Every Hand in the House

We feed it year-long.
Its sixpence heart waits for the great reveal

(through summer's parched dominion,
through another bastard year of inferior cinnamon)

and mellows with every month
and every lavish swig.

Every hand in the house had stirred it.
And as another Christmas shivers in

we take it from its cupboard home,
dense as a neutron star and burning blue.

A Molotov pudding, a brandy sun –
every hand in the house presents a spoon.

Jody Porter is Poetry Editor for the Morning Star. His poetry blog is All Deciduous Things.

O My Dears One Learns Something New Every Day

        How painful to admit

                                  so many cakes later

                    that due to sloth

& one’s terror of inadvertent

                                        flour inhalation

                    one has missed

                                                  a trick

         but one is not above

                        confessing one’s peccadilloes.

  One speaks, O my dears, of decades

of denial:

                         all that faff

                                           with the sieve

                                resulting, as it turns out,

                  in a lighter sponge.

    Who knew?

                One will now don

                                 one’s sheepish apron

hold one’s breath,

                   sift as if one’s life depended etc,

            apply heat          

                                & revel in

  this frankly indecent expansion.

             O my dears, how

                                   perfectly

                                                      fat.

Jacqueline Saphra's latest collection is The Kitchen of Lovely Contraptions. You can read more of her work on her blog.

                                                                                    

Paul Hollywood’s Chestnuts

 The seller sang The Christmas Song,

rustling up the blackened beauties

in paper bags, thrusting them to us.

'That’s two quid, mate.'

Within the wrapped-up crowd I peeled;

I tasted. I offered up the bag.

‘Mary,' I said,

'I'm not sure about the bake.’

Lara Jakob's blog is Word of Mouth.

Stirring

Heap up the dried fruits, let them marinade

all night, a second honeymoon of booze;
an upset of almonds with their whiff of cyanide;
sultry cherries in their violated glory;
bittersweet, the candied taint of peel
we once discarded. Add citrus zest
to this pirate’s chest of jewels, sprinkle
cinnamon for regret; swing a great censer
of nutmeg absolution, a covet of allspice,
slow-blending muscovado. Help me preserve
all these good things against the winter. Bind
with butter, eggs and flour, bake it loveblind
in a bedding of brown paper, the fragrance
hotter now than summer. Let us make
a new abundance in this kitchen.
Let there be a sticky handfasting
of gritty marzipan and fondant icing.
Let there be more fruit than cake.

Judi Sutherland is a poet and writer, she blogs at There Must Be More To Life Than Having It All.

Icing

The silver medal bears the firm’s name

not her’s. No matter. I know

how she formed fancy from sugar and water:

roses in woven work, scrolls, waves.

On a snow day we’d sit in the back-kitchen;

she’d steady my hand, but there was always

something: the piping bag too fat for my grip,

the dummies resistant, their cardboard hard,

nothing like the riches of cake.

They smelled of must, not sweet-soaked fruit

brandied each week since October

with the Georgian crested ladle.

‘It’s practice’ were words of discomfort.

I’d sooner stop, watch her layer

a royale ice rink into winter’s wonder.

Kate Noakes blogs here. Her first collection Cape Town is published by Eyewear. 

Winners of the Great British Bard-off

We are delighted to announce the winners of the Great British Bard-off

Star Baker is awarded to the poet with the most read poem. This year's winner is Lavinia Singer.

Charlotte's awards

Signature bake: Roddy Lumsden for Self, Rising

Technical challenge: Simon Moore for Sonnet Review

Show-stopper: Lavinia Singer for Mary Berry Comes for Tea

Amy's awards

Signature bake: Wayne Holloway-Smith for Cake

Technical challenge: Gingerbread Brutalist Poem by Abi Palmber

Show-stopper: Lavinia Singer for Mary Berry Comes for Tea

Thank you to everyone who took part!

We're now accepting submissions for our #GBBO Christmas Special. 

Email your festive pennings to greatbritishbardoff@gmail.com 

The Final by Jacqueline Saphra

What stirs here, friends? Ambition, hunger and the wooden spoon

join together for the rise, fight to trap the crucial air.

Our three contestants work towards the best Pivithier

each with his ample, buttered love. What can we do but swoon

at this parade, their naked need to please, the spill and trick?

Though some would say it’s only cake, our heroes are hell-bent

on perfection: what could be more endearing than these men

who urge, with gentle rage, their sponges into sickly pink?

The fancies fall apart. Why, why? The icing will not hold.

Outside, on the soggy lawn, one dear man can hardly speak

for sobs: other losses, older griefs perhaps. But he takes stock,

moves on: this is the British way. Determined. Even cold.

Inside, it’s almond, rose, pistachio. Cakes rise again.

Outside, a hush where hopeful relatives in sweaters wait.

Inside, they’re done: the darling faces flush. It’s getting late.

Outside: the truth, our English garden and the rain, the rain.

Jacqueline's latest collection is The Kitchen Of Lovely Contraptions. She blogs here.

James Sixth and First by Sean Jones

"that which hath so bound and firmely knit the hearts of all 
your MAJESTIES loyall and Religious people unto you, that
your very Name is precious among them, their eye doeth
behold you with comfort, and they blesse you in their hearts"              
 - dedication in the King James Bible.

Great and manifold 

rough puff (bread Sovereign)

thick, and palpable

clouds of butter

cannot overshadow your MAJESTY

A fall to the ground

not suffered, rather

taken up.

