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A Oven Liet
Where the flesh goes,
The mind follows.
The body is weak.
Why she left me alone.
How she got sick.
And no one calls the phone.
Never had to cook with her around
Now I found a light in the most unexpected place
The oven.
I sit in the dark tonight
In the kitchen
With only the oven light
While I try to mend.
And I brood like a chicken with her eggs
My seat feels like it's hatching
My bottom is burning
My soul squirming like a worm
Or a snake.
Yellow.
The color of companionship.
Cowardly, fearful, impertinent.
I stare into the oven
Light.
poem by Eon Ezkiel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Abandoning the project was incredibly stressful after having gone through the process of building the room, installing the kiln, collecting the stones, sitting with the kiln day and night as it came to temperature, experiencing the failures.
quote by Andy Goldsworthy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A cake is a very good test of an oven: if it browns too much on one side and not on the other, it's not your fault - you need to have your oven checked.
quote by Delia Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hot Kiln
He shouts “Help me everyone
Come on! I’m in a kiln
Burning is my bare skin! ”
Further whines and complains
“Don’t you have compassion?
For a suffering fellow-man”
A Wiseman explains, “Well!
That’s your hand-made hearth
Smouldering in it are fuels
Raw, rough and cruel charcoals
You dug out from darkest
Corners of your heart and
Piled out around in your life
Lust, greed and great anger
Envy, passion and dirty conceit
All ensembled to blaze hellfires
In your hollow mind furnace
To pull you out: there’s none
A friend can wipe your tears
As an act of mere solace
Even God on your prayers
Can give you only strength
To endure this scorching pain
To pull you out there’s none! !
The man in woebegone kiln
Shouts again “What’s the solution? ”
Wiseman smiled and advised
“It’s simple my dear friend
Stand up and just walk out”
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Burnt to ashes
You burnt me, a wound of incomplete,
you remind me, a memory of indiscreet.
Deeply cut, all the way through my heart,
cold-blooded hands tearing me apart.
Mercilessly burnt, all the way to ashes,
move ahead steadily to the flashes...
My sore havoc is only yet to wreak,
and my days are yet to remain in bleak,
but my life seems to carry on,
with hope that despair shall be gone.
But shall despair feel my ominous envy?
Shall it be ungainly, to the hope of melancholy?
Oh I beg my soul, for you to leave,
Oh leave my lonliness spoken and grieve,
for you unhappy, unmerciful and unstill.
What great power lent you untill...
all my skin is burnt
all my feelings burnt
burnt, evermore, to ashes....
poem by Maya Hershey
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The Stand-Ins
In the dream
the swastika is neon
and flashes like a strobe light
into my eyes, all colors,
all vibrations
and I see the killer in him
and he turns on an oven,
an oven, an oven, an oven,
and on a pie plate he sticks
in my Yellow Star
and then
then when it is ready for serving—
this dream goes off into the wings
and on stage The Cross appears,
with Jesus sticking to it
and He is breathing
and breathing
and He is breathing
and breathing
and then He speaks,
a kind of whisper,
and says . . .
This is the start.
This is the end.
This is a light.
This is a start.
I woke.
I did not know the hour,
an hour of night like thick scum
but I considered the dreams,
the two: Swastika, Crucifix,
and said: Oh well,
it doesn't belong to me,
if a cigar can be a cigar
then a dream can be a dream.
Right?
Right?
And went back to sleep
and another start.
poem by Anne Sexton
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The Face
The Face
On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chef’s face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he had to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he got to have something to sell. He’ll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wife’s fault, she came to the bakery - they haven’t
been married long- they kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustn’t upset
him during baking hours, he isn’t mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, it’s an olive tree- silvery in winter light- is
silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed
(Kinky Friedman)
You uppity women I don't understand
Why you gotta go and try to act like a man,
But before you make your weekly visit to the shrink
You'd better occupy the kitchen, liberate the sink.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Early every morning you're out on the street
Passing out pamphlets to everyone you meet.
You gave up your Maiden Form for Lent
And now the front of your dress has an air scoop vent.
Every single brakeman that's ever come along
Had a little woman always tellin' him that he's wrong.
Eve said to Adam, ?Here's an apple you horse?
And Delilah defoliated Samson's moss.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Mean-hearted harpies are breaking all the laws
Tearing up their girdles and a-burning up their bras,
Now the air is dirty and the sex is clean
And your coffee makes my hair turn green.
