Making Soup: A Pot Full of Poems

The more I read poetry, the more I find common elements between poems by very different writers. I find myself reading a poem about something simple, like soup, and thinking, "I've read at least four poems about soup in the last year, maybe more." That's enough to start a collection. 

What's so special about soup? It's magic, for one thing. You know the Stone Soup story, how everyone bringing one ingredient can create deliciousness when they work together. 

My mom used to make something she called "Garbage Soup" in much the same way. When we finished dinner, a leftover tablespoon or two of corn, a boiled potato, a few beans all went into the freezer to wait until the time came to make their contributions to a pot of soup. I do this with scraps that I'll cook into vegetable broth: The tough ends of celery stalks, carrot peels, onion tops, mushroom stems if they're woody enough that I don't want to put them in whatever I'm making all wait in the freezer. It varies seasonally; this time of year the ends of asparagus stalks join the bag. 

When we work with whatever life brings us, no two batches of soup are the same, just as no two poems about soup will leave you with the same flavors.

Soup makes for great literal descriptive poems and for those relying on its metaphors about ingredients and the act of preparation. Celebrating the way the ingredients come together to create flavors is irresistible; I too have been known to compare a completely different activity to the making of soup, like, say, a bike network.

I'm not the only one who has this impulse. Thanks to a recommendation in an online community I'm now reading Eat this Poem: A Literary Feast of Recipes Inspired by Poetry, by Nicole Gulotta. It's a delightful collection for people who, like me, love to cook and love to read poetry. She writes with an understanding of both literary analysis and simple, tasty cooking.

This list isn't drawn from that book. It's drawn from my morning routine of reading poetry while I drink coffee—two ways of waking my brain up without asking too much of it first thing. 

Sometimes the poem truly is about soup in all its deliciousness, sometimes the soup is a metaphor. I'm not reproducing entire poems here, simply a few lines to give you a taste. 

"Abeyance" by Rebecca Foust

I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard
and thyme picked outside our back door.
For this moment the room is warm and light,
and I can presume you safe somewhere.

"Self Help" by Bruce Covey

A chicken soup for the one who is eaten.
A chicken soup for the one who eats
Things other than chicken soup.
Transcending the bowl. 

"A Pot of Red Lentils" by Peter Pereira

simmers on the kitchen stove.
All afternoon dense kernels
surrender to the fertile
juices, their tender bellies
swelling with delight.

"Trying to Name What Doesn't Change" by Naomi Shihab Nye

The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.

"Acceptance Speech" by Lynn Powell

And let me just add that I could not
have made it without the marrow bone, that blood—
brother to the broth, and the tomatoes
who opened up their hearts, and the self-effacing limas,
the blonde sorority of corn, the cayenne
and oregano who dashed in
in the nick of time.

"To Say Nothing but Thank You" by Jeanne Lohman

remember who I am, a woman learning to praise
something as small as dandelion petals floating on the
steaming surface of this bowl of vegetable soup,
my happy, savoring tongue.

"Monday" by Cindy Gregg

I am cutting carrots
for the chicken soup.
Knife against carrot
again and again
sends a plop of pennies
into the pan.

"My Mother Prepares Ofe Egusi" by Emily Igwike

a steaming pot of egusi fills my void
and the space in this quaint kitchen.

"Da Capo" by Jane Hirshfeld

Returning home, slice carrots, onions, celery.
Glaze them in oil before adding
the lentils, water, and herbs.

"Monday Night: A Portrait" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Even as she made the cauliflower soup,
she was a deep space explorer.
No one else in the room seemed to notice

she was floating. No one noticed
how gravity had no hold on her.
No, they only saw she was chopping onions,

Related reading: Your suggestions invited

Have a favorite soup or cooking-related poem to share in the comments? Soup recipes welcome too!

Poetry round-ups over on my bikey/transportation blog and other soup-related posts:

• “I think/therefore/I ride.” A Bike Rack of Bicycle Poems
• “Safe passage through countless intersections”: A Baker’s Dozen of Transportation Poems 
• “Do Not Drive Through, This Poem’s In The Way”: Transportation Poems Keep Rolling In 
• Making Soup—Er, Bike Networks 
• Not Exactly a Recipe for Potato Soup: My Vegetarian Trickery
• Recipe Time: Interpretation of a Kinda Chunky Tomato/Red Bell Pepper/Black Bean Soup
• Kate and the Tomato Soup Incident