In your chiffon king

of Great Britain, Ireland &c.

Tranquil peace at home

and abroad.

French fancies

the heavenly hand enriched

far and near to 

urge and excite

humble craving.

Into the English tongue

the fruit thereof

extends itself

hammered on their anvil

of deep judgement, apprehended.

Mary, Paul (Popish persons)

will malign us.

Such importance might justly require

ill meaning, discontent.

Their contentment does not

diminish or decay

vehement desire perpetuated.

Happiness, true felicity.

The eye beholds you with comfort

Immediate author of our happiness

more and more kindled.

Do not go backward, slack

though Sun in his strength

dwindled

to supposed and surmised mists.

Comfort Food by Jill Abram

To show her love, she liked to bake.
Her sons ate three hot meals a day.
Her lover liked a chocolate cake,

so healthy lunches, for his sake,
she served up promptly at midday.
To show her love, she liked to bake.

Her speciality was strawberry shortcake
whenever she had guests to stay.
Her lover liked a chocolate cake.

With all those sweet things, toothache
was a threat she must allay.
To show her love, she liked to bake.

She knew well how to grill a steak
to perfection, just the way
Her lover liked.  A chocolate cake

for pudding she would make
to keep him home, that old roué.
To show her love, she liked to bake,
Her lover liked a chocolate cake.


Jill Abram has 3 poems published in Ariadne's Thread issue 3 which is available at www.ariadnethread.net

Mary Berry Comes Over For Tea by Lavinia Singer

    The news was greeted With that peculiar mixture

  of three-parts hot cheek Horror to one of itchy palms,

       last experienced the dAy when Andrew Motion

              overheard my ouTpouring of love

             for Cheryl Cole. What can you serve to this

    Maharaja of AGAs whO’s known for her scones

  & sprightly sponge? my Usual dessert

         is packet powder jelLy (which often as not

 refuses to set) Egad! I’m Done for:

               my meringue is Malingering – slunk

           in the sink, I’ve strAngled my strudel,

                 rubbished the Rum Babas, an upside down

     cake is upside down bY mistake…
 (Don’t even get me starteD on the plaited loaf.)
              Hopeless. Time tO throw in

                      the tea towel? Offer up

            a plate of Krispy Kremes or some
 jammy dodgers to connotE a respectable air

                  of laissez-fairE? “It doesn’t get tougher

than this!” – you bet your Profiterole it doesn’t.

                  O Gregg, I’d Be your DisasterChef.

                                       And yet –

       an image rises of her Kindly gaze, eyes of

        cornflower blue, and I think, What ho! I too

  can be dough-mestic! BriNg out the jelly and the Pick n Mix,

      I’ll give her something Gorgeous. Sherbet, mint

leaves, gum drops et voila! Not star baker, but it’s a start.

Hope You Approve of My by Nia Davies

Ever since the incident with the ginger

boyfriend and the ginger-

bread men,

I never baked a thing ‘til this

tin of non-stick with

ten scooped shell dips

for piping courgette-laced mix

to be zucced up to a crisp.

Each madeleine

will fit the arc of the palette.

Our mouths, big toe sized,

say: lo and behold

this is good! I coasted

the pips to fit just into but out of it,

thought again of My First Parmesan:

in the house of Yarnit (at home Mum

 and I ate courgette soufflé

with a lettuce leaf).

I’m still deferring my questions

to their expertise: Parmesan

or Parma Reggiano? And

now the Yarnit sisters,

standing on my step a cake to each hand.

Try my toe-cakes, please.

Approve! Yes,

approve me

please!

Nia Davies's first pamphlet Then Spree is forthcoming from Salt. She blogs here.

Layer Cake by Mark Waldron

icing
sponge
jam
sponge
jam
sponge
plate
table mat
table
lino
glue
wood
concrete
screed
soil
clay
rock
magma
outer core
inner core
outer core
magma
rock
silt
gravel
soil
screed
concrete
wood
glue
carpet
table
table cloth
plate
doily
sponge
jam
sponge
jam
sponge
icing

Mark Waldron's latest collection is The Itchy Sea.  

Spanish Rock Cake by Olivia Bellas

 

That rubbish tornado somewhere off
at sea   boats head butting fridges tripping over
phones and M&S knickers

makes me see a tumbleweed of my own
internal intake   the flies swallowed by accident
traces of pen lid  light bits of snowball -

all soft-landing in me, I hope,
the way young women from the 50’s
played catch with beach balls.

These could rebound off his head or make
up his next mealtime: the Spanish rock cake
the tooth I chipped on the Spanish rock cake

Olivia Bellas is a Londoner working as a consultant in the cultural industries. She has Spanish heritage and a history of cake.

To You, Gene Splicer by Ira Lightman

Gregg by Lara Jakob

He said I had lovely puddings:

That no baking powder was needed

To get a rise out of him.

 

He said my buns had great warmth:

That the dough needn’t be kneaded

For the sin to grow within

 

He said our flavours complemented each other:

That on the palate we pirouetted like peppercorns;

Pole dancing ‘pon the rolling pin.

 

He wanted to go to heaven on my spoon,

Felt that divinity was in my chocolate

That my soufflés were deities

That he had found his soul in my jus.

 

The temperature keeps increasing,

The kitchen is getting hotter -

I don’t want our sauce to split.

 

Mr Wallace, I realise:

Loving you couldn’t get any tougher than this.

Lara blogs here and tweets to great effect, especially during competitive cooking shows.