Home baked bread sally croft

For this week, consider the following question in ~300 words; then respond to another student in approximately 100 words

Compare Barbara Rockman's "The New Farmers" and Sally Croft's "Home Baked Bread"--How are those two poems ​different​ in their representations of human sexuality? Requirements: Write in your own words, no plagiarism

consider the following question in ~300 words; then respond to another student in approximately 100 words ( I will provide one student’s post for you to reply after I submit my assignment )

Deliver back on time

Sally Croft, "Home Baked Bread"

“Home-Baked Bread,” by Sally Croft

​Nothing gives a household a greater sense of stability and common comfort than the aroma of cooling bread. Begin, if you like, with a loaf of whole wheat, which requires neither sifting nor kneading, and go on from there to move cunning triumphs. -The Joy of Cooking

What is it she is not saying?

Cunning triumphs. It rings

of insinuation. Step into my kitchen,

I have prepared a cunning triumph

for you. Spices and herbs

sealed in this porcelain jar,

a treasure of my great-aunt

who sat up past midnight

in her Massachusetts bedroom

when the moon was dark. Come,

rest your feet. I’ll make

you tea with honey and slices

of warm bread spread with peach butter.

I picked the fruit this morning

still fresh with dew. The fragrance

is seductive? I hoped you would say that.

See how the heat rises

when the bread opens. Come,

we’ll eat together, the small flakes

have scarcely any flavor. What cunning

triumphs we can discover in my upstairs room

where peach trees breathe their sweetness

beside the open window and

sun lies like honey on the floor.

Barbara Rockman, "The New Farmers" “The New Farmers,” by Barbara Rockman

In suburban backyards,

past usual bark and holler,

there is bleat and cluck.

One of the new farmers bikes to work.

One has given up meat. They suffer

sore joints and burnt brows,

refuse daily news, tune the radio

to all music all day, read dusty

Whitman and Blake. And though

covenants forbid a rooster,

they invoke don’t ask, don’t tell,

raise chickens behind latched gates,

nudge eggs from fat females

who puff and doze,

and make of morning

a romance. One will go in,

kiss his partner’s grizzled cheek,

whisk an omelette of chèvre and chives,

slice sun warm tomatoes and bread

kneaded in the dark. Long ago they

learned to tame the hip, curb the kiss

but this feast eaten from Adirondack chairs

facing sunrise, the misted hour, is a reprisal

of an old hymn to a land they refuse to not love,

country they dig their hands into

despite a litany of signs it will return

a spare and blemished harvest.

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