So damn emancipated in your mind and your body,
Gonna have to cancel all your lessons in karate.
If you can't love a male chauvinist
You'd better cross me off your shopping list.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
That's what I to my baby said,
Women's liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where Is The Fire?
Where is the fire
That burnt in freedom fighters
Making them selfless
Dying for our independence
Where is the fire
That burnt in J.M and Ouko
And others who were felled
Making them love truth
For it, paying the ultimate price
Where is the fire
That burnt in the then leaders
Making them fearless
Suffering for multiparty politics
Where is the fire
That burnt in civil rights activists
The poor peoples defenders
And others who attended kamukunjis
Where is the fire
That burnt individualism
In dire times of crises
Where is the fire?
poem by Kelvin Karani
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Get Your Biscuits In The Oven & Your Buns In The Bed
(kinky friedman)
You uppity women I dont understand
Why you gotta go and try to act like a man,
But before you make your weekly visit to the shrink
Youd better occupy the kitchen, liberate the sink.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
Thats what I to my baby said,
Womens liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Early every morning youre out on the street
Passing out pamphlets to everyone you meet.
You gave up your maiden form for lent
And now the front of your dress has an air scoop vent.
Every single brakeman thats ever come along
Had a little woman always tellin him that hes wrong.
Eve said to adam, heres an apple you horse
And delilah defoliated samsons moss.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
Thats what I to my baby said,
Womens liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
Mean-hearted harpies are breaking all the laws
Tearing up their girdles and a-burning up their bras,
Now the air is dirty and the sex is clean
And your coffee makes my hair turn green.
So damn emancipated in your mind and your body,
Gonna have to cancel all your lessons in karate.
If you cant love a male chauvinist
Youd better cross me off your shopping list.
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed
Thats what I to my baby said,
Womens liberation is a-going to your head,
Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Apparent Heart
It is not easy –
To press the grief
Of heart.
It hurts!
All the grief is taken
Together.
And is burnt in the heart.
That moment can’t be expressed
By face.
It can only be showed
By heart!
But it is not actually burnt.
It remains stored -
In the core of heart!
And the person weeps aside
In the dark.
Those people are great
Who have this talent.
Who knows…
Sometimes, it hurts mentally.
Sometimes, it tells to suicide
Sometimes…
Yes!
It is not easy
To press the grief
Of heart.
It hurts;
It hurts;
It hurts actually!
poem by Saurabh Shalabh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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(Angry Poem) Burnt
Your burnt.
The aggression fills me up.
My sensibility is lost.
My heart of gold gets so cold.
What is its cost?
Ill buy it.
Ill try it.
Ill do anything but deny it.
Fighting thin air.
Turn away
don't you dare.
This time your burnt.
Your burnt.
Keeping the flame going as long as I can.
When and where should I make my last stand.
A robust lack trust.
God their can never be enough.
Theirs time when I just want to spill your guts.
The circumstances have made me nuts.
A projected affliction of disastrous predictions.
Reliving what should never be lived.
Still I hear the words your burnt.
You are so burnt.
Treat your fellow man like dirt.
Trample over them like you just don't care.
Are you prepared for the defiance of a dare.
What is it that you wear around your neck.
Is it choking you to help you forget?
Nothing but regret.
A symbolic letter written with ink and quill.
Make it real.
A soulless soul feels they must steal.
Making deals
Only for greater protection.
The organ won't take
Can you feel the rejection?
