Monday, April 5, 2010

Potato Sonnet

Potato Sonnet
by Gideon Burton

Potato -- either russet, red or sweet --
you slumber under mud until complete.
While tubers zig the surface, indiscreet,
you swell to ripened fullness under feet.
You are the king of carbos, prince of starch,
the staple of our lust for chips and fries;
for you to Idaho I'd gladly march,
despite your tendency for sprouting eyes.
In families of five or twenty pounds,
I purchase you in bags of plastic brown,
then cook and smash you into steaming mounds
on which I ladle gravy without bounds.
       Les pommes de terre you are my daily buds;
       I worship at the shrine of fluffy spuds.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - LavenderCreek


  1. I think you are cool. And I also would like to know if you've turned all your books right-side-up yet.

  2. You are the best word-dude I know. And obviously I am not, since I just typed word-dude. Ugh...

  3. I am officially in love with this sonnet. And hungry for potatoes.

  4. I was beginning to peruse your sonnets the same as the writings of Isaiah; capturing bits and pieces of each line then getting lost and feeling ignorant and doltish. But this, THIS, I totally understand!