The earthen pot must keep clear of the brass kettle.
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Canadian Folksong
The doors are shut, the windows fast;
Outside the gust is driving past,
Outside the shivering ivy clings,
While on the hob the kettle sings.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The streams are hushed up where they flowed,
The ponds are frozen along the road,
The cattle are housed in shed and byre,
While singeth the kettle on the fire.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The fisherman on the bay in his boat
Shivers and buttons up his coat;
The traveler stops at the tavern door,
And the kettle answers the chimney’s roar.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
The firelight dances upon the wall,
Footsteps are heard in the outer hall;
A kiss and a welcome that fill the room,
And the kettle sings in the glimmer and gloom.
Margery, Margery, make the tea,
Singeth the kettle merrily.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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0285 A Pretty Kettle of Wish
Meltdown. A new kettle urgently
required for the gas stove. Men
love an excuse to wander around
the Aladdin’s cave of an ironmongers
the older the better.
Shock-horror. Rattly, thin as
they can get away with, and outrageously,
the same price as technology’s
masterpieces of electric jug…
long gone, the solid kettle which sits
so friendly on the hob of open fire…
So it’s off to the Oxfam thriftshop.
a short prayer to the goddess
of the hearth (Hestia, in case
you wonder, poetically) – and lo
and behold, abracadabra, hey presto –
a Designer Kettle in all its glory –
solid, shining, copper-flashed-bottom,
two-note whistle in two-tone brass,
chromium-bright finish, ingenious
spout-opener, handle in clever cool plastic, the whole
a vision, part Futurist image fit for a painting,
part evoking a Mussolini-era steel helmet, and
a theft at the price.
The two-tone whistle packed up the first week
despite prodding and poking its gleaming brass;
the spout-lifter burned the fingers – I had
to grow a long thumbnail to survive;
the gleaming surface scratched when cleaned;
the copper bottom crumbled off;
the short spout made filling a teapot
dangerous on two counts: the steam, and
the aim, endangering the hands.
Was it designed by a woman
or a man? You’ve guessed it. Who’s
the more practical?
The debatable poetic conclusion
of this poet: men go for
form; women go for content.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Mr Blake's Nursery Rhyme
The sow came in with the saddle,
The little pig rocked the cradle,
The dish jumped o' top of the table
To see the brass pot swallow the ladle.
The old pot behind the door
Called the kettle a blackamoor.
'Odd bobbs' said the gridiron, 'can't you agree?
I'm the head constable, bring them to me.'
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pot And Kettle
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true.
For every hour they told their hearts, 'Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot,
So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'
poem by Robert Graves
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There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.
quote by by Edward Lear
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The Kettle
There’s many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendour
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask – a kitchen
Where the kettles always hot.
If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
Or seems so in my thought,
And that’s a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle’s always hot.
In my Aunt Hattie’s household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You’ll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen –
The very homiest spot –
The kettle’s always singing,
The water’s always hot.
And if you have a headache,
Whate’er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don’t know how she does it –
Some magic she has caught –
For the kitchen’s cool in summer,
Yet the kettle’s always hot.
Oh, there’s naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Kettle boils like my anger
As the kettle boils.
So does my anger.
My anger is reder than the heat.
Its not just the heat of the moment.
The kettle is getting hot.
My anger nor depression will cease.
Its like some kind of disease.
As the kettle boils I melt.
In the heat of the depression.
And the mist of the anger
poem by Amy Kerswell
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Avenue C
BY B. CLAYTON, J HENDRICKS AND D. LAMBERT
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brass: N. Y. I dig
Reeds: What about it?
Brass: N. Y. is big
Reeds: People tout it
Brass: I flip my wig
Reeds: What about?
