.

I loved the uncle who trusted us so much,
He'd lay out his riches on the counter for us to see.
Or the makcik who would give us some extra food, just a touch.
Or the smiles we got when we greeted the cleaning auntie.

Yes, the canteen wasn't the best.
But it was mine, nay ours, kept deep in our chest
For thirty years the canteen held daily feasts.
That in total fed thousands of knowledge-hungry beasts.

But then the merger came.
And honest to the bell-curve God, I felt the pain of the school's several broken window panes.
I was shattered.

They would take the canteen away.
They would take all that was ours.
All the singing Belafontes, messy trays, and happy days
All the late homework done, all the immature fun during the old break hours.

The good, the bad and the crazy.
The shelter we took when the weather was sunny, rainy and hazy.
The innumerable white shirts that were stained.
The friends gained, lost, and gained again.

The times I spent there, skipping class,
The times I was there even when I had to fast.
Where I would go wait for the times to pass.
Where my classmates would inspect each other's eyeglass.

We would share stories of our triumphs and failures,
Crediting ourselves and blaming our teachers.
Discuss conspiracy theories about big brother
Or just about the relationships of each other.

But then there was some for us, to be lost too
The cheap meals that were better than some nutrient goo.
Sure they were fatty, unhealthy and full of cholesterol.
But at least they were loved and adored by all.

But there was something else for me.
I am a nostalgiac and a glutton, as you can see.
There was so much more to lose,
From the merging of schools.

More than The two dollar wanton mee,
Or The sixty cent soya bean
But rather The priceless memories
Of The worthless angsty teen.

I could go on and on and on about how we had no say
When MOE wanted to sell our school away.
But I'd rather bite my tongue and call them legends,
Praying that the birds would start their engines.

Miran

7/1/2017 06:22:36 am

the foodie slam was on the way,
my mind it would not learn;
my thoughts they did all run and play,
all night i toss and turn.

the mic is open, shall i try,
a fortnight to write this.
but if i rush, it goes awry.
perhaps i stepped amiss?

The foodarama did approach,
the slam two weeks away.
my pen it had since stopped again,
my mind was all astray...

procrastinations head had reared,
it had distracted me.
my silky words, their flow had stopped.
forth came no poetry...

---

From the open mic

Kok Wei Liang

7/1/2017 08:04:33 am

DICK PIC SONG (NOT FROM THIS EARTH)

I just don't see how pictures of
Such wonderful things could be bad.

Look at this dick
It’s in a pic
Wouldn’t you give my erection a lick?
Wouldn’t you think that this tool
Is free of STDs?

Look at this tree
Shrouded in bush
When was the last time you saw this much wood?
Wouldn’t you think that I took
Viagra – or Cialis?

I pose right next to a can of Pepsi
I use Facetune on my mushroom head
You want uncut foreskin? Mine is stretchy!
From afar
It looks like
A baguette

I wanna be blurred on Instagram
I wanna see, wanna see them sharing
Spreading around on the
What do you call that?
Oh, Reddit

Pictures of abs are just not the same
Dicks are required for flopping, dangling
Stirring up hunger for –
What's that word again?
Meat

It’s just a cock
Don't be a nun
Everyone knows it’s all in good fun
Jump on this ride
Just let me drive
I’ll be your chauffeur

Don’t ever stop
With Photoshop
Till I’m nine inches

When I say nine
I don’t mean length
I’m talking ‘bout girth

Become a myth, to urologists
Who concede they don’t have all the answers
Cause my penis, is extremist –
Not from this earth

I’m ready to show, and I’m ready to grow
Be gossiped about
On the NUS Whispers
Have someone think being fucked by me’s
Like giving birth

When will I get
Get all the love
All of the love, my dick pics deserve?

How else could we
As men, you see
Know what we’re worth?

Nicole Carmen

7/2/2017 04:20:49 am

MY KIND OF COMFORT FOOD

Why do I love it so?
You know,
My love for my kind of comfort food,
A little extreme though,
But relatable it should
Indeed be
To everybody
With some kind –
Of love, desire, addiction or affliction of the mind.
Ice cream, potato chips,
Pizza, fried chicken, steak,
Candy, chocolate Frappuccino with whip,
Everything that goes straight from your lips to your hips.
Just think of your favourite comfort food,
It’s probably something that eat you should
Only once in a blue moon
Which somehow is going to appear really soon
For the most of us here
Especially when some cruel event, like maybe the female period, draws near.

Why do I love it so?
You don’t know,
But to me, it’s comfort that’s needed
And comfort food’s the best
Of all food – to fight the seeded
Sadness that’s seated
Amongst shame, madness, blame and the rest
Whenever I’m depressed
I take out the butter knife from the kitchen
To start the preparation
Of the beautiful, red, juicy meat,
That I slice thinly, resisting the urge then to eat
And the euphoria I get when the deed is done.
The crusted brown flaking slightly when I touch it – just for fun.
I take in deep breaths and savour my moments
While I still am in moments of consuming
And before I realise it’s not me consuming my comfort food but my comfort food consuming me
In my entirety
But really
I’m sure everyone has their to-go-to-comfort food,
To turn to whenever they are in a bad mood.
So why should it matter
That the comfort food on my platter
Is really just the tiniest of cuts
Of raw meat and blood,
Of my own wrists –
If all we want to experience is the same kind of bliss?
I’m sorry,
Did this poetry,
That started out tasty,
Turn out to you to be kind of gory?
But really,
As with all addictions, it’s the same kind of story.
A difficult, seemingly endless, journey
Where a big problem is that it’s very, very, very
Lonely.

