Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Bread poem - Geir Gulliksen this time


There is bread, and there is not. Where we live
there are many types of bread: we eat it every morning
The grain was bought where it cost least. The dough was baked
where it cost least. The bread was packaged where it cost least
and driven into the country by the one worst paid.

There is bread, and there is not
The bread that is was baked at night while we slept
just by the house we sleep in, or a fortnight earlier
in some other country. It’s not certain we can taste the difference
The dough is pale and wakens to life in a man’s hands

Grandad was a baker, he got up early and lay down to sleep
in the dough when the dough was ready. He said: the hole in the slice
of bread comes from me. There were six of us grandchildren, sons of sons,
all of us thought grandad’s body made a hollow as small as a pea
as if the world was a slice of bread seen from a great height

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