A dish of carrot hastily cooked may still has soil not cleaned off the vegetable.
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The Heroic Carrot
The floods have ruined the British vegetable growers.
Tough. But
the supermarkets will just buy elsewhere,
we'll hardly notice, apart from TV's brief comment...
This week, what of our organic vegetable bag
whose carrots are usually a joyful memory
of what carrots, pulled yesterday, used to, still can, taste like?
- so this week, just one, huge carrot. The Great Survivor.
Gnarled, a giant among the pretty, washed, and fashionable ones
smiling under the golden light of supermarket shelves -
it looked as if it had fought battles, come through wars
which of course few want to be reminded of
by those old veterans with their tales of times
too testing of mortality for us to think about...
eaten later, it would have a subtler taste -
of gratitude, of praise.
A kitchen; a carrot; a man holding a knife,
on the edge of tears.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Without Getting Quick the 'Boot
You've got to love the one who attempts to mend,
And fix.
An addiction done that has folks totally transfixed.
To correct with an effort that slips in bits of truth...
Is a task no one has accomplished!
Without getting quick the 'boot'.
For generations realities have been based upon myths.
How can an honest person fight against this?
It takes more than brilliance with humor to get this done.
Especially when those affected,
Are humorless and stunned.
And yet it has to happen!
Since economically,
Values of one's life has to change.
Unlimited greed has been the tease of a dangling carrot.
Now that carrot has to be used...
And divided up in pots,
Between those who once 'had'...
And those who always 'had not'
To ease and feed pretensions and needs!
'Well...
That shouldn't be too difficult!
One group is accustomed to images.
While the other has never known what it's like to feed.
Add some collard greens in that cooked pot...
And see who rushes for it!
That should say 'something' about their appetities! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Carrot Top is a nickname that people call me and I thought that it was more marketable.
quote by Carrot Top
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0011 Scrubbing Carrots
Every Friday, a happy smiling man
who says he’s a mixture of Spain, Trinidad and England
delivers a bag of organic vegetables
and a bag of organic fruit, and
it’s a bit like a child’s Christmas bran-tub adventure –
some strange vegetables I’ve never seen before
and would never have dared to buy;
or eat, if I found them growing in the garden…
but it’s worth it for the carrots alone –
they taste, well, OK, like carrots used to taste..
and each week, they come from a different grower, so
they arrive clean and smooth one week,
clotted with earth another, but
as Rilke might say, rich with carrot-ness..
and I clean them with a respect which they
and the sheer living greenness of the greens
and other vegetables naturally demand of me
so that vegetable-cleaning
which used to be a chore done with attention
only at half strength, is now something more -
and in this mood, almost overlooked small great miracles of life
just happen of themselves –
two weeks ago, I watched amazed
as my two hands of themselves
devised a new way of cleaning carrots –
the hands reversed their roles: left hand
now held the scouring pad, diagonally,
and the right hand spiralled the carrot
in the pad… and lo! those etched horizontal lines
of dirt were perfectly removed..
and the isness of the carrot
and the isness of its servant
were together one silent song
where, it seemed,
the forgotten met the remembered
and rejoiced.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Please stay away, our people have to survive!
A curd woman carries a pot of yogurt that drips on her moon forehead
The crystal white droplets drench the old soul, shouts, "yogurt,
Fresh yogurt, churned butter, anyone wants to buy? ",
Vegetable man pushes his cart, full of colorful vitamin vegetables,
Shouts as usual, "Vegetable, Vegetable, Green vegetables".
Fruits seller and fish monger carry their bounties in the baskets,
Pots, pans, spoons and brooms are sold on streets,
Sweat, tear, longing and desperation in discreet,
What place do the multinational whole sale retailer hit,
On the soil of poor people, where people live as dogs and cats.
Please stay away from us and we are not the good market,
as the habit of descendant will not let you see the profit.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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God of Misery
Misery and disease marry the soil and vegetable,
Many finds result from soil and garden, worms and snails,
That result, that deploy their forces armed in ways known to man.
I shall work again, cultivate the garden as a curtain is folded neatly,
The culture has a crowning achievement.
Grotesque and ugly, watchers of the night sky raise their anger
At the old comets and asteroids hitting the world as danger.
Grinding, depriving and dissolving the diseased soil,
Many old comets design danger, making use of the soil
By hitting too fast, and last of all the planet is hurt.