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Red book - The Rule Is You Must Say How You Really Feel.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast, it says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Some new so close to you. You must get to know them. Its a game you can slowly win. Bury your true feelings.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never to fast, never too fast. It says it won't last burnt by the past. We are all wearing masks. Time to take them off. Stop hiding behind your walls. It cost us all. It will be your down fall. Just another phone call. Meeting the face behind this stall. It has come to a sudden halt.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Are we trying to hard? Are we faking this march? Are you trying to hide something underneath? Are you look for a little relief? Do you want me, and are afraid to say it? Denying our insides. They can't be alive. They just can't. And go back to the old dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Memories ignite, previous passions locked up so tight. Are you willing? Are you giving in to obvious feelings. Let me know. And I won't go. Please stop the fruadlent show. Its faking thats so heart breaking. Is your heart aching? How can I make you understand this is your one and only chance. So please lets dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of the past. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. I have been burnt by the past.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Midnight Sun
They say you know your way around
They say you are a man of the world
You say she is a new kid in town
You think shes just another girl
You get suspicious that something is wrong
No explanation why it lasts so long
And by the look on your face, everybody knows
You cant deny that you feel exposed
You can feel the heat when the night is gone
You been burnt by the midnight sun
When you look for relief but you cant find none
You been burnt by the midnight sun
Like a train running down the track
Its too late, things are out of control
Theres no way she can take you back
Theres no release for the brand on your soul
You never noticed the touch of her hand
You messed around with things
You dont understand
Now you sit in darkness while a new day dies
Her face is shining when you close your eyes
When you feel the heat when the light is gone
You been burnt by the midnight sun
When you look for relief but you cant find none
You been burnt by the midnight sun
I know the feeling, you wish youd been warned
Now you and I are brothers in arms
cause I know the pain cause I know her kind
One left a feeling burning in my mind
And you feel the heat when the night is gone
I been burnt by the midnight sun
And I look for relief but I cant find none
I been burnt by the midnight sun
I can feel the heat when the light is gone
I been burnt by the midnight sun
And I look for relief but I cant find none
I been burnt by the midnight sun
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Remember Me
“Remember Me”
When the winter comes
And you feel life’s coldness
Just remember me.
Retain our memories
And sit by your diaries
Sure you’ll find me.
Remember me
When the rain rolls
Down the cloud’s cheek
Like when my tears burnt
My heart so deep.
Remember me
When the sun waves goodbye
And goes searching for a mountain
To sleep behind.
Remember when you forced me to leave
When you made me hide behind grief.
And sure in your diaries you’ll find me.
Remember me
When the rose smiles to the dew
When my heart to yours flew.
Remember when you see our dreams come true
With ones except me and you.
And sure in your diaries you’ll find me.
Remember me
When the baby bird calls the dawn
Fearing darkness,
Wishing light to go on.
Remember my heart calling your love to go on.
Remember me.
poem by Shymaa Awad
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Hungry Angels
Tonight I will not sleep
I will call you in my eyes.
My hands were trembling
when I opened the book.
Words you uttered long back
tumbled out ashen-faced.
I started burning inside.
Where did we take a wrong turn?
The oven had baked a burnt-out
face. They are altering genes.
Suddenly it is going to start
a riot among the gods,
a pure kill.
Frightened I move in circles around
the little black hole in the center.
Martians would throw the boys
to appease the hungry angels.
poem by Satish Verma
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Once the fired stone is out of the kiln, it is still possible to mentally reconstruct it in its original form.
quote by Andy Goldsworthy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Codicil
Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles,
one a hack's hired prose, I earn
me exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles,
tan, burn
to slough off
this live of ocean that's self-love.
To change your language you must change your life.
I cannot right old wrongs.
Waves tire of horizon and return.
Gulls screech with rusty tongues
Above the beached, rotting pirogues,
they were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.
One I thought love of country was enough,
now, even if I chose, there is no room at the trough.
I watch the best minds rot like dogs
for scraps of flavour.
I am nearing middle
age, burnt skin
peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin,
like Peer Gynt's riddle.
At heart there is nothing, not the dread
of death. I know to many dead.
They're all familiar, all in character,
even how they died. On fire,
the flesh no longer fears that furnace mouth
of earth,
that kiln or ashpit of the sun,
nor this clouding, unclouding sickle moon
withering this beach again like a blank page.
All its indifference is a different rage.
poem by Derek Walcott
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Easter Monday [excerpt]
Chicago Morning
To Philip Guston
Under a red face, black velvet shyness
Milking an emaciated gaffer. God lies down
Here. Rattling of a shot, heard
From the first row. The president of the United States
And the Director of the FBI stand over
a dead mule. 'Yes, it is nice to hear the fountain
With the green trees around it, as well as
People who need me.' Quote Lovers of speech unquote. It's
a nice thought
& typical of a rat. And, it is far more elaborate
Than expected. And the thing is, we don't need
that much money.
Sunday morning; blues, blacks, red & yellow wander
In the soup. Gray in the windows' frames. The angular
Explosion in the hips. A huge camel rests
in a massive hand
Casts clouds a smoggish white out & up over the Loop, while
Two factories (bricks) & a fortress of an oven (kiln)
Rise, barely visible inside a grey metallic gust.
'The Fop's Tunic.'
She gets down, off of the table, breaking a few more plates.
Natives paint their insides crystal white here (rooms)
Outside is more bricks, off-white. Europe at Night.
poem by Ted Berrigan
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