Why do I love it so?
I know
To themselves people always wonder
But actually
Never ask me
Unless they make a blunder
For they feel more of a sin
It would have been
To say what may appear mean
Like calling a girl fat or a man too lean
Than to be blind to the traces of my consumption of my ‘comfort’ food on my body and my skin
That form an integral part of my appearance and my identity
Which the same people judge or view with disgust, pity or at best some sympathy
But
Which are really just evidence of my inability to take care of my health
That they then leave me trying, fighting all by myself.

Why do I love it so?
I don’t know
But like your favourite kind of comfort food
Sitting prettily in the fridge, on dining table or even a million miles away,
It desperately calls and draws
The desperate me to respond, every second, every minute, every hour of every bloody day.
I know after I succumb to that
I’ll be filled with the same kind of regret
As people who have indulged in comfort food as their late night snack
But
My desires for comfort haunt
Me
My scars on my wrists taunt
Me
My consumption of my comfort food bleeds
Me
But my lonely comfort food needs
Me
And as much as it needs me, lonely me needs it too.
And as much as it’ll hurt or even kill, at least with me it has been and is still, unlike the rest of all of you.

Nicole Carmen

7/2/2017 04:23:30 am

MY LOVE STORY, WITH FOOD

“Don’t waste food,” he used to say,
Eating every crumb of bread, every grain of rice, every meal, of every day.
“Think of the starving Ethiopian kids”, he used to nag,
During every date we had, he’d say at least twice, like –ugh– for real, he was such the drag.

Where did we meet? I remember, at this restaurant at the airport, which we affectionately called “X”,
Where he asked for my number and we started to text,
Where we – out of raw romanticism – got together,
Where the food was so bad we would never return, or so we promised each other,
Till the day we were “ex”es, which he assured me, would be just before his funeral –
And that moment I realised, like how I would hunger for food, I would hunger for him like a fool, and that he would, like everything good, become an unhealthy desire.

As with most couples, my love story with him was like a love story with food:
Where our happiness had a direct correlation with our weight and waistline,
As our dates were characterized by the places we’d go to dine,
Oh, how fine!
Delectable dishes in perverse portions I would select and stake a claim as mine,
But would somehow find their way to his plate, when I had enough after really just a bite or two and start to whine.
And oh, he would never complain, and all I would hear,
Is the repeat telecast of “Starving Ethiopian kids”, which I thought would be my greatest fear.

But of course, I was wrong – just when I thought out relationship was going strong, the next stage came along:
Where he started to reduce the time we were meeting, the food we were eating,
With stupid ‘claims’ – like tiredness, stomachaches and pains – did he think I had no brains?
Of course, I made it a point to point that out, when he said those crap at the dining table, in his face I would shout –
But he’d just stuff that face with alcohol and food, like we normally would, and I remember once, it dragged on for so long on the table he puked – how rude!
And as with our depleting happiness, he started dropping pounds – not me of course – Solace in comfort food I found –
And that only made things worse, as with our widening waistline disparity,
I began to feel a widening distance between us – which he one day decided to make a literal reality.

“I’m going to Ethiopia,” he told me, “For a social project for four years”.
“Well, marry your Ethiopian kids”, I replied, leaving without questioning him of its truth or myself of his reasons, because a part of me died.
And that’s when we just stopped meeting, eating, talking, texting or anything,
We went on a relationship fast, which truthfully I hoped wouldn’t last, but said nothing about ‘till the point that this became our future, and that “we” became the past –
I got his text that said he was going to fly,
Asking to meet at the airport and that just made me cry,
Because I knew it was going to be at “X”, and I decided to lie,
And not appear even though we promised to be there when it was time to say goodbye.

Fast forward four years later, and four kilos lighter,
I had a sudden wonder, like a pang of hunger, whether I would still have towards him the same desire,
And I tried to look him up, by pulling a Facebook all-nighter.
But this, I now wish, I had fought like I should and would against a mid-night supper.
A fool he had planned me to be, and a fool I was,
A fool I wish I had continued to be, when I actually realised my loss.
He was the chicken soup for my soul, which I left outside my heart, until it spoilt upon turning cold.

I found he never had a project in Ethiopia,
I found that all the tiredness, stomachaches and pains were real,
I found he ever had digestive tract cancer,
I found that I never attended his funeral
Which
I found was a mere week from our “X” date.
I truly wished he didn’t set it all up, and it was cooked up by fate,
But that’ll just be another lie on my plate.
For I know that the kindest way to dessert someone is to fill them with hate,
And karma just served my just desserts – albeit a little late.

So now, “Don’t waste food,” I would say,
Eating every crumb of bread, every grain of rice, every meal, of every day.
“Think of the starving Ethiopian kids” goes this voice I hear in my mind,
But God knows, it’s not the forgiveness of the Ethiopian kids that I’m trying to find.

Priyanka

7/2/2017 09:48:44 am

Poem - A Conversation

'Where are you from?'
you asked. It took me
to a place, once my home:
Fragrance of earthy cumin.
Tulsi leaves simmering in tea.
Courtyard with jamun tree
Husks of rice flying,
My grandmothers smile,
Parched soil waiting for rain,
& amidst all the fragrance
Of warm food
Smiles & love
Everything comes back.
I collect myself
& see the saffron sky
& wait for the
Milky moon to dip in the ink.
I hold myself, pass you the tea
Tinted perfect brown
& smile & say
My home is in my heart
I carry them all, still.
By
Priyanka

simon fraser university personal statement link

1/31/2018 05:02:42 am

There is no doubts these poems are best creation of writers and poets. They know the best way to write excellent content. So i really love this piece of writing.

June 29, The Foodarama Slam - Best Written Poem, $25 Prize

Post your entries in the comments below. The winning poem will be announced at the July 27 Slam. Open to Slam and Open Mic participants.

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