Misery is actually too powerful a danger,
That meteors are faster every year,
In a fit of rage is the god of asteroids.
poem by Naveed Akram
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My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
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After The County Show
“Hello carrot, my word you do look tasty.”
“Oh, hello knife you too look pretty sharp
a cut above the rest I’d say, but let’s not be too hasty.”
“I say carrot, are you here for today’s county dinner? ”
“No, no not I, I’m a showpiece,
voted best of the show, a gold ribbon winner.”
“I knew you were special, lying next to the sole from Dover,
but surely you must know what you’re doing here
now that the county show is over? ”
“I reckon they want to show me off to all the local villagers.”
“Somehow carrot I think you’d better reckon again,
whilst I slice up the beans and cabbages.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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Vegetable Man
In yellow shoes I get the blues
Though I walk the streets with my plastic feet
With my blue velvet trousers, make me feel pink
Theres a kind of stink about blue velvet trousers
In my paisley shirt I look a jerk
And my turquoise waistcoat is quite out of sight
But oh oh my haircut looks so bad
Vegetable man how are you?
So Ive changed my dear, and I find my knees,
And I covered them up with the latest cut,
And my pants and socks all point in a box,
They dont make long of my nylon socks,
The watch, black watch
My watch with a black face
And a big pin, a little hole,
And all the lot is what I got,
Its what I wear, its what you see,
It must be me, its what I am,
Vegetable man.
Ive been looking all over the place for a place for me,
But it aint anywhere, it just aint anywhere.
Vegetable man, vegetable man,
Hes the kind of person, you just gonna see him if you can,
Vegetable man.
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jamie doesn't like to do anything hastily, and I like to do everything incredibly hastily. So therein you have the dichotomy of our patterns.
quote by Adam Savage
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rice
On table plateful cooked rice,
Still the steam emits.
On chair I did cling,
Waited my wife curry to bring.
Beyond the plate, I behold
The farm wet with solicitude
Where the peasants
Sow the seeds.
Hot rice brings to the mind,
The paddy plants pined,
And the debt cankered peasants,
Whose sweats the balm to welted awns.
Held the rusty scythes,
And bent like the scythes,
The darkened women sang throat opened,
And the folk song my core vibrated.
Cooked rice still steamy,
And white purely,
As the mind of farmer,
The climate and price fall boiled ever.
Born to toil in the soil,
Farmers return to the soil,
To feed the worms,
Hanging on a rope hopeless.
When my dear curry brought,
I painfully thought:
No life without rice,
And without the peasant no rice.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Soil Is A Soul Of Life
Soil what is soil Lord?
soil is life seed
soil is a living organism
soil is a loom
from which you were made
dust you were dust you will be
Soil what is soil Scientist?
soil is a critical
part
of an ecosystem
soil provides
important nutrients
for plants in
an ecosystem
soil helps
anchor
plants
to keep
plants
in place
soil absorbs
holds water
for plants
soil absorbs
holds water
for animals
lakes rivers
to use
soil provides
a home
for many species
lots of living
organisms
soil
regenerates life
dust you were dust you will be
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Behind Our Facades...!
As many individuals
So many religions!
So many worlds
As many minds!
One versus another
Relentless clashes!
With great care
Lighted oven of jealousy!
Very unitedly cooked
Dish of disunity!
Selfishness alone
Our private property!
Rooted out as venom
Our Universal Love!
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Eventual Demise...by Talile Ali
caught in the maelstrom of fate and delight
moving thru waves till their far out of sight
dancing and swirling from north to south
avoiding the hook with the bait in its mouth
some say whats happening to them is a dream
not really that bad and soon to be cleaned
will anyone miss them as they fade into myth
from uncountable numbers to bones in a dish
mystical magical powerful ones
moving carefree in the rays of the sun
splashing about on a journey of years
what once was so tiny is so massive and sheer
so many people depend on their yield
trapping and netting their catch in the field
filling their stores to the brim with their flesh
no longer free, they await someone's dish
canned or served fresh, they are rich beyond words
whether in plates as patties or poached or souffle
poem by Talile Ali
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Hibernation
Hibernation
Occupy falling snow; claim it make a snowman with coal eyes and
carrot nose before winter is over and your task runs through your
fingers as water into soft the soil and is privatized when it runs into
a deep lake and you must pay if you want a drink or take a shower.
A carrot not enough to make soup, pieces of coal are not enough to
warm your cold hands. The barons of money have bought streams,
forests and mountains, fenced in and there are gates, you must pay
if you want to walk and see nature at her most enthralling liberty.
And you will think; where is our emancipation to express ourselves?
Nothing is free, why should it be? This is democracy the right to buy
and sell the world’s resources and charge whatever the market says.
And you pay for what is rightfully yours. If you do not occupy it now it
will be too late, spring is the name of misery and it is your fault for
sleeping when snow fell in your garden.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Carrot before rabbit
Carrot gets value in front of a rabbit
And the rabbit wets its tongue, pursuing.
Once bitten, Carrot loses its value.
The distance generates value and saliva
Woman keeping men at an arm length values
24.03.2002, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Flaming Dragon Curry
On the menu, I spotted Flaming Dragon Curry,
But, to try this dish, I am in no particular hurry;
It has onions, red peppers, and chicken (diced) ,
Steeped in seasoning, herbs, and Indian spice.
I'd probably be sitting there with streaming eyes:
For me to try this dish, I think, would not be wise.
As well as watery eyes, my mouth would be on fire;
Neither of which is a sensation I particularly desire.
Five red chillies indicated it was the hottest dish there;
Certainly way too hot for my taste-buds to ever bear.
I consider that this curry is only for the very brave;
It is certainly not a dish that I would ever crave.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Cattle Food
AN ELDERLY NATIVE WENT VISITING AT A CITY, AND ON HIS ARRIVAL, HIS HOST QUICKLY TOOK HIM TO AN EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT FOR A WELCOME MEAL!
WHAT WILL BE YOUR ORDER TODAY SIR? A WAITRESS ASKED THE CITIZEN AND HE REPLIED, MY USUAL WOULD BE IN ORDER! AND THE WAITRESS TURNED TO THE ELDERLY NATIVE AND SAID, SIR! WHAT WOULD BE YOUR ORDER? AND THE NATIVE REPLIED, MY USUAL WOULD BE IN ORDER!
THE WAITRESS ASSUMING THAT THEY BOTH WANTED THE CITIZEN'S USUAL PLATE OF VEGETABLE SALAD, WALKED OFF TO GET THE FOOD.
ON HER RETURN WITH THE FOOD, THE CITIZEN IMMEDIATTELY BEGAN TO EAT HIS FOOD, WHILE THE ELDERLY NATIVE SAT FROWNING AT THE PLATE OF SALAD PLACED BEFORE HIM, AFTER A WHILE, HE ASKED HIS HOST, DEAR FRIEND, WAS YOURS WELL COOKED? MINE LOOKS AS IF IT WASN'T EVEN COOKED AT ALL!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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To offer at no cost
Shown or withdrawn,
The carrot is not eaten.
But only as it is shown
The rabbit is on run
And the carrot, too, is shone.
If you are withdrawn
I would cease to run
And you lose the fun.
Why is this futile act then?
If you shut out
I am done away with.
If you show up
I am enlivened.
In both ways
You’re not broken.
Why not the status quo, then?
27.09.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Craving A Taste Of Kiwi
last night I lonesome had
irresistible urge to eat kiwi
craving a taste of kai kiwi
the earth is giver of all life
from the soil comes food
native foods New Zealand
that same food is cooked
in oven beneath the earth
but expatriate here will find
no hangi traditional feast
nor any food of home forest
stream sea or gardens kiwi
years since eaten white bait
fresh silver jewels of Buller
River in my far home town
kumara tasty potato sweet
no traditional delicacies
grace my table no hangi
cooked meat vegetables
placed on bed hot stones
in bottom of dug hangi
hole no birds fish kiwi
wild herbs roots mixed
no food cloth covered
before mound of earth
traps heat around food
Maori tourism visitors
eat as guests hangi food
no taewa tutaekuri pass
lips deep purple potato
no rewena pararoa pass
lips potato Maori bread
my father puha gathered
a leafy vegetable green
to be found growing wild
after heavy Buller rains
kowhitiwhiti watercress
also smiling he harvested
greenlip mussels off rocks
at seashore neap low tides
greenlip mussels I ate
as kuku patties paua
from mother of pearl
shells in far away land
poem by Terence George Craddock
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