Brass: 'Bout a street I dig
Piano (Basie's solo): One day I was walkin' n'
Finally came upon a series of alphabet streets
A-B-C and D, but I went for "C"
The most of the hard-to-forget streets
It's really and truly the dilly of all m'pet streets
Tenor sax: Hey, hey, hey everybody now
Brass: Come go walkin' with me now
Walk up avenue C now
Chicks all lookin' so pretty
They don't give me no pity
Avenue C is the grooviest in the city
Tenor sax: I never dug an avenue so enjoyable to me
"C" Avenue is groovy
Yes it was groovy as it could be
Brass: Walk with me down Avenue C
Tenor sax: Man I really hope to say
Brass: Come on baby, while we ramble
Walk beside me while we ramble
Tenor sax: You dig it too I feel you do
What a scenic hike
It's a walk that you're bound to like
Brass: Y'got "B" on the one side
Reeds: "A"
Brass: "D" on the other
Reeds: "B"
Brass: "C" in the middle
Reeds: "C"
Brass and Reeds: Baby!
Trumpet: The reason that you're feelin' so down, babe
Is 'cause you live in Stuyvesant Town, babe
I dug you down in Hamilton Fish, babe
And realized that you were my dish, babe
Walkin' home and you can walk with me
Walkin' hand in hand up Avenue C, Oh babe
And while we're walkin' we can do some talkin'
While the people dig us wonderin' what we're puttin' down
While we, happy as we can be, glide on
Takin' life in stride up to Murphy Park there beside the river
Brass: Well our feet got rhythm
Reeds: Pure pedal syncopation
Brass: 'N when we walk with 'em
Reeds: Demandin' admiration
Brass: Well our step is snappy
Reeds: Dig people step aside now
Brass: Because we're so happy
Reeds: We're takin' life in stride now
Brass: Avenue C your vibrations are followin' me. Oh yes
Reeds: Everybody busily lookin'
Brass: Yes yes
Reeds: Me and baby steadily cookin'
Brass: Yes yes
Reeds: Start at one end talkin' and movin'
Brass: Yes yes
Reeds: To the other wiggin' and groovin'
Brass: So come
Reeds: You should
Brass: And view
Reeds: I would
Brass: This Ave-
Reeds: You could
Brass: Venue
Reeds: It's good
Brass: Walk on
Reeds: "C" Avenue, see it my way
Brass: Talk on
Reeds: No better view on a highway
Ensemble: Big town you don't know 'till you see it
Brass: Walk on
Reeds: I never saw such a wonderful sight
Drum break
Ensemble: You're gonna love it
Break
Brass: I'm hip, you'll flip
Reeds: When you dig it you'll stop and linger
Brass: You'll pop your top
Reeds: What a pleasure and what a swinger
Ensemble: Go dig it cop that view it's bound to thrill you
(Come on, come on, go)
Go dig it cop that view it's bound to thrill you
(Come on, come on, now, go)
Go dig it cop that view it's bound to thrill you
Go dig it cop that view it's bound to thrill you
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tally
Blood speckles the earthen ground,
Men sacrifice their life, their mind, their everything.
A fading memory, a shimmering sound.
The face of life wears a frown,
For life is flying on broken wings,
As blood speckles the earthen ground.
Family photos lay strewn to later be found,
Among the anguished souls, still longing, searching,
For a fading memory, a shimmering sound.
Functions cease and pumps break down,
Adrenaline lies dormant, still waiting,
As blood speckles the earthen ground.
Thoughts float by under limits and bounds,
The calls and prayers soothing,
The fading memory, the shimmering sound.
The effort of many, of whose spirits are wound,
Tightly on strings pulled taut by forces of reckoning,
As blood speckles the earthen ground,
For a fading memory, a shimmering sound.
poem by Samuel Hall
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the old brass bell
solid and clear
school memories
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Lay Lady Lay
Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed,
Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed..
Whatever colours you have in your mind
I show them to you and you see them shine
Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed,
Stay lady stay, stay with your man a while..
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his, his hands are clean
And you are the best thing that hes ever seen
Stay lady stay, stay with your man a while..
Why wait any longer for the world to begin
You can have your cake and eat it, too
Why wait any longer for the one you love
When hes standing in front of you, ooh ooh
Lay across my big brass bed.....
Stay lady stay
I long to see you in the, morning light
I long to reach for you in the night
Stay lady stay, stay while the night is still ahead
Lay lady lay...
Stay... stay!...
Ahhh ahhhhhhh
Ohhhh
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heat It In The Kettle
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Mix and blend before you can,
Add the tomatoes.
Heat it in the kettle then...
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Feed me!
Heat it in the kettle then,
Feed me love!
