[ Chicken Dinner ] Poem, by Garathe Den, at My poetic side

I’m cooking chicken right now

Using herbs and spices

I’m not a gourmet chef

But I know what life is

At times it is delicious

As the tongue entices

Other times you get burned

And it is all in crisis

I set the temperature

And I placed it in the oven

Forgot how long to cook it

Because I am only human

I guessed 12 minutes

That’s an even dozen

Then I’ll gauge it by sight

And face the repercussion

I just wanted to eat

And this seemed simple

Though that might be a lie

It was all on impulse

Sometimes my appetite

Can be quite fickle

Or maybe my desires

Aren’t coincidental

Maybe it’s subliminal

Breasts and thighs

I thought I was a gentleman

But do my senses lie

Am I thinking too deep

What is on my mind

Alarm going off

My how the time flys

12 minutes was perfect

They are not quite raw

They look juicy and tasty

I don’t see one flaw

Will my stomach appreciate

These chewing jaws

Set to sacrifice poultry

To unwritten law

Thou shalt not hunger

Demands the flesh

A little Cayenne pepper

So I can feel my breath

The rest is a secret

That I have kept

The ingredients in life

Could cook a chicken breast

Alright, that’s funny

But I digress

About to eat this food

About to feel so blessed

Because a man is simple

As we have all confessed

When you fill his belly

Or fill his bed

Well, the bed is empty

But the stomach is not

And I give my thanks

To a loving God

Who provides my needs

Not all my wants

And tonight this chicken

Has hit the spot

Author: Garathe Den (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
Published: July 30th, 2026 05:08
Comment from author about the poem: Winner, winner—chicken dinner. The old casino cry, the gambler’s jackpot, the everyday triumph of a full plate over an empty one. In this deceptively casual poem, the kitchen becomes a theater of the soul, the oven a crucible, and a humble bird the unwitting prophet of human existence. What begins as a man simply cooking chicken unfolds into a layered dialogue between appetite and awareness, impulse and intention, the body’s blunt demands and the spirit’s quieter thanks. The overall message is not that life is a meal, but that every meal is life in miniature: seasoned with herbs of memory and spice of desire, liable to burn or bless, governed by unwritten laws we half-remember and half-invent. Beneath the surface lies an intricate web of themes—impermanence and imperfection, the fickleness of wanting, the thin veil between hunger and lust, the dignity of the ordinary, and the radical act of gratitude when the bed is empty but the belly is full. These engage universal human concerns: our perpetual negotiation with scarcity and abundance, the comedy and tragedy of being embodied, the search for meaning in the most prosaic acts. The poem does not lecture; it invites us into the steam and sizzle, asking us to smell the cayenne and feel the heat of our own living.\r\n\r\nThe compelling thesis is this: in the act of cooking and consuming a simple chicken dinner, the poem reveals the sacred density of the ordinary. Life’s deepest questions—about desire’s reliability, knowledge’s limits, the body’s authority, the possibility of thanks amid lack—do not require grand stages; they arrive with the oven timer and the smell of cayenne. By refusing to separate the culinary from the existential, the sensual from the spiritual, the humorous from the holy, the poem persuades us that meaning is not elsewhere. It is here, in the imperfect timing, the subliminal associations, the unwritten laws, the empty bed, and the full stomach. The human condition is not a problem to be solved but a meal to be prepared, imperfectly, attentively, and with whatever secret ingredients we have managed to keep.\r\n\r\nWhat remains is ongoing reflection. How might our own kitchens become sites of such dialogue? When the timer rings and the bed is empty, what thanks can still be spoken? Does the knowledge that desires may not be coincidental change the way we feed ourselves—or others? The poem does not close these questions; it leaves them simmering, inviting us back to the table, again and again, to taste, to burn a little, and to discover that the ingredients of life are enough, tonight, to hit the spot.
Category: Reflection
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[ Chicken Dinner ]

Heart of Babel