Take that homemade bread out of the oven.
Thickly slice.
Butter it nice.
Mix and blend before you can,
Put in the potatoes.
Add the tomatoes.
Use chopped beef.
Or any kind of meat.
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then
Heat it in the kettle then...
Feed me love!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Fire-Truck
Right down the shocked street with a
siren-blast
That sends all else skittering to the
curb,
Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl
past,
Blurring to sheer verb,
Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
And make it around the turn in a squall
of traction,
The headlong bell maintaining sure and
clear,
Thought is degraded action!
Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud,
obvious thing!
I stand here purged of nuance, my
mind a blank.
All I was brooding upon has taken
wing,
And I have you to thank.
As you howl beyond hearing I carry you
into my mind,
Ladders and brass and all, there to
admire
Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined
In that not extinguished fire.
Submitted by Robert Fish
poem by Richard Wilbur
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Lay, Lady, Lay
Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Whatever colors you have in your mind
Ill show them to you and youll see them shine
Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And youre the best thing that hes ever seen
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Why wait any longer for the world to begin
You can have your cake and eat it too
Why wait any longer for the one you love
When hes standing in front of you
Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead
I long to see you in the morning light
I long to reach for you in the night
Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song About Myself
I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.
II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry-
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm-
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good-
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers-
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle-
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!
IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
poem by John Keats
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Mimics in a kitchenette
A spoon in the rack
Beside sugar and salt jars.
Spoon mutters;
'I love both of you and you're like twins
But it complicates me without tasting you
How do I jump to the old Master's
Cup of Tea?
Kettle whistles and the Master still asleep.'
Parrot in the cage whispers;
'On holidays Master won't wake up early.'
Then who poured water into the kettle? '
'Don't you know Master brought a sweet *bride last night.'
[*A job agency has supplied a house-maid from a rural village.]
It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen.
-Brigitte Bardot
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Morning in the Burned House
In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.
The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,
their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,
every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,
the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything
in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,
including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,
bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts
and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.
poem by Margaret Atwood
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Weep Holes
Don't take us for the wall itself
For when the earthen plank behind the wall
Gets soaked through
We'll let the sorrow of burdonsome wetness
Flow through us
The soil sucks the trees' roots till now
Till now the sorrow of waters
hasn't reached the earthen plank behind the walls
Earth has not seen the woebegone face of the sky
The wall hasn't learnt to shed tears
Wind even now expects to blow the leaves away
Empty polythene bags sputter on roads
That never had trees planted on sides
People drink blood of their own climes
And grow like germs
Bonfire conflagrations ignite every where
Smoke has turned the flowers black
Butterflies' wings look ashen
The dream's face will bend under pressure
And break into smithereens
Let the moisture come!
Let the clouds of pains burst!
Let the sky's sorrow descend to the earth!
Don't consider us the wall itself
Don't think we're but worthless
For when the earthen plank behind the wall
Gets soaked
We'll be there to let the sorrow
Of burdensome wetness
flow through us
Look! Our eyes do not have tears
But the mud of our dreams.
(Translated by Dr. Satyapal Anand)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Polly puts the kettle on
Polly puts the kettle on
Snakes rattle on insane
Round the kettle rattle on
All she puts is in vain
Polly bottles water deep
The taps mocks her ‘bravo’
But water steam stubborn peeps
The dishes clatter NO
‘The steam’s too high
Up on a ceiling
It winds too nigh
To a broken feeling’
‘What’ asks Polly
‘Hiss’ say snakes
‘What’s at stake
When kettles break? ’
‘What? ! ’ screams Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes curl
‘Ha ha ha ha ha ah
You bottle a whirl
My fair lady! ’
‘Why? ’ shouts Polly
‘Hiss’ snakes hide
Dragging down the water deep
‘Who? ’ asks Polly
The steam still glides
A broken feeling leaps
With heart in utter fear
‘Don’t ask for your daddy
He’s not ever here
My fair lady! ’
‘How? ’ stammers Polly
‘Has it happened?
Oh what a mistake to make!
To ever put the kettle on
When I’m not ready for the tea
My fingers are burnt
They swell in pain
I’ll just have to learn
Not to do that again! ’
See also Pollyteaparty by